Tag: Horror

Fellow travelers at the small-town bar told Seth about the local lore surrounding Amenazas Falls. “Local tribes used the Falls as a rite of passage. Boys who walked under the falls and made it out the other side became men,” said one young woman, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Not to mention the virgin sacrifices there,” said another man. “Right out of a movie, dawg!” He guffawed and chugged his beer.

“Occasionally, someone falls from the platform,” added the woman’s boyfriend. His hand rested next to his beer stein, half empty.

“Why? Is it dangerous?” asked Seth.

The woman dismissed the stories, “Eh, people probably just get drunk and fall off.”

The boyfriend shrugged his shoulders. “Hard to imagine. The platform is plenty stable. The railing is chest-high and sturdy as a brick wall. The entire trail is a boardwalk with handrails through a narrow canyon. Can’t possibly get lost.”

The girlfriend leaned towards Seth and whispered, “Some people show up to hike, then won’t take a single step on the boardwalk. They say it feels strange. Locals say it’s cursed.” She sat back. “But we hiked it. The view is worth it.”

Seth yearned to see this waterfall. Plus, he had his social media followers to think about. Even the Airbnb hostess had recommended it, but her demeanor darkened as she passed on a cryptic message. “Not for singulars,” she said in broken English.

Seth arrived early at the trailhead alone. The path followed an ascending wooden walkway punctuated by stairs in steep sections. The wooden planks remained perpetually waterlogged due to the adjacent active brook tumbling down steep rocks. Rising on both sides of the boardwalk were tall cliffs trapping the walkway in a narrow canyon for the half-mile duration. Seth could not imagine getting lost.

He reached the final viewing platform, which was suspended twenty feet below the cliff’s edge. The waterfall cascaded down from the precipice above. It created a curtain of free-falling water on the side of the platform and eventually crashed two hundred feet below on broken gray rocks, and rushed into a plunge pool. His outstretched hand felt the fast, wet air. Seth peered over the railing at the wet boulders and powerful flow below. Multiple rainbows danced through the prisms from the mist. The sound roared in his ears. He was the lone visitor this morning.

Seth opened his camera app. He had studied other travel influencers’ uninspired posted pictures. Seth considered himself truly creative, and his pictures would attract thousands of followers and, maybe, a sponsor. He began capturing various pictures: the platform, the mist and rocks below, the jungle valley, and lush hills in the distance. He backtracked twenty feet down the canyon and snapped shots of the wooden walk and its accompanying stream. He returned to the platform, determined to take the one picture that would go viral.

On the platform, a young woman gazed at the waterfall. Long dark hair hung down her back. She dressed as a fellow hiker, wearing a shirt rolled up at the sleeves, beige cargo pants, and sturdy boots.

No one had passed Seth on the trail. He peered over the handrails at the hard rocks. He gazed upwards, but there were no signs of rappelling gear. Puzzled, he looked back at the newcomer, who now stared at him with dark eyes. She appeared to be a fellow young wanderer, and Seth felt an instant kinship with her. Before Seth considered the improbability of the situation further, he determined that a separate camera person could open up possibilities.

Seth approached the young woman, who stared at him with a curiosity that made him uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and shouted over the roar of the falls. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

She smiled slightly.

“This will sound weird, but will you take my picture? I want to post a pic for my followers!” he shouted.

The woman silently nodded her head.

“Thanks!” He thrust his phone at her. She grasped his outstretched phone, and Seth felt cool, dry air pass over his hand. He noticed that her hair remained dry. Seth, on the other hand, was drenched in the drizzle that hung in the air.

“I’m Seth, by the way.” She didn’t offer her name, only grinned further, and Seth concluded that she didn’t speak English. He mimed an old-fashioned camera click motion in an attempt to communicate.

Her eyes wrinkled, and she chuckled. She nodded, and he interpreted that as a good sign of understanding. But when Seth stepped back to pose, she kept the phone at her waist. He retrieved his phone from her, and he again felt a prickly, otherworldly breeze. He showed her how to hold the screen up to her face and push a button to snap a picture. She nodded. She held the phone up to her face and watched him.

Seth walked to the railing next to the waterfall and gave a thumbs-up. She hit the screen with her finger. He struck a bodybuilder’s pose before he realized his rain jacket hid his biceps, and her finger hit the screen. He modeled three more poses, each leaving him unsatisfied and unconvinced that it would break him into the world of travel influencing.

Seth pushed himself up to sit on the railing. The woman’s smile widened, and she nodded enthusiastically. She touched the screen. He raised his arms in a V, and she touched the screen. Then he had an extraordinary idea.

Seth placed his feet on top of the railing and tentatively stretched his legs to standing, holding his arms out for balance. He looked up at his new companion, who nodded vigorously. He stood, hiking boots balancing on the handrail. He could see the picture in his mind. A wall of white water behind him, a misty rainbow, and his arms lifted in a V-shape. Victorious. He struck the power pose, and the woman held the phone. Her finger paused for a minute, and her mouth moved.

“Farewell.” He heard a female whisper in his ear, in sync with the women’s lips. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion, and he quizzically locked eyes with her, expecting an explanation, but she vanished. The phone remained suspended in the air unnaturally too long. Dry, cold, tingling air smashed into the center of his chest, and he lost his balance. He toppled backwards down to the shiny, broken rocks below, who greeted his body with the expected deadly damage.

Later that day, the recovery team retrieved a man’s body from the base of Amenazas Falls. The crew knew from a history of identical deaths that the operation would last three hours and eighteen minutes. They worked efficiently, each silently wondering who the lady of the waterfall had lured to jump this time.

The crew leader picked up the victim’s phone and turned it on. The last picture taken remained on the screen. A young man looked back at his photographer, his body suspended in the moment between tumbling backwards and plunging to the earth, the face frozen in alarm. No one knew who leaked the photo. It was viewed over 2 million times in the next forty-eight hours.

Martin sat at the front of the boat, gazing at an inky black island through the night mist. It was close to dawn, the sunrise’s anticipatory glow on the horizon, and the boat cut through the seas. It rode the waves and split the whitecaps. He clutched the book to his chest, protected in the clear plastic bag from the splashing water that soaked his shirt and hair.

He prayed. He had been praying since he saw the vision three months ago. Since he raised the money for this crusade. He was delivering God’s message to the poor inhabitants of Zimrimar Island, to join in Reverend Rexford Swayne’s mission. The inhabitants lived in sin, not knowing God: his love, power, forgiveness, and grace. He would soon assist The Reverend Swayne Ministry and the three devoted disciples who had accompanied him. His unbelieving parents tried to stop him, but they were outsiders.

Loyal church members prayed for him. God would protect him. God would soothe his fear. God would cloak him in a protective shield, one that no weapon could penetrate. Martin looked at the island with excitement. All those lost souls to save. Praise be.

It hadn’t been easy to get this far. The government had placed a travel ban on the island, and he did not speak the local dialect. The inhabitants were an isolated and uncontacted people. His research uncovered the reasons: violence, exploitation, and minor diseases would wipe out their population.

Hogwash. Martin knew better. The good Reverend preached that nothing done in God’s name would harm a human. God would protect them as soon as they truly believed enough. And Martin had no intention to commit violence. God would quickly open their hearts and see that he meant no harm.

The boat slid gracefully onto the soft sand of the forbidden island just as the sunrise glow exploded into the bright light of an ascending sun. Martin climbed out of the boat, and the boatman swiftly pushed back off the sandy shore, speeding away. Martin breathed deep, stared into the dark jungle. He clung to his book, the Rexford Swayne Bible. The Reverend translated it with the help of an Archangel from Atlantis. His was true, not like the other tainted Bibles. He whispered a prayer and plunged fearlessly into the lush foliage.

After draining two bottles of Rexford Swayne’s brand water while trekking through the humid jungle, Martin came upon a structure. Thin bamboo trunks, wrapped in small clusters, formed the walls. A thatched roof sat atop. He peered into the dark interior. A makeshift bamboo cross stood erect in the back, hammered into the earthen floor. Large palm fronds were laid in rows, with a few scattered and rebelling against the strict order of pew formation. He walked into the center of the room, noting gaps in the walls and holes in the roof.

Where were the bricks of perfect white marble, or the jewels that should be embedded into the cross? Why was the cross made of bamboo instead of gold? Why didn’t God provide those, like the Reverend Swayne predicted He would? This must not be the church, Martin concluded. He would continue his search.

When he turned to leave, five short men stood in the doorway and stared at him. They spoke an otherworldly language to each other. They clicked and hummed, nodding to each other.

“Reverend Rexford Swayne!” Martin shouted at the men. He unwrapped his Swayne Bible from the plastic and held it in front of him. “Where. Is. Reverend. Swayne.” He said slowly. The men, wearing soft, leathery animal-skin skirts, turned to each other. Some nodded, and some shook their heads. Their conversation of clicks, grunts, and hums continued. One short man approached Martin. His humming was soft and melodic, soothing in its way. He stood beside him and placed a gentle hand on Martin’s arm. Confused, Martin looked at the short man. “Where is Reverend Swayne? Where are the others?” he whispered. The men led him out of the rudimentary dwelling and into a nearby village.

The grave of Reverend Rexford Swayne was well-tended, impressive since it was by savages. A makeshift cross of bamboo sat at the head, and flowers were scattered over the grave. Martin could not make out the time of the Reverend’s death. Plus, there was no sign of the other three chosen followers. They must not have been pure of heart, lacked true faith, and fled, not like Martin. Besides, Martin’s vision had foreseen only himself and the Reverend Swayne on the island.

For three weeks, Martin led the villagers in repairing the church. They were eager to do his bidding. They patched the roof and added bamboo clusters to the walls. One day a week, all the village inhabitants filled the church, and Martin preached. He was woefully short of Reverend Swayne’s inspirational sermons, but prayed he would improve. The people sat on their knees, rocking in a sea of calm meditation. The congregation would hum in unison every time he said “God.” A special “mmm-heee” that convinced Martin it was their word for God, Rexford Swayne’s God.

After an evening meal following a hard, humid day of working on the church building, a leader led him into the jungle. A short distance away, he unveiled a second village that Martin had not seen before. A sensation of success and pride swept through Martin. They trusted him enough to reveal more of their village. He was reaching them.

In the center of the village was a large structure. Two men with keen, sharp spears stood as sentinels flanking the doorway. Martin was honored to be shown this special place and followed the leader inside. When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw villagers lying in a row on the ground, each on their own bed of palm leaves. Suffering was everywhere. Some older inhabitants were gasping for breath, humming and clicking. Some small children were coughing, thick reddish spittle dripping from their mouths. Some villagers were still, their expanding and contracting chests were the only signs of life. Their glassy eyes stared at the ceiling.

Martin knew what to do. They obviously brought him here to pray. He kneeled, closed his eyes, and implored God to heal them all. Then, they would believe. These backwards people just didn’t believe enough. He prayed hard. Rexford Swayne’s God would answer.

When he opened his eyes, the leader stood in front of him. He spoke in guttural sounds and hums that Martin failed to understand. The humming increased in volume, and the old leader pointed down at him. A single loud click, and hands were on Martin, dragging him out of the indigenous clinic.

The men with spears dragged him behind the building. Martin stammered, explaining that God would heal them all. They didn’t believe enough. He needed more time. One of the men pointed behind Martin. Three mounds of dirt the length of a human body rose from the ground, each one with the Rexford Swayne Bible placed on top. Martin discovered that God did not stop the fear, or the pain, or shield him from the weapon that pierced his body.