The Sacrifice

by Rin Chupeco

Genres: YA Horror

Synopsis

An island oasis turns deadly when a terrifying legend threatens to kill off visitors one by one in this haunting novel from the highly acclaimed author of The Girl from the Well and the Bone Witch trilogy.

Pristine beaches, lush greenery, and perfect weather, the island of Kisapmata would be the vacation destination … if not for the curse. The Filipino locals speak of it in hushed voices and refuse to step foot on the island. They know the lives it has claimed. They won’t be next.

A Hollywood film crew won’t be dissuaded. Legend claims a Dreamer god sleeps, waiting to grant unimaginable powers in exchange for eight sacrifices. The producers are determined to document the evidence. And they convince Alon, a local teen, to be their guide.

Within minutes of their arrival, a giant sinkhole appears, revealing a giant balete tree with a mummified corpse entwined in its gnarled branches. And the crew start seeing strange visions. Alon knows they are falling victim to the island’s curse. If Alon can’t convince them to leave, there is no telling who will survive. Or how much the Dreamer god will destroy …

Release date: September 27, 2022

Publisher: Sourcebooks Fire

Print pages: 262

Sample

One

The Cave

Nobody tells Hollywood about the screaming.

Nobody tells Hollywood about the curse. Or the way things walk across the sands here like they are alive enough to breathe. Nobody tells them of the odd ways the night moves around these parts when it thinks no one sees.

Nobody gives them permission to visit, and it’s all the incentive Hollywood needs to permit themselves.

The people who live in the provinces nearest the island don’t talk. Not at first. But money is the universal language, and the years have been lean enough, desperate enough. Tongues loosen. The words come reluctantly.

Yes, they say. There is a curse. Yes; at least five people dead.

No, they say. We will not step foot on that island with you, not even if you gave us a million dollars.

Hollywood crashes into the island, anyway; it’s a new breed of conquistadors trading technology for cannons. First their scouts: marking territory, measuring miles of ground, surveying land. Next their specialists: setting camp, clearing brush, arguing over schematics. Then their builders arrive with containment units, solar panels, and hardwood. In the space of a few days, they construct four small bungalows with an efficiency I’m not accustomed to seeing.

The noise is loud enough that they don’t hear the silence how I’ve always heard it.

They scare the fishes away most days, and so I’ve gotten accustomed to idling, to watching them from my boat instead of hunting for my next meal. Hollywood does terrible things with machinery. They whirl and slam and punch the ground, and the earth shakes in retaliation. They dig perfect circles, add pipelines to connect to local supplies, and install water tanks. They set up large generators and test the lighting. They cut down more trees to widen the clearing to place more cabins.

None of them step inside the cave. The one at the center of the island, where the roots begin.

They don’t talk about the roots that ring the island, half-hidden among white sand so fine it’s like powder to the touch, so that they trip when they least expect it. But they talk about the balete. “I came here expecting palm trees,” one of the crew says with a shudder. He stares up fearfully at one of the larger balete trees, with their numerous snake-like gnarls that twist together to pass as trunks, and at the spindly, outstretched branches above. “If trees could look haunted, then it would be these.”

Soon they notice me standing by the shore, only several meters away.

“Hey, you there!” one calls out. He wears a Hawaiian shirt and dark shorts. A pair of sunglasses are slicked up his head. “You live nearby?”

I nod.

“Oh, thank God, you can understand us. We’d been having a hell of a time trying to translate.”

“Most of the people here understand English,” I say. “They probably don’t want to talk to you.”

“Ouch. Big ouch. Well, you’re still the only local I’ve seen this close to the island. Even the fishermen stay clear. You’re not afraid of the curse?”

I shake my head. Askal peers cautiously from around my legs, watching the foreigners curiously. “You?” I ask.

He guffaws. “I’m more afraid of my bosses docking my pay if we don’t get this right.” He peers back at Askal. “Cute dog. I’ve never seen the locals bring pets on their boats.”

“He’s used to the water.”

Askal wags his tail, sensing he is being praised.

“Want to make some money, kid? We need someone who knows their way around the place. Everyone we’ve asked on the mainland has turned us down.”

I row closer to where they stand, hopping out and dragging the boat through the last few feet of water. Askal scampers out after me.

“Not scared like everyone else, eh?” Hawaiian Shirt’s companion asks, a guy with a goatee and bad haircut. Clouds of smoke rise from the little device he’s puffing away at, and it smells of both cigarettes and overly sweet fruit. A half-empty beer bottle is tucked under his arm. His eyes are bloodshot, and I’ve seen enough drunks on the mainland to know what that means. “You hang around this place a lot?”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Hawaiian Shirt scowls. “That’s what the officials here have been telling us the past few months while we’ve been negotiating, but it’s not gonna stop us. We have all the necessary permits. It’s hypocritical, don’t you think, telling us to leave when you’ve obviously been poking around here as much as we have?”

“I didn’t ask you to leave. I said you shouldn’t be here.”

“Semantics. Look—we need someone to point out the mystery spots, maybe tell us about cursed areas on this damn island. Besides the Godseye. We’ve heard about that. We’re on a deadline, and we need to get things moving before the rest of the crew arrive.”

“The Godseye?”

“

The cave on this island. The one where all those deaths happened. The locals didn’t have a name for it, but we needed one for the show and that’s what Cortes called it. You know why we’re here, right? You must have heard the news by now.”

Goatee blows rings in the air. “How are we gonna build three seasons around one fricking cave?”

“We’ll figure it out, Karl. They say there’s gold hidden in the cave that Cortes stole. Viewers love hearing about buried treasure. I’m sure Ethan’s storyboarded more ideas.” Hawaiian Shirt scratches his head. “You ever been inside the Godseye?”

“Yes.”

Both stare at me. “All this time,” Goatee mutters, “and he’s been here all along. Kid, if you’re who we think you are, then you’re famous among the locals. You’re like a ghost whisperer, they said. You’re the only one brave enough to come here. We’re hoping you could help us.”

I look about pointedly and gesture at their building. “Do you even need permission anymore?”

“We signed off with the authorities. Well, we offered them a ton of money and they took it, so I guess that’s permission. But we need more information, and that’s the one thing they ain’t selling.”

“I’ll give you five thousand dollars to come on board with us,” Hawaiian Shirt says eagerly. “And another five if you stay the whole season, but that means you’ll have to go on camera to talk about any creepy stories you have about the island. All the highlights of this place.” He eyes my empty net. “That’s gotta be more than you make fishing in at least a decade, right? I’ll have a contract drawn up for you in an hour. You can look it over and tell me what you—” He stops. “You can read, right?”

I frown. “Yes.”

“No offense, just checking. Get a lawyer to look it over for you if you want. It’s got some terms and clauses you might not be familiar with—saves a lot of headaches later. So you’ll help?”

I take my time, coiling my nets, making sure the boat’s beached properly. Askal lingers near me, keeping a careful eye on the two men. “Have you been inside?”

“Well, no. Not till our legal department clears us to proceed. Or the exploration team gets a crack at it. Standard precautions.”

Without another word, I head up the path, Askal keeping easy pace beside me. I can hear them scrambling to follow me.

No one can miss the cave entrance at the center of the island. It’s two hundred feet high, built for giants to walk through. Limestone stains mar the walls. Something glitters in their cavities.

It doesn’t take long for Hawaiian Shirt and Goatee to catch up, both looking annoyed.

“Ask it permission,” I tell them, and they guffaw.

“The hell I’m asking some ghost,” Goatee says with a snort.

“We can’t go in until we get the all clear,” Hawaiian Shirt repeats.

“

A few steps in won’t make a difference.” I place my hand on the stone, which is cool to the touch. “Tabi po,” I murmur, and enter.

The ground is softer here, and my sandals sink down slightly wherever I trod, leaving prints in my wake. Though reluctant at first, I hear them following, Hawaiian Shirt grumbling about all the trouble they could get into should R&D find out. Askal pads along, ears pricked as if he already senses something we cannot.

It’s not a long walk. A stone altar lies a hundred feet in. Part of the ceiling above it caved in at some point, revealing a view of the sky. It’s late afternoon, and the moon is already visible and silhouetted against a sea of blue.

The altar is more yellowing limestone bedrock, chiseled from ancient tools and carved with purpose. I look down at the ground and see, running along the sides, withered tree roots so old they’ve grown into the cave wall, stamped so deeply into the stones as to be a part of its foundation.

The passageway branches out, circles around to another tunnel that lies just behind the altar, leading deeper into rock.

“You said something before we came in,” Goatee says. “‘Tabi po’? That’s how we’re supposed to ask permission to enter?”

“It’s a sign of respect,” I say.

But the two men are no longer listening. They’re too busy staring at the stonework, and then at the sky where the moon stands at the center of the hole above—a giant eye gazing down at them.

Askal whimpers softly. I lean down and stroke his fur.

“They weren’t kidding about the Godseye,” Goatee says, impressed. “How’d you have the balls to come here all by yourself, kid? Seen any of the so-called ghosts? See Cortes himself?”

I pause, debating what to tell them. “I’ve heard the screaming.”

“No one’s told us about any screaming.”

I approach the altar but do not touch it. I hear a soft, rasping sound, and look down to see small makahiya leaves writhing quietly on the ground. From the corner of my eye, I catch the tree roots on the walls curling, stilling only when Goatee, sensing their movements, steps nearer.

I have spent enough time on this island to recognize when it’s distressed.

“You all shouldn’t be here,” I say again.

Goatee snorts. “Let’s wait until the cameras start rolling before you get all creepy, kid.”

“The Diwata knows me. But outsiders are another matter. You can’t stay here.”

The smile Goatee shoots my way is patronizing. “Kid,” he says, as the sounds of digging outside resume, “we’re just filming a TV show. We have permission.”

“Better drag Melissa here to do some initial shots,” Hawaiian Shirt says happily. “This is gonna look beautiful in our promos.”

“

We’ll still need to hook viewers for a second season,” Goatee says. “Maybe something’s haunting the mangroves on the eastern side of the island—a spirit that pulls people underwater. Or maybe a dead woman. Dead women are always hits.”

He laughs. Hawaiian Shirt laughs along with him.

From somewhere within the cave, something mimics their laughter.

They stop, tearing their gazes from the eye above them to into the cavern’s depths. But all I hear now are the faint reverberations of their voices.

“Easy to see why people think this place is haunted,” Goatee says, with a nervous, quieter chuckle. “Makes you start imagining things.” He raises his hand, which trembles slightly, and downs the rest of his beer in one noisy gulp.

They do not linger long. Askal nuzzles at my hand, lets out a soft whimper. “We’re leaving, too,” I assure him. Before I follow the men out, I look back at the tunnel stretching farther into the cave, waiting for a shift in the darkness beyond—but find nothing.

There’s only the altar, which has borne witness to old horrors, blessed with the moon’s quiet, unrelenting light.