Idols

Deep into the alleyways that twist and turn through the small town, alongside the growing moss and patches of brine slush are the idols.

Outside of every home and business is a small idol that serves to protect the people within from forces never quite explained.

The island, for all its natural beauty and stunning mountain reaches, held secrets that were only whispered in the backroom drink phase of family gatherings.

They were rules to ask him about what happened after dark in the autumn. But no one ever taught you those rules. Instead, you’d wander out from your small apartment into the dark night where they waited.

You can’t explain them without sounding unhinged. But you swear time and time again, that what you saw was real. That it’s the thing that keeps you up at night.

You were never afraid of the ocean before moving to this small, remote, forgotten island. As a child, you eagerly ran into the crashing waves and white surf of the Pacific. But now, as you look out into the starlight speckled waters three shades too dark to be anything natural, you wonder what would’ve happened to that same kid if you’d come to this island earlier.

There are no idols that protect those that go beyond the reach of the shoreline.

The missing tourists are never remarked upon. There’s always a convenient answer. No controversy to be found among the wilds of this land. No conversation to be had either. You can see it in the eyes of the residents— a special sort of despair. The knowledge that the island is a prison. Unique in its beauty, and so much more terrible for it.

I know I’ve written about this before. Because each time I do, I read a number at the top of the journal entry. But as I look at this page in this notebook, I find no filled pages. No previous accounts. I find nothing that might tell me of what I’ve thought before. Of the dangers that I know. All that remains is the number.  A gentle mockery of my slipping sanity. A tiny idol to the truth.

But even that grows weary as the notebook thins.