Isla Muñeca
“That island was just too tempting a place for
three young girls looking for adventure. But when one lost her footing, the
weed-choked river claimed her for its own. You see, there was this man who had
it in his mind to live on that very island. He was one of those types that had
nobody looking out for him, nobody carin’ if he lived or died.” The old man’s
fingers, twisted from years of hard labor, gripped a non-filtered cigarette. “His
first night, he saw that poor young girl’s spirit wandering around lost—angry
at what’s happened to her. To appease the spirit, he built an altar of what
every little girl wants…dolls, offerings he hoped that would keep the spirit
from bringing harm upon himself and this very town. Every year, on the
anniversary of her death, we bring more dolls. Cuz’ you must always leave an
offering. Lest you find yourself in the river.”
The boat—more
like a raft that had been constructed with Popsicle sticks fashioned by
kindergartners on a paste high—bumped into an even worse off dock. One look at
the island, affectionately called Isla De Las
Muñecas by the locals, and I wished we were back in our suites in
Mexico City. I had done the appropriate research, dug into local legend, spoke
with the impoverished people who would be more inclined to believe and looked
great on camera, and I did it all with a damn smile on my face.
There was a
time, when I first became a part of the show, when I shared in the naivety that
I would one day be a part of a monumental discovery. An aspiring
Parapsychologist, I was ecstatic to become the field producer of Truth or Myth, a cable network show that
sent a team to investigate paranormal legends around the world. After the six
years we’ve been on air, I firmly believed that the show should drop “Truth”
from its title.
“I
can’t wait to get this one started.” Erica
actually skipped past me, her golden curls bouncing in tune with each perky
step.
“Don’t
get your hopes too high,” I call after her, checking my cell’s reception.
Nothing. Not one fucking bar. “God, it stinks out here.”
Undeterred
by my skepticism, Erica jutted her arms out into the stagnate, humid air. “I
think it might be different this time. I mean, come on! Look at this place!”
She stood, running her hands over decaying dolls near a rundown shack that
looked ready to topple at just a slight suggestion of wind. Or one more doll. I thought, feeling my
shoes sink into the mud. Doll Island couldn’t have been more appropriately
named. Tiny bodies hung from the trees, were tethered to the surrounding
bushes, and even nailed to every available inch of the shack. Barbies hung from
the door jams, and handmade cloth babies were lashed haphazardly to the roof,
their broken button eyes staring up to the cloudless sky. Mold grew in the
empty eye sockets, others had their tiny eyes sunken inside their plastic heads
but were missing a body, and I thought I saw a small snake winding its way
through the armless torso of a forgotten Feed Me Katie doll. The bright, wide-eyed
stare of a few new additions not yet stained with the evils of the elements
seemed to follow me as I called out to the crew.
“Alright,
the sun is going to set in fifteen.” I kicked at a hairless Barbie that had
somehow gotten under my shoe. “Scott, get some B-role, Erica start rolling
sound, and where the hell is Jackie?” He motioned to the dock where Truth or
Myth’s host and constant pain in my ass, Jackie, stood with her arms across her
chest.
“You
gotta leave an offering to the girl,” she said, parroting the old coot a little
too well for a girl with a voice that was three octaves higher than necessary.
“Or they’ll get ya.”
“Well,
isn’t that what we’re here to find out?” I asked, pushing aside a doll painted
like a clown that dangled from a branch in front of me. I shivered. I hated clowns.
“You
don’t want to hear the scratchin’,” She continued, her heavily made-up eyes
darting around the small island. “If you hear that, then it’s too late.”
“When
has anything ever happened on these
trips? Don’t get superstitious on me now.” The putrid river swallowed the sun,
stealing the last of the light. Our boat knocked against the ageing dock,
lending a sort of percussion to the ear-buzzing music of the insects searching
for food. “Come on Jackie, it’s time. Scott, start rolling.”
We gathered
around Jackie, the camera’s lights reflecting off her iridescent blue eye
shadow. “Doll Island,” She began, “Truth or Myth?” She had barely finished the
sentence when the camera’s lights burned out. I sighed, turning to Erica who
motioned to her earphones with a shake of her head. No sound.
Jackie’s
voice cracked in the darkness. “We should have left an offering.”
“Don’t
be so fucking dense.” I turned to head back to the raft with the hope of
finding a flashlight, when I heard it.
Scratching.
Like thousands of tiny plastic hands reaching out from the inky blackness. I
fell to the muddy ground, the sounds of my crews screams mingled with my own.
