They say the Island is haunted...they hear sounds; screams, cries...they say the trees whisper to each other, the animals are abnormal, the inhabitants crazy. Even on a calm day, the Island is shrouded in mist and mystery. One thing is for certain: those who reach the Island never come back.
The people tell their old wives' tales and myths in the pub on Friday nights, when all other conversation has dried up. They claim the Island is home to a poltergeist, a huge beast, something so terrifying that had it scared old Jim Bean into silence every time someone asked him about what happened on that fateful day.
They think Jim Bean was scared into never speaking of the incident...but they're wrong. They think they know what lives on the Island...but they're wrong. I know better.
I, Jim Bean, swam to the Island thirteen years ago, for reasons they will never know. I lost her that day-my Isla. I had a close shave with the Island, and didn't plan on ever returning, until one day last week. I had sat on the shore, staring out at the Island through my binoculars, when a hoard of seagulls circled around me. I waved my arms to shoo them away. "Be off now!" I had cried. But when I listened more closely to the racket they were making, I realised they were saying one word over and over again: Isla.
I knew I had to return.