I’m a 30-year-old writer from Tokyo, and I love mysteries. Last summer, I got a strange invitation to visit a small, private island called Kagejima, off Japan’s coast. The letter came from someone named Mr. Umi, who said he was a rich man hosting a special weekend for eight strangers. He offered free travel, food, and a big house to stay in. I was curious, so I said yes. The island was beautiful but creepy, with dark cliffs and thick fog. When I arrived, I met seven other guests, all different ages and jobs. Soon, strange things happened, and people started to disappear. This is the story of what happened on Kagejima, a place I’ll never forget.
The boat dropped us at Kagejima on a cloudy Friday. The island was small, with a rocky beach, a dark forest, and a big, old house on a hill. The house had wooden walls, tall windows, and a heavy door. Inside, it was warm but quiet, with old furniture and paintings of the sea. The eight guests were me, Hana (a 25-year-old nurse), Kenji (a 40-year-old chef), Yumi (a 35-year-old teacher), Taro (a 28-year-old engineer), Aiko (a 50-year-old artist), Ryo (a 22-year-old student), and Emi (a 45-year-old shop owner). No one knew Mr. Umi, and he wasn’t there. A note on the table said, “Welcome to Kagejima. Enjoy your stay. Dinner is at 7 p.m.” A man named Sato, the caretaker, cooked and cleaned but said little.
At dinner, we ate fish, rice, and soup. Everyone was nervous, asking why we were invited. Hana said she got a letter promising a free vacation. Kenji thought it was a rich man’s game. Yumi found it exciting, like an adventure. Taro was suspicious, checking the windows. Aiko painted a picture of the island, saying it felt alive. Ryo joked about ghosts, making Emi laugh. I noticed a strange poem on the wall, written in old Japanese. It had eight lines, each about a person vanishing—like “One walked to the sea and was never seen” or “One hid in the trees and was lost.” It gave me a bad feeling.
After dinner, we went to our rooms. My room had a soft bed, a desk, and a window facing the dark sea. At midnight, I heard a scream. I ran downstairs and found Hana, Kenji, and Taro in the hall. Emi was gone. Her room was empty, with the window open and her shoes missing. We searched the house, but she wasn’t there. Sato said she might have walked to the beach, but the fog was thick, and we couldn’t see far. The poem’s first line, “One walked to the sea and was never seen,” made my heart cold. We locked the doors and stayed together in the living room, but no one slept.
The next morning, Emi was still missing. We searched the beach but found only her scarf, wet with seawater. Yumi cried, saying it was dangerous. Taro checked the boat, but it was gone, leaving us trapped. Kenji cooked breakfast, but no one ate much. Aiko said the island felt cursed, like it wanted us gone. Ryo found a locked room in the basement but couldn’t open it. I read the poem again, noticing the second line: “One cooked a meal and fell asleep forever.” I watched Kenji, who looked tired. That afternoon, Kenji went to the kitchen to make lunch. When we checked, he was gone. A pot of soup was on the stove, and his apron was on the floor. We shouted his name, but he wasn’t in the house or forest.
Now there were six of us. Taro said someone was on the island, taking us one by one. Yumi thought it was a ghost, tied to the poem. Hana checked everyone’s bags for clues, but found nothing. Aiko painted a dark figure in the fog, scaring Ryo. I tried to stay calm, writing everything in my notebook. The third line was “One taught a lesson and was silenced.” Yumi, the teacher, looked afraid. That evening, Yumi went to her room to rest. An hour later, we heard a crash. Her room was empty, with a broken lamp and her glasses on the floor. We searched the forest, but she was gone, like the others.
Panic grew. Taro suggested we stay in one room, but Aiko wanted to paint outside. The fourth line was “One painted a picture and faded away.” I begged Aiko to stay, but she went to the cliff with her easel. When we looked later, her canvas was there, half-finished, showing a shadowy figure. Aiko was gone. Only four of us remained: me, Hana, Taro, and Ryo. Hana said we should break into the basement room for answers. Taro used a chair to smash the lock. Inside, we found old papers, a map of the island, and a photo of eight people who looked like us, dated 1925. The poem was there too, in faded ink. Ryo screamed, saying it was a trap.
The fifth line was “One built a plan and was buried deep.” Taro, the engineer, was making a raft to escape. He went to the forest for wood but didn’t return. We found his tools by a tree, with dirt piled nearby, like a grave. Now it was me, Hana, and Ryo. The sixth line was “One studied hard and lost the way.” Ryo, the student, was reading the old papers, trying to understand. He went to the attic to find more, but when we followed, he was gone. His notebook was open, with the word “Kagejima” circled.
Hana and I were alone. The seventh line was “One healed a wound and closed their eyes.” Hana, the nurse, bandaged my hand after I cut it on a window. She said we should hide until morning, but she looked tired. That night, I woke up, and Hana was gone. Her medical bag was open, with a bandage on the floor. I was the last, and the eighth line was “One wrote a tale and faced the truth.” I wrote in my notebook, heart racing, knowing I was next.
The fog cleared, and I saw a figure outside—a man in a black coat. I ran to the basement, locking the door. The papers said Kagejima was a place where people vanished every 100 years, cursed by an old fisherman who died there. I heard footsteps above. The door creaked. I hid under a table, holding my breath. The figure entered, but it wasn’t a man—it was Sato, the caretaker. He smiled and said, “You’re the last.” I asked why, and he said the island needed eight souls to rest, choosing people like us, strangers with no connection. He wasn’t human, but part of Kagejima’s curse.
I ran to the cliff, with Sato following. The sea roared below. I remembered the poem and realized it wasn’t about dying—it was about staying. The others weren’t gone; they were part of the island, trapped forever. I jumped into the sea, hoping to escape. The water was cold, but I swam, seeing a boat in the distance. Fishermen found me, half-dead, and took me to the mainland. I told them about Kagejima, but when they looked, the island wasn’t on any map.
Now, I’m back in Tokyo, writing this story. My notebook from Kagejima is with me, but the poem is gone, like it never existed. I see shadows sometimes, like my friends from the island. Was it real, or a dream? I don’t know, but I feel Kagejima’s fog in my heart. The mystery of what happened there stays with me, a tale of eight strangers who vanished, leaving only questions behind.