My name is Hendry, and before I tell you what went wrong, I need you to understand something important.
Nothing was wrong at first.
That's the part people never believe when I try to explain it.
They expect warning signs—screams in the night, strange symbols, blood on walls. But there was none of that. Just laughter, salt in the air, and a teacher who cared too much for us to ever let anything bad happen.
His name was Mr. Koroma.
If there was a ranking system for teachers, he would have been at the very top.
Not because he was strict or clever, but because he listened. He remembered our names, our handwriting, the way some of us avoided eye contact when called on.
When someone forgot their homework, he didn't scold them first—he asked why.
"You're not lazy," he used to say. "you have done your best "
Those were his favorite words. Your best.
So when the school announced a two-week agricultural field trip to an isolated island, none of us were worried. If Mr. Koroma was going, then we were safe. That was the unspoken rule of our class.
The island was called Bansan Isle, a small green dot surrounded by water so blue it didn't look real.
When the boat approached, the villagers stood on the shore waving at us, smiling like they had been waiting a long time. They were kind people—too kind, I remember thinking. The kind that made you feel rude for ever being suspicious.
Their homes were simple, wooden, surrounded by crops that stretched endlessly across the land. Cassava, rice, tomatoes, things I had only seen in textbooks suddenly became real.
The air smelled of earth and salt and something faintly metallic I couldn't place.
Up on the hills sat the research facility.
It didn't look frightening—white walls, glass windows, solar panels catching the sun.
That's where the agricultural scientists worked, studying sustainable farming and the use of artificial intelligence to predict harvests and prevent famine. It sounded important. Noble, even.
Each class was assigned a researcher to guide them.
Ours was Dr. Anderson.
He looked a little too young to be a doctor, some of the boys joked—and tall too, with a calm voice that never rushed. He smiled easily, and when he spoke, it felt like he was speaking to you, not at you and the girls noticed him immediately.
I remember Rose elbowing Emma when he introduced himself, both of them suppressing smiles. Even I noticed how his eyes seemed to linger when he listened, like he was truly interested in every word.
"Behave yourselves," Mr. Koroma said gently but firmly, popping whatever imaginary bubbles had formed in the girls' heads.
They pouted.
The boys laughed.
Everything was normal.
The first week passed peacefully.
We learned how crops were grown, harvested, and processed. Dr. Anderson explained how machines could predict weather patterns, how artificial intelligence could tell farmers when to plant and when to wait.
He welcomed questions—encouraged them. If someone didn't understand, he would repeat himself, slower, kinder.
In that way, he reminded me of Mr. Koroma.
Looking back now, that's what makes everything hurt more.
Because trust is easier to break when it's built on familiarity.
It was during the second week that things changed.
Not suddenly. Not dramatically. Just… quietly.
Dr. Anderson stopped gathering us in groups.
Instead of calling the whole class together, he began speaking to students one at a time.
He would approach someone during breaks, or ask them to stay behind after a session.
We didn't think much of it at first—maybe it was guidance, or feedback.
But I noticed something strange.
Every student he spoke to came back with the same look on their face.
Not fear exactly.
More like… discomfort.
Their smiles were tight. Their eyes unfocused. Like they had just woken from a bad dream they didn't want to describe.
I tried to ignore it. I'm not the kind of person who jumps to conclusions. Mr. Koroma always said, "Don't build stories where facts are missing."
But curiosity is louder than wisdom.
One afternoon, I caught up with Emma as she was heading back to the dormitories.
Dr. Anderson had just finished speaking with her. When i got close i saw her hands were shaking.
"Hey," I said, forcing a smile. "What did he say to you?"
She flinched.
It was subtle, but I saw it. Her shoulders tightened like she'd been touched somewhere painful.
"Nothing," she said quickly.
Then she ran.
I stood there watching her disappear down the path, confused in a way that made my stomach feel hollow. Over the next few days, I asked others and they all said the same thing.
Nothing.
But none of them met my eyes.
That was when I realized something else.
The researchers—the ones not assigned to teaching—were always nearby. Watching. Pretending to take notes. Standing where they didn't need to stand.
I hadn't noticed it before.
When it was finally my turn, I felt oddly relieved.
Dr. Anderson approached me near the fields. His smile was the same as always—warm, gentle.
"Hendry," he said. "How are you finding the island?"
"It's nice," I replied. "The people are kind."
"They are," he agreed. "How do you feel being here?"
I shrugged. "It's… peaceful."
He nodded, as if confirming something.
Then he asked, casually, as if discussing the weather:
"How would you feel if everyone on this island died?"
I stared at him.
"What?" I laughed awkwardly. "Why woul—"
"And how would it feel," he continued smoothly, "if everything here wasn't real?"
My confusion turned into something heavier.
"I don't understand, sir" I said.
He leaned closer, lowering his voice.
"What if someone in your class died because of someone else?"
That's when my body betrayed me.
My hands began to tremble. My chest felt tight, like something was pressing against it from the inside. I didn't know why the question terrified me—it just did.
Instinctively. Deeply.
Dr. Anderson smiled and patted my back.
"I'm joking," he said. "Don't think too much about it."
But he wasn't joking.
I knew that the same way you know when you're being watched in the dark.
I glanced around.
My classmates were staring at me.
They had all heard versions of the same questions.
That night, we gathered outside Mr. Koroma's room.
Seventeen students standing quietly in the hallway.
He opened the door, shock written across his face.
"What's going on here?" he asked.
Rose, our class leader, stepped forward. "Sir… can we talk?"
He felt something was wrong and let us in immediately.
His room was small, but we fit. He sat on the chair and we sat on the floor. Respect came naturally to us around him.
We told him everything.
The questions.
The discomfort.
The feeling of being watched.
And he frowned at every word.
When we finished, he told us to go to bed and promised to speak with the principal and the other teachers in the morning.
We smile because we know he will.
As we walked back, I felt it again.
A presence.
Something behind me.
When I turned around, there was no one there.
But i was sure someone was there.