love those regional gothic posts so I wanted to try Puerto Rico…

You and your friends head into El Yunque on a free day but they trailed off the path. You lose them in the dense undergrowth. When you turn back the trees have multiplied and there is no sign of the trail. You swear you can hear them calling but it’s always just a whisper away.

At night the coquis sing. When you look outside they have gathered in a mass. The singing grows louder and louder until it’s the only thing you can hear. You don’t notice the blood dripping from your ears.

The cobblestone streets of Viejo San Juan are empty. The colors of the houses seem to fade into nothingness when you walk pass them. It’s too quiet. You start to run when the sky turns black.

Once a year the people with horned masks walk the streets. Everyone locks their doors and don’t emerge until sunrise, when the screaming stops.

You’ve always wanted to visit El Morro, but the tour guide doesn’t say anything as she leads your group through the fort. You catch glimpses of a soldier dying on the floor but no one looks at him. Everything smells of blood and gunpowder and despair.

Summers have always been hot but this one seems particularly scalding. Going outside feels like setting yourself on fire. When you turn on the sink, a sludge oozes out. The bath won’t work. The fridge won’t work. You reach for the ice for relief but instead it leaves burn scars across your palm.

The ocean is a shade too green. Tourists walk by the dozens into the water and don’t turn back. Something waits underneath the waves.