The Monsoon Arrives

We’re stuck.

The storm hit hard at dawn — wind so strong it flattened part of the tent. Rain came down in sheets. You couldn’t see more than ten feet ahead. The sound of the falls mixed with thunder until it was just one continuous roar.

Our camp is soaked. Everything’s damp, even inside the tents. Sakda says we might be trapped for another day or two, depending on the river level. He doesn’t say much else. He sits by the fire, staring at the ground.

John started coughing last night. Maybe the damp air. He hasn’t eaten much. Keeps saying the water “smells wrong.”

I thought he meant the muddy river water, but then he pointed at the falls.

“It’s not the same,” he said. “It’s moving backwards.”

I looked — and for a second, it really did look strange. The mist wasn’t rising anymore. It was sinking, drawn down like smoke into the pool. I blinked, and it looked normal again.

Pete thinks John’s losing it. “Man’s just tired,” he said. “We all are.”

Around noon, the rain eased up a little. Pete wanted to explore a cave he spotted near the falls yesterday. “Could be cool for photos,” he said. Tom told him he was insane. Sakda flat-out refused to go.

“Bad place,” he said. “Old hole. Not for people.”

Pete laughed. “It’s a cave, man, not a haunted house.”

He left anyway, just a few meters in, flashlight in hand.

He was gone maybe five minutes. Came back pale, quiet, soaked. Didn’t say what he saw. Just sat down and started checking his camera, deleting photos one by one.

I tried asking later, but he just said, “Bad reflections.”

That night, while everyone was trying to sleep, I heard something weird.

It was like a song — low, slow, maybe a woman’s voice, carried over the rain. Could’ve been the wind. Could’ve been a bird.

Except the tune kept repeating every few seconds, same pattern, same rhythm.

And sometimes, when thunder flashed, I swore I saw something by the edge of the water. Not moving. Just there.

I don’t think I slept at all.