Island 37

A romantic getaway turns into a nightmare on a vanished island with dark military secrets.

Prologue
Off the coast of Rivers State, 4:17 p.m.
The helicopter banked low, its blades stirring the palms and sending birds scattering from the canopy. Below, the ocean burned with late-afternoon light, and in the distance, an island emerged—small, green, isolated, untouched.
Jayjay grinned as he looked over at Maryam, who gripped the seatbelt across her lap with one hand, the other shielding her eyes from the glare.
“Now tell me this isn’t the most romantic thing I’ve ever pulled off.”
Maryam gave a soft laugh, but she was watching the island more than listening. It wasn’t the postcard paradise she expected. No visible buildings. No jetty. No staff waiting.
Just trees. Water. Silence.
The pilot didn’t say much as they descended. He landed on a faded concrete pad, motioned for them to hop off, and then pointed down a footpath lined with old kerosene lanterns.
“Dinner’s down that way,” he said. “Two hours. Be ready. Storm’s building to the south.”
And just like that, he was gone, lifted into the sky, vanishing back into the haze without a second glance.
Maryam stared after the helicopter, uneasy. Something felt off already. But Jayjay took her hand and tugged her toward the flickering trail.
“Come on. Candlelight, grilled fish, ocean view. You’ll forget Lagos even exists.”

The path led them to a clearing overlooking the sea. A table waited beneath a palm-frond canopy, lanterns casting warm light across the setting. Two chairs. Freshly grilled tilapia on ceramic plates. Palm wine in calabashes. Soft music played from a small speaker tucked in the corner.
“Okay,” Maryam said, brow raised. “This… is impressive.”
“See? Trust the process,” Jayjay said, sliding into a chair. “Private island vibes.”
They ate. The food was warm, and well-spiced. The breeze was soft. Everything should have been perfect.
But no staff ever appeared.
No chef. No server. No boat bobbing off the coast. Not even a welcome note.
“Are we supposed to just… eat and leave?” Maryam asked.
“I guess so,” Jayjay said, trying to sound relaxed, but something in his voice was tight.
The silence on the island wasn’t peaceful. It was staged.
Maryam glanced over her shoulder toward the trees. No birds. No insects. Just the constant hush of waves and leaves.
A kind of waiting.

By the time they returned to the helipad, the sun had nearly dropped below the horizon. The sky turned heavy with clouds, and a low rumble rolled in from the west.
No helicopter.
Jayjay tried calling the charter office. Nothing. No bars.
Maryam pulled up the confirmation email, but there was no contact number; just a generic office address in Victoria Island.
He checked again.
“No signal. No location pin. It’s like we’ve disappeared off the map.”
Maryam looked up at the thickening clouds.
“I don’t like this.”
“Let’s get back under shelter,” he said, taking her hand.
They ran along the trail, but halfway back, Maryam tripped.
She hit the ground hard, catching her palm on a rock. Jayjay helped her up, then noticed what had caught her ankle.
A loop of rusted wire, half-buried in the soil, connected to a rotted wooden stake. On it, barely visible:
RESTRICTED AREA — FEDERAL PROPERTY — DO NOT ENTER
They both stared at it.
“That… wasn’t part of the tour package, was it?” Maryam asked.
Jayjay shook his head. “I don’t think this is a resort.”

A narrow path behind the sign led into a thicker bush. They followed it, brushing past ferns and fallen branches until they emerged into a clearing.
Concrete structures loomed ahead, half-sunken buildings wrapped in vines and moss. Some still bore faded navy markings. A broken antenna jutted out of the largest roof. Barbed wire fencing lay tangled in the dirt like something had torn it down from the inside.
It looked like a military base, abandoned long ago.
“No one builds a hotel on top of an old naval facility,” Maryam muttered.
Inside the buildings, everything was still. Dorm bunks. Smashed monitors. Mold on the walls. But one thing stood out: fresh bootprints in the dust.
“This place hasn’t been empty for long,” Jayjay said.
Maryam stepped into what looked like an operations room. On the wall: a faded map of the Niger Delta coast. Dozens of islands were marked, but one circled in thick black ink.
Their island.
She found a file folder shoved behind an old monitor. Water-damaged, brittle, but still legible.
PROJECT NWA-DELTA: BIOLOGICAL FIELD TESTING
STATUS: UNSTABLE. TERMINATED. SITE SEALED — APRIL 2001
She turned to Jayjay, voice trembling.
“They were experimenting with something here.”

They moved deeper into the compound, down into a cooler wing where the walls turned white-tiled and the air felt different, thick, chemical.
A laboratory.
Most of the glass tanks were shattered. One remained intact, filled with yellowish fluid. Inside floated a half-decayed skull, clearly animal, but fused with something unnatural. Bone-like coral. Sharp ridges. No clear eyes.
Maryam stepped back.
“We need to leave. Now.”
Outside, the storm broke.
Rain hammered the canopy. Lightning split the horizon in violent pulses. Thunder boomed overhead like it was inside the island itself.
They found shelter in the generator room. Jayjay got an old emergency radio working, barely. It whined with static, then cracked with voices.
“…Island 37, off-books… no retrieval authorized… secure perimeter… confirm lockdown…”
Then silence.
Maryam stared at the receiver. “They know we’re here.”
“They’re not coming.”
A sudden crash outside made them both jump. A tree? No.
Something heavier. Deliberate.
Maryam moved toward the door and peered through a gap in the boards. The forest shifted in the darkness.
Not from the wind.
Something moved out there. Watching.
Hunting.

Morning came slowly, gray and wet.
They made their way back to the helipad. It was intact—but empty. No chopper. No tracks.
No sign anyone had ever planned to come back.
They climbed the old communications tower by the cliff. At the top, Maryam sent out a last burst through the shortwave:
“To anyone listening. We are stranded. This is Island 37. Please, do not come. We are alive. But do not land.”
And then they waited.

Epilogue
Island 37 no longer appears on maritime charts.
A Navy spokesperson once claimed it was “a misidentified patch of land” and denied any former installations there. The helicopter company that flew Jayjay and Maryam dissolved a month after their disappearance. No one investigated. No missing person case was filed. No one from the agency returned calls.
But fishermen passing the Niger Delta coast still speak of it.
A flash of light in the distance. A strange crackle over radio waves.
Sometimes on stormy nights, a voice comes through:
“We are alive. We were left here. Do not come. Please… do not…”
And sometimes, after heavy rains, oil-stained driftwood washes ashore in Brass or Bonny. People say it carries letters burned into the grain.
ISLAND 37 – KEEP OUT
But no one listens.
Not until it’s too late.