Remote Costa Rica jungle, turned into a horror story

Parismina is a remote jungle village on Costa Rica’s Caribbean coast, only accessible by boat. It’s quiet, isolated, and far from the usual tourist routes.

Getting to Parismina didn’t feel like travelling, it felt like being slowly removed from everything familiar. San José was loud and chaotic, buses everywhere, people rushing like time mattered, and then suddenly it didn’t. The ride to Siquirres was just a transition, but you could feel it, buildings fading into green, shops disappearing, the air changing without asking permission. By the time I switched to the second bus, smaller and quieter, it was obvious I was no longer part of the usual flow. No one asked questions, no one needed to, I was already out of place and everyone knew it.

The road kept narrowing until it simply ended at Caño Blanco, no sign, no warning, just water where land should have continued and a few boats waiting like this was normal. That’s the moment it hits you, you’re not “on the way” anymore, you’re choosing something remote, something that takes effort. I paused for a second, not fear, just awareness, that quiet thought of you’re really doing this alone, and then I got on the boat anyway.

The ride pulled me in immediately. Jungle on both sides, dense and uninterrupted, trees leaning into the water, roots disappearing into something dark and still. The air felt heavier, wet, sitting on your skin, and the sound was constant, insects, birds, movement you couldn’t see, the kind of noise that reminds you you’re not in control of anything here. The canal narrowed, turned endlessly, no landmarks, no sense of direction, just green folding into itself, and somewhere in that ride, without noticing exactly when, that feeling crept in, that quiet excitement that you’ve found something real, something untouched, the illusion people chase without admitting it.

Then it opened, just enough for Parismina to appear like it had been hiding the whole time. Black sand, a few houses, the ocean hitting hard, no entrance, no welcome, just there. I stepped off the boat and it didn’t feel normal, it felt removed, like everything else had been paused somewhere behind me. No cars, no roads, just waves, wind, and people moving at their own pace. I stood there for a second and thought, simply, this is it, not dramatic, just certain, exactly what I came for.

Then I met him.

It was a Saturday night, if you can even call it that. Not a party in the usual sense, just the village stretching itself a little further into the evening. Music somewhere in the background, people gathered in small groups, drinks in hand, conversations overlapping without anyone really trying too hard. It felt natural, unforced. I was just there, observing more than participating, like I had been doing the whole time. I don’t drink, so I stay clear, and funnily enough, he didn’t either. That’s probably the only reason we ended up talking.

He wasn’t from Parismina. You could tell immediately. Not because of how he looked, but because of how he carried himself. Slightly out of sync with the place, like someone passing through without really settling into it. He was someone’s friend, just visiting, leaving the next day. The kind of person you speak to for ten minutes and never see again. At first, it was a normal conversation, nothing memorable. Travel, places, the usual surface-level exchange that fills silence more than it builds connection.

But then something about him started to feel… off.

It wasn’t what he said, it was how he said it. The way he kept lowering his voice mid-sentence, like there was no real reason for it but he felt there should be. The pauses, slightly too long, like he was filtering his own words before letting them out. And the constant glances around, quick but frequent, like he was checking who was listening even though no one was paying attention. It felt like he was trying to be discreet, but in a way that made the whole thing more obvious instead of less. Like someone playing a role they hadn’t quite mastered.

Then, without build-up, he leaned in slightly and said it. “You know this place connects Colombia and Jamaica, right?”

Just like that. Dropped into the conversation like it was something meaningful, something I was supposed to react to. But there was no explanation, no follow-up, just silence. And then that look again, a quick glance over his shoulder, like he had just revealed something he shouldn’t have. I didn’t question it. I didn’t ask anything. I just nodded and let the conversation drift somewhere else. It didn’t feel important in the moment. Just a strange comment from a strange man trying a bit too hard to seem like he knew something.

But it stayed.

The next day, Parismina was exactly the same, but I wasn’t seeing it the same way anymore. The beach hadn’t changed, the people hadn’t changed, the rhythm of the place was still slow and effortless, but something in my perception had shifted just enough to make everything feel slightly different. I started noticing things I hadn’t paid attention to before. Boats moving along the river suddenly stood out more. Conversations that were probably normal felt quieter than they needed to be. Even the silence, which had felt peaceful before, now carried a different weight.

It wasn’t fear, not really. It was just a subtle tension, like my brain had taken that one sentence and started attaching it to things that didn’t need meaning. Filling gaps that didn’t exist. Turning ordinary moments into something slightly questionable. I had come there looking for isolation, for something raw and real, and without realising it, I had started to feel unsettled inside the exact thing I had wanted. By the time I left, the thought had already settled in properly.

Then came the journey to Puerto Viejo, passing through Moín. The same kind of boat ride, the same jungle closing in around the canals, the same heavy air and quiet intensity of the place. It should have felt just as beautiful as the first time, but now I was watching everything more closely, paying attention in a way that didn’t feel natural anymore. And then, casually again, I learned that Moín is actually used as an export point, that there had been shootings just days before.

That was enough.

My brain didn’t question it, didn’t pause, didn’t try to rationalise anything. It just connected everything instantly. The comment from that night, the boats, the place, the timing. Suddenly it all made sense in a way that felt convincing, even if it wasn’t real. Every movement felt intentional, every stop felt like it had meaning, every person seemed to know something I didn’t. I sat there trying to act normal, not stare too much, not react, just blend in with the moment. But inside, I was completely aware of everything, observing in a way that probably made me stand out more than anything else. The irony of it didn’t escape me, even then.

And still, nothing happened.

No tension, no confrontation, no moment where any of it became real. Just people living their lives, moving through their routines without any awareness of the story I had built in my head.