"Dead Water":
No neighbors, no noise, just the wind rustling through the trees and the occasional chirp of a bird. I built my cabin here, deep in the forest, years ago. It’s off-grid, just the way I like it—no electricity, no city water, nothing tying me to the outside world. My water comes from a natural spring, a short walk from my cabin. It’s crystal clear, cold, and pure. Every morning, I trek down to the spring with my jugs to collect enough water for the day. It’s my routine, my ritual, and I’ve always felt at peace there.
But that was before.
It was a Tuesday morning, just like any other. The sun was barely up, casting long shadows through the trees as I made my way down the familiar path. The air was crisp, and the ground was damp from the night’s dew. I could hear the gentle trickle of the spring before I saw it, a sound that usually brought me comfort. But that day, something felt off. The birds were silent, and the usual hum of the forest was gone. It was like the woods were holding their breath.
As I stepped into the small clearing around the spring, I froze. Floating face down in the water was a body. A woman, from the looks of it, her long hair spreading out like dark seaweed in the current. My heart stopped. I dropped my jugs, the sound of them hitting the ground loud in the stillness. I wanted to run, to scream, but there was no one to hear me. I was alone, miles from anyone who could help.
I stood there, staring, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. The water around her was tinged with red, and her clothes were torn and muddy. She looked like she’d been there for a while, but not long enough for the spring to wash her away completely. My mind raced. Who was she? How did she get here? This was my spring, my water source. No one else came here. No one even knew about it except me.
I backed away slowly, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. I couldn’t leave her there—she’d contaminate the water, and I needed that water to survive. But I couldn’t touch her either. I wasn’t a doctor or a detective; I didn’t know what to do. I ran back to my cabin, slamming the door behind me, and locked it, though I knew it wouldn’t keep out whatever had brought her here.
I sat on the edge of my bed, trying to calm down. My hands were shaking, and I could feel a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead. I had to think. I couldn’t call the police—they’d never come out here, not for miles. And even if they did, they’d ask questions I didn’t want to answer. Questions about why I was living out here alone, why I didn’t have a phone or any way to contact the outside world. I’d built this life to escape all that, and I wasn’t about to let it slip away.
But I couldn’t just leave her there. The thought of drinking water from the same spring where she lay dead made my stomach turn. I had to move her, at least far enough away from the spring so the water wouldn’t be tainted. I grabbed a shovel and a pair of gloves from my shed, steeling myself for what I had to do.
When I got back to the spring, she was still there, motionless. The water had shifted her slightly, and her face was now partially visible. She was young, maybe in her thirties, with pale skin and dark hair. Her eyes were closed, and there was a small cut on her forehead, still oozing blood. I didn’t want to look too closely, but I couldn’t help noticing her hands. They were clenched into fists, as if she’d been fighting for her life.
I used the shovel to gently push her body to the side, away from the spring. As I did, I saw something glint in the sunlight. It was a necklace, half-buried in the mud near where she’d been floating. I hesitated, then reached down and picked it up. It was a simple silver chain with a small pendant—a tiny bird, its wings spread wide. On the back, there was an engraving: For my love, always. It felt wrong to take it, but I couldn’t leave it there either. It might be important, a clue to who she was.
I buried her near the spring, under a pile of rocks. It wasn’t a proper grave, but it was the best I could do. I marked the spot with a larger stone, just in case someone came looking for her. Then I filled my jugs with water from the spring, trying not to think about what had just happened. I needed to act normal, to pretend everything was fine. But as I walked back to my cabin, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every creak of the cabin, every rustle of the wind outside, made me jump. I kept thinking about her—the woman in the spring. Who was she? How had she ended up there? And why did she have to die in my water source, of all places? I felt guilty, like I’d somehow failed her by not being there to help. But that didn’t make sense. I didn’t even know her.
The next morning, I went back to the spring to check on the grave. The rocks were undisturbed, but as I filled my jugs, I noticed something strange. There were footprints in the mud—fresh ones, not mine. They were larger than my boots, and they led from the spring into the woods. Someone had been here, and recently.
My heart raced as I followed the prints. They led me about fifty yards into the forest, where they stopped abruptly at a small clearing. There, scratched into the bark of a tree, was a single word: Help. My blood ran cold. Had she written that before she died? Or had someone else been here, looking for her?
I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t stay here, not with that grave so close to my water source. But I couldn’t leave either—this was my home, my sanctuary. I decided to stay put, but I started carrying my rifle with me everywhere, just in case.
Days turned into weeks, and nothing else happened. The footprints faded, and the grave remained undisturbed. I started to think maybe I’d imagined it all—the footprints, the word on the tree. Maybe the stress of finding her had gotten to me. But then, one night, I heard it.
A knock on my door.
I froze. No one ever came to my cabin. No one even knew where it was. I grabbed my rifle and crept to the door, peering through the small window. There was a man standing outside, his face obscured by the darkness. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in dark clothes. He knocked again, louder this time.
“Who’s there?” I called out, my voice shaking.
“I’m looking for my wife,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “She disappeared a few weeks ago. I think she might have come this way.”
I felt a chill run down my spine. His wife? Was this the woman I’d found in the spring? I didn’t want to open the door, but I couldn’t just leave him standing there either. I unlocked it and cracked it open, keeping the rifle close.
“I haven’t seen anyone,” I said, trying to sound calm. “I live alone here.”
He stepped closer, and I could see his face now. He was older, maybe in his fifties, with deep lines etched into his skin and eyes that looked like they hadn’t slept in days. “Please,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’ve been searching for weeks. Her car was found abandoned on the highway, not far from here. I think she might have wandered into the woods.”
I hesitated. Should I tell him about the body? But what if he was involved? What if he’d killed her and was now trying to cover his tracks? I couldn’t trust him.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I haven’t seen anyone. You should check with the police.”
He stared at me for a long moment, his eyes narrowing. “You’re lying,” he said finally. “I can see it in your face. You know something.”
I slammed the door shut and locked it, my heart pounding. I heard him pounding on the door, shouting, but I didn’t open it. After a while, he stopped, and I heard his footsteps fading into the distance.
I didn’t sleep that night. Or the next. Every sound outside made me jump, every shadow seemed to move. I knew I couldn’t stay here anymore. The next morning, I packed up my things and left, driving away from the cabin and the spring, from the woman in the grave and the man who came looking for her.
I never went back. I sold the cabin to a developer who turned it into a vacation rental. I heard later that they found the grave when they were clearing the land. The woman was identified as a missing hiker, and her husband was arrested for her murder. He’d killed her in a fit of rage during an argument, then dumped her body in the woods. He must have thought no one would ever find her.
But I did. And sometimes, late at night, when I’m alone, I still see her face in my dreams, floating in the spring, her eyes closed, her hands clenched into fists. And I wonder if she’s really at peace, or if she’s still waiting for someone to find her, to tell her story.
"The Reservoir":
I’ve been diving for over ten years, swimming through murky rivers, inspecting dam walls, and cleaning out industrial tanks. But nothing prepared me for what happened in that underground reservoir. It was supposed to be a routine job, just another day in the water. By the time I climbed out, I was shaking, and I swore I’d never go back.
It started at the water treatment plant, a sprawling complex of pipes and concrete on the edge of town. I pulled up early in the morning, my gear rattling in the back of my truck. The maintenance worker, a guy named Jack with a weathered face and a quick smile, was waiting for me by the entrance.
“Morning,” he said, handing me a clipboard with the day’s paperwork. “You ready to dive into the beast?”
I grinned, signing the forms. “Always. What’s the deal with this one?”
Jack led me to a heavy metal hatch set into the ground. “It’s a big one—40 by 80 meters, about 10 meters deep. Holds half the city’s water supply. Your job’s to clean it out. Scrape off any algae, check for debris, and make sure there’s no damage to the walls. Standard stuff.”
“Sounds straightforward,” I said, pulling on my drysuit.
Jack hesitated, then added, “One thing, though. Some of the guys have mentioned weird noises down there lately. Like banging or something. Probably just the pipes settling, but it spooks them.”
I raised an eyebrow, adjusting my mask. “Banging? Like what?”
He shrugged, scratching the back of his neck. “Dunno. Loud, like metal on metal. They say it echoes through the whole place. But it’s an old system—makes all kinds of noises. Nothing to worry about.”
I nodded, brushing it off. Old structures always creak and groan. I’d heard stories like that before—workers spooked by their own imaginations. I checked my gear one last time: oxygen tank, regulator, torch on my helmet, backup light on my wrist. Everything was in order. Jack opened the hatch, and I lowered myself into the water.
The reservoir was cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones. My torch cut through the darkness, revealing smooth concrete walls covered in a thin layer of slime. Small fish darted away from the light, their scales glinting like tiny mirrors. The place felt ancient, like a forgotten tomb, even though it was man-made. The only sounds were my breathing through the regulator and the occasional drip from the ceiling high above.
I started working, moving methodically along the walls, scraping off algae with a small tool. The reservoir was vast, stretching out into the shadows beyond my torch’s beam. It was quiet—too quiet, maybe. Then I heard it: a loud bang, sharp and metallic, like someone slamming a hammer against a pipe. It echoed through the water, vibrating in my chest.
I froze, my heart skipping a beat. What was that? I listened, but the silence returned, heavy and oppressive. Maybe it was just the pipes, like Jack said. I shook my head and went back to work.
Then it came again, louder, closer. My pulse quickened. There was no one else down here, no machinery running. What could be making that noise? I swam toward the sound, my torch sweeping the walls. Nothing. Just concrete and water.
I turned back to my task, but the banging started again, more insistent now, like a drumbeat. It felt wrong, like the reservoir was alive and angry. My unease grew, a knot tightening in my stomach. I told myself it was nothing, just the system settling, but the sound was too deliberate, too rhythmic.
Then my torch flickered. “Come on,” I muttered, tapping it with my glove. It steadied for a moment, then went out completely. Darkness swallowed me. I was blind, surrounded by cold water and concrete walls. I tried to turn the torch back on, but it was dead. How? I’d checked the batteries before the dive—they were brand new.
I reached for my backup light, strapped to my wrist. I flicked the switch. Nothing. Both lights were out. That wasn’t possible. My heart pounded, and I could feel the panic rising. I was alone in a pitch-black underwater cavern, with no way to see where I was going.
The banging continued, now coming from all directions, like the reservoir was closing in on me. It was disorienting, making it hard to think. I took deep breaths, trying to stay calm. I knew the layout; I just needed to find the exit. But without light, everything was a blur.
Then I felt it—a current, gentle at first, like a whisper against my skin. It grew stronger, tugging at me, pulling me deeper into the reservoir. My mind raced. Was there a leak? Was the system draining? If I didn’t get out soon, I could be swept into some unknown part of the structure—or worse.
I swam against the current, but it was relentless. I bumped into a wall, then another, losing all sense of direction. The banging grew louder, more frantic, as if whatever was causing it was getting closer. My oxygen was running low; I could feel the tank getting lighter. I had to get out.
In my panic, I remembered the safety line attached to my harness, leading back to the hatch. I’d forgotten about it in my fear. I grabbed it, my gloved hands shaking, and started pulling myself along, hand over hand. The current fought me, but I kept going, following the line toward what I hoped was the surface.
The banging stopped abruptly, replaced by an eerie silence that was somehow worse. My breathing was loud in my ears, the only sound in the darkness. Finally, I saw a faint glow above me—the hatch. I kicked hard and broke through the surface, gasping for air.
Jack was there, his face pale as he helped me out. “What happened down there?” he asked, his voice sharp with worry. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I sat on the edge of the hatch, still shaking. “I don’t know,” I said, my voice unsteady. “There was this banging—loud, like metal. Then my lights went out. Both of them. And there was a current, pulling me deeper.”
Jack frowned, his brow furrowing. “That’s weird. Let me check the seismic records.”
He disappeared for a few minutes, then came back with a clipboard. “There was a small earthquake earlier today—a minor tremor, nothing big. That could’ve caused the banging. As for your lights… maybe the vibration messed with the batteries.”
I nodded, but I wasn’t convinced. “And the current? There shouldn’t be a current in a closed reservoir.”
He shrugged, looking uneasy. “Could be a pressure shift from the quake. These systems are sensitive.”
I didn’t say anything. It made sense, logically, but it didn’t feel right. As I packed up my gear, Jack said something that made my blood run cold.
“You know, they say this reservoir was built over an old mine shaft. Some of the workers talk about hearing voices or seeing shadows down there. Probably just stories, though.”
I looked at him sharply. “You didn’t think to mention that before I went in?”
He chuckled nervously. “Didn’t want to spook you. It’s probably nothing.”
I didn’t respond. I just wanted to get out of there. As I drove away, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to it than a tremor and faulty batteries. The darkness, the banging, the current—it all felt too deliberate, too alive.
I’ve never gone back to that reservoir. I still dive, but I always carry extra batteries now, and I never work alone.
"Upper Arrow":
Laura told me about her annual trip to Upper Arrow Lake. Her eyes lit up as she described the crystal-clear water, the towering mountains, and the quiet that made you feel like you were the only person in the world. “It’s our special place,” she said, her voice warm with affection for Peter, her husband. Laura was my colleague at Pembina North Community School in Dapp, Alberta, and over the years, we’d become close friends. She was cautious, especially around water—she couldn’t swim and always wore a life jacket. So when I heard she’d drowned, it didn’t make sense. It still doesn’t.
It was August 18, 2010, and Laura and Peter were on their yearly fishing trip to Upper Arrow Lake, a remote spot in British Columbia’s Rocky Mountains. They’d driven their motorhome to Shelter Bay, a quiet area where the lake’s beauty hid its dangers. The water was deep, cold, and unforgiving, surrounded by dense forests and jagged peaks. They took their small Zodiac boat out that afternoon, just the two of them, like always. Laura was reading a book, and Peter was fishing, the boat bobbing gently on the lake’s surface.
Around 4 p.m., Laura called out, “Peter, it’s getting hot. Can we move to the shade?” I can imagine her voice, soft but firm, the way she always spoke when she wanted something done. Peter nodded, starting the motor and steering toward a cluster of trees near the shore. That’s when it happened. The boat hit a wave, and Laura, standing to get a better view, lost her balance. She fell into the water with a sharp cry, the sound swallowed by the lake’s vast silence.
Peter later told me he dove in after her, but the water was too buoyant, and he couldn’t reach her. He swam to shore, grabbed a rock to weigh himself down, and tried again, but by the time he pulled her up, she was gone. Her face was pale, her eyes closed, her body still. He raced to shore, called for help, and tried CPR, but nothing worked. The police arrived around 8 p.m., and despite their efforts, Laura was pronounced dead. The autopsy said drowning, with no signs of struggle. Just an accident, they said.
I was at home when Peter called me that night. “She’s gone,” he said, his voice flat, almost mechanical. “She fell in, and I couldn’t save her.” I sat there, phone pressed to my ear, trying to process it. Laura, gone? The woman who double-checked her life jacket every time she went near water? It didn’t add up. “What happened, Peter?” I asked, my voice shaking. “She just fell,” he said. “It was so fast.” He sounded distant, like he was reading from a script. I wanted to believe him, but something felt wrong.
The days after were a haze of grief. At Laura’s memorial, friends whispered about the life jacket. “She always wore one,” said Mary, another teacher. “Always.” I nodded, my stomach twisting. Peter was there, quiet, handling the arrangements with an efficiency that felt cold. He didn’t cry, not that I saw. I kept thinking about the lake—its isolation, its depth. If something happened out there, who would know?
A year later, everything changed. I was at school when I got a call from another friend. “They arrested Peter,” she said, her voice low. “They think he killed her.” My heart stopped. Murder? The police believed Peter had pushed Laura into the water, maybe for her insurance money or her pension. They pointed to his behavior after her death—too calm, too quick to move on. And then there was the informant, a man who shared a cell with Peter, who claimed Peter had confessed and even planned to kill witnesses, like Laura’s parents and the lead investigator. It was chilling, the kind of thing that makes your skin crawl.
The first trial, in Kamloops, was a mess. The jury couldn’t agree, and it ended in a mistrial. I sat in the courtroom one day, watching Peter. He looked older, his face lined with stress, but he never wavered. “I loved her,” he told the judge. “I’d never hurt her.” His words sounded sincere, but I couldn’t shake the image of Laura, alone in that cold water, her screams unheard.
The second trial, in Kelowna, was worse. The prosecution painted Peter as a calculating man, desperate for money. They said he knew Laura couldn’t swim, knew she wasn’t wearing a life jacket that day. They claimed he saw his chance on that isolated lake, where no one could see or hear. The jury found him guilty of first-degree murder, and he was sentenced to life. But in 2020, the conviction was overturned. The evidence was too thin, the informant’s story too shaky. By 2021, the charges were stayed, and Peter was free.
I still drive by the school sometimes, thinking of Laura. She loved her students, her books, her quiet life. I picture her on that boat, trusting Peter, unaware of the danger. Did she slip, or was she pushed? The lake knows, but it’s not telling. Upper Arrow Lake is beautiful, but it’s a place where secrets sink deep.
"Alice and the Lake’s Secret":
I worked at the Lake Crescent Tavern, a small wooden building perched on the edge of Lake Crescent, where the water sparkled like glass under the towering Olympic Mountains. The lake was beautiful, but folks around Port Angeles whispered it was cursed. An old Klallam legend said it formed when a mountain spirit smashed a boulder to stop a tribal war, drowning warriors and trapping their souls. They claimed the lake never gave up its dead. I never believed those tales, but they made my skin prickle when I walked home alone at night.
My name’s Alice, and I was a waitress at the tavern in 1936. That’s when I met Hallie Latham, a new girl with a quick smile and tired eyes. She was 35, same as me, but life had worn her down. Hallie had moved to Port Angeles after two failed marriages, hoping for a fresh start. She poured drinks, laughed with loggers, and never complained, but I noticed the shadows under her eyes, the way she flinched when someone moved too fast.
“Hallie, you alright?” I asked one evening, wiping down the bar. She was stacking glasses, her hands shaking just a bit.
She forced a smile. “Just tired, Alice. Long day.”
But I saw the bruise on her wrist, peeking out from her sleeve. “That from Monty?” I kept my voice low. Monty Illingworth was her new husband, a beer truck driver with a temper. They’d married in June, just months after meeting.
Hallie’s eyes darted to the door, like she expected him to barge in. “He didn’t mean it,” she whispered. “He gets mad sometimes, but he loves me.”
I wanted to believe her, but I’d seen men like Monty before. “You don’t have to stay with him,” I said. “You could leave, stay with me for a while.”
She shook her head. “He’d find me. Besides, I can handle it.”
I didn’t push. I wish I had. Over the next few months, Hallie came to work with more bruises—on her arms, her neck, once a black eye she tried to hide with powder. She stopped talking about Monty, but I heard stories. He’d been seen yelling at her outside the tavern, his hands balled into fists. One night, the police broke up a fight between them. Hallie told a coworker he’d choked her, broke one of her teeth. I begged her to leave, but she’d just say, “I’ll be fine, Alice. Don’t worry.”
Then, in December 1937, Hallie didn’t show up for her shift. I waited, thinking she was late, but hours passed. I went to her small house near the lake, but it was dark, the door locked. Monty was there, sitting on the porch, a bottle in his hand.
“Where’s Hallie?” I asked, my heart pounding.
He looked at me, his eyes cold. “She left. Packed her things and took off. Said she was done with me.”
I didn’t believe him. Hallie wouldn’t leave without a word, not to me. “Where’d she go?” I pressed.
“How should I know?” he snapped, standing up. He towered over me, and I stepped back. “Mind your own business, Alice.”
I went to the sheriff the next day, told him Hallie was missing, that Monty was lying. But they didn’t take it seriously. “She’s a grown woman,” Sheriff Kemp said. “Probably ran off. Happens all the time.” I wanted to scream, but I had no proof. Days turned to weeks, then years. Hallie was gone, and the town moved on. But I couldn’t. I kept seeing her face, her scared eyes, every time I looked at the lake.
July 6, 1940, changed everything. I was at the tavern, serving coffee to a couple of regulars, when Louis Rolfe burst in, his face pale as death. “Alice, you gotta come see this,” he stammered. “We found something in the lake.”
I followed him to the shore, where a small crowd had gathered. Louis and his brother had been fishing when they saw something floating near the reeds. At first, they thought it was a bundle of blankets, but as they got closer, they saw it—a body, wrapped tight in heavy rope, bobbing in the clear water. My stomach twisted. I didn’t want to look, but I had to know.
The sheriff and coroner arrived, pulling the body to shore. I pushed through the crowd, my heart hammering. The blankets were soaked, the rope knotted like it was meant to sink forever. When they unwrapped it, I gasped. The body was a woman’s, but her face was gone—melted away, they said later, by the lake’s cold depths. Her skin wasn’t rotten; it was soft, like putty, like soap you could scoop with a spoon. I’d never seen anything so horrible. The crowd whispered about the lake’s curse, how it held onto its dead, but now it had given one up.
“Who is it?” someone asked.
“No idea,” the coroner said, his voice grim. “Face is too far gone. But look at this.” He pointed to her mouth, where a glint of gold caught the light—a dental bridge, six teeth long.
I froze. Hallie had a gold bridge. She’d shown it to me once, proud of the dental work she’d saved for. “It’s Hallie,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “It’s Hallie Illingworth.”
The sheriff looked at me, skeptical. “You sure, Alice? She’s been gone years.”
“I’m sure,” I said. “That’s her bridge. And Monty—he did this.”
They took the body away, and the town buzzed with fear. People locked their doors, whispered about the “Lady of the Lake.” I couldn’t sleep, picturing Hallie’s body in that water, preserved like some ghastly statue. I kept thinking of Monty, out there, free. What if he knew I’d spoken to the sheriff?
Weeks passed, and the investigation dragged. They sent pictures of the dental bridge to dentists across the country. A dentist in South Dakota confirmed it was Hallie’s. The sheriff started asking about Monty, but he’d moved away, claiming he was heartbroken over Hallie leaving him. I told them everything—her bruises, her fear, the night she vanished. “He killed her,” I said. “I know he did.”
One night, I was closing the tavern alone when I heard footsteps outside. My heart stopped. I grabbed a knife from the counter, my hands shaking. “Who’s there?” I called.
The door creaked open, and Monty stood there, his eyes glinting in the dim light. “You’ve been talking, Alice,” he said, his voice low. “Telling lies about me.”
I gripped the knife tighter. “I know what you did to Hallie,” I said, trying to sound brave. “The sheriff knows too.”
He stepped closer, and I backed against the bar. “You should’ve stayed quiet,” he growled. “Accidents happen, you know. People fall into the lake.”
My blood ran cold. I thought of Hallie, tied up, sinking into that dark water. But then I heard voices outside—loggers coming for a late drink. Monty froze, then turned and slipped into the night. I collapsed, gasping, the knife clattering to the floor.
The next day, I told the sheriff about Monty’s threat. They tracked him down in Seattle, living under a new name. When they brought him in, he denied everything, but they found rope in his truck, the same kind that bound Hallie. Witnesses came forward, saying they’d seen him hit her, heard her scream. In 1941, Monty was convicted of murder. They said he’d strangled her, wrapped her body, and dumped it in the lake, thinking it would never surface.
I still work at the tavern, but I don’t look at Lake Crescent the same way. Its beauty hides something dark, something that holds onto secrets until it’s ready to let them go. Sometimes, at night, I think I hear Hallie’s voice, whispering from the water, warning me to be careful. I’ll never forget her, or the horror of what that lake gave up.