The Echoes Beneath the Lake

Author [Asghar ail awan]

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‎The winter that year arrived earlier than anyone expected. By the time November had barely begun, the lake behind Old Pine Hill had already turned to glass. It wasn’t the kind of ice you could skate on yet — thin and uncertain, like a secret not ready to be told.

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‎Twelve-year-old Eli Martin stood at the edge of the lake, his boots half-buried in the snow, watching his reflection tremble on the frozen surface. The forest behind him whispered with wind, but the world in front of him felt silent, heavy, and waiting.

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‎Eli’s father had disappeared on this very lake two winters ago. He had gone ice-fishing early one morning and never returned. The rescue team had found only his hat, frozen into the surface like a warning. People said the lake was cursed. Eli never believed in curses — but he believed in memories.

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‎He came here every day after school, carrying his father’s old flashlight, even though there was nothing left to find. Or so everyone thought.

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‎That afternoon, as the sun dipped behind the hill and turned the snow to shades of rose and gray, Eli crouched near the edge. He tapped the ice gently with a stick. It gave a soft, hollow sound — thud, thud. Then he heard something strange.

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‎A whisper.

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‎At first, he thought it was the wind slipping through the trees. But then it came again, faint and slow, like words spoken underwater.

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‎“Eli…”

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‎He froze. The flashlight shook in his hand.

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‎The voice was muffled but clear enough to know one thing — it called his name.

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‎He knelt lower, his breath clouding the ice. Beneath the surface, faint bubbles moved like something alive. The lake seemed to shift, responding to the sound of his name.

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‎“Dad?” he whispered. His voice broke into the cold air. “Is that you?”

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‎No answer came. Only silence, and then — a low hum, almost like a heartbeat pulsing from the deep.

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‎He pressed his ear against the ice. The cold burned his skin, but he didn’t move. For a few seconds, the world went completely still. And then, softly, the voice returned.

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‎“Eli… help me.”

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‎He stumbled back, heart hammering. “No,” he muttered to himself. “That can’t be real.”

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‎But curiosity is stronger than fear — especially when you’ve lost something you love.

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‎He ran home that evening, breathless and pale. His mother asked why his hands were shaking. Eli only said he’d fallen through the snow. That night, while she slept, he couldn’t. He kept hearing that voice, calling, echoing.

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‎By morning, he had made up his mind.

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‎When the first light touched the frozen trees, Eli packed his father’s old lantern, rope, and a hammer. The ice was thicker now, solid enough to hold his weight. He walked toward the center of the lake, the air so still it felt sacred.

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‎As he reached the deepest part, he knelt again. Beneath the clear ice, shadows moved — not fish, not weeds. Something deeper. Something shaped like a man reaching upward.

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‎The lantern flickered. He swallowed hard, lifted the hammer, and struck the ice.

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‎A loud crack echoed through the hills. Then another.

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‎The surface began to fracture in thin, white lines spreading like veins. And through those cracks came a sound — not a cry, not a moan, but a song.

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‎It was the same melody his father used to hum while working in the shed. Gentle, warm, full of life. Eli’s eyes filled with tears.

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‎“Dad…” he whispered. “I’m here.”

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‎The ice gave one final groan and split open. A gush of air and mist rose from the water, chilling him to the bone. The voice grew louder, echoing all around him.

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‎“Let go, Eli… it’s time to rest.”

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‎He stared into the opening — dark water rippling like glass shattered by grief. For a second, he saw a hand, pale and wavering like smoke, reaching upward.

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‎He wanted to grab it, to hold on, to never let go. But something inside told him this wasn’t about saving his father. It was about freeing him.

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‎With trembling hands, Eli took off the hat he always wore — the same one that had once belonged to his dad — and placed it gently on the ice.

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‎“I’ll never forget you,” he whispered.

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‎The water below shimmered faintly, then calmed. The cracks sealed slowly, leaving no trace of the opening. The song faded into a long sigh of wind, soft and peaceful.

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‎Eli sat there for a long time, staring at his reflection. This time, it didn’t tremble. The lake was quiet again.

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‎When he finally walked home, he felt lighter, as if the voice had carried away the weight he’d held for two long winters.

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‎That night, snow began to fall — thick, soft, endless. Eli watched it through his window until he drifted to sleep.

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‎And in his dream, his father stood on the lake’s edge, smiling, his reflection calm and still. He said nothing, but Eli understood. The echoes beneath the lake had finally been heard.