The Girl from the Lake

By Shafi ulhaq

Our family cabin sits on the edge of Blackwater Lake, a place as still and secretive as a kept promise. Locals call it cursed. Outsiders think that’s just folklore. But my family knows better.

Because five years ago, my sister Ava vanished into that lake—and was never seen again.

It was summer break. We’d driven up for our usual two-week escape from the city. Ava was seventeen, bold and beautiful, a blur of energy and sunlight. She loved the lake—swimming in it, diving to the bottom to collect shiny stones, floating on her back like she owned the sky.

I was twelve. And I worshipped her.

The day she disappeared, we were swimming near the old dock. The air was humid, the sky streaked in oranges and pinks. I remember the water felt oddly cold that evening, even for early July. Ava dove under. I was timing her breath-hold—something she always liked to show off about.

Five seconds.

Ten.

Fifteen.

Then a strange ripple, a blur beneath the surface. I saw her arm reach toward the dock… and then something pulled her back under, hard. Too fast. Too strong. Her hand vanished, leaving only a widening ring of silence.

I screamed.

Rescue teams searched for three days. Divers combed the lake. Dogs sniffed the shores. They found nothing—no body, no clothes, not even the dolphin-shaped flashlight she always clipped to her bathing suit.

Only one thing surfaced: her left sandal. It washed up the next morning on the rocks.

The sheriff called it an “unfortunate accident.” He suggested she might’ve hit her head or gotten tangled in weeds. My parents nodded through tears. The case was closed.

But I saw it. Something took her.

No one believed me. I was a kid with a wild imagination, they said.

But every summer since, I’ve returned. Alone.

Each July 5th, I sit on that same dock. I bring her flashlight, still working, still shaped like a dolphin. I whisper her name to the water, hoping, pleading.

Last year, something changed.

As I sat watching the dark lake, the flashlight flickered. Not from dying batteries, but in rhythm—once, twice, pause. Then again.

Like a signal.

And then I heard it.

Her voice.

“Don’t trust the water.”

I froze. It was faint, but it was hers.

Then, just as suddenly, silence.

I didn’t sleep that night.

This year, I came earlier than usual. Something had been gnawing at me for weeks—dreams of drowning, of whispers rising from the lake bed. The moment I arrived at the cabin, I felt it: the air was different. The lake looked calmer. Too calm.

The morning of the fifth anniversary, I found a photograph tucked under the cabin door. No envelope. No note.

It was a picture of me—standing on the dock, flashlight in hand—taken from the middle of the lake.

I hadn’t taken it.

And I’d been alone.

That night, I sat on the dock again, knees pulled to my chest, the lake flat and mirror-like. At 3:13 a.m., the flashlight clicked on by itself.

The dock creaked.

I turned slowly.

She was standing there.

Ava.

Older than when I last saw her, maybe by five years, but still unmistakable. Her wet hair clung to her cheeks. Her skin was pale, almost translucent. Lips bluish. But her eyes—her eyes were Ava’s. Full of sorrow. And warning.

She didn’t speak. Just reached out, and pointed toward the lake.

“Ava?” I whispered.

She nodded. A single tear fell from her left eye. Then she turned and stepped silently into the water.

I waited for the splash. But there wasn’t one. She slipped into the lake as if it had opened for her.

She was gone again.

I stood there until dawn, trying to convince myself it was a dream. But when I went back inside, there was another photo under the door.

This time, it was her. Ava. Standing next to me.

We were both smiling.

But I had been asleep when it was taken.

I don’t know what she wants. I don’t know what’s changed. But I feel something waiting in the lake now—like the water itself is breathing, watching, remembering.

Tonight, I’m going back to the dock.

She’s calling me again.

Maybe this time, I’ll follow.