The light beneath the Lake

The town of Elderbrook was quiet. Not the comforting quiet of a peaceful place, but the kind that hums with buried secrets. It sat nestled between mist-laced forests and an ancient lake so still it often looked like a slab of black glass. No one swam in that lake, not since 1976. Not since the light.

It was a tradition, long forgotten by most, to place lanterns on the water during the Harvest Moon. No one remembered why it started. Some said it was to honor those lost in the lake, others whispered about “the ones below.” The stories varied, but the one truth everyone agreed on was this—after the light appeared, the lake was left alone.

But Clara didn't believe in ghost stories. She was seventeen, clever, with a curious mind and an old soul. Raised by her grandmother in the crooked house at the edge of Elderbrook, she’d grown up hearing the legends, but she chalked it all up to small-town superstition. That changed the night she saw the light for herself.

It was a Saturday in late September. Her grandmother had dozed off in front of the TV, and Clara had wandered to the back porch with a journal and a flashlight. The wind was calm. The world was too quiet. And then she saw it—pale and blue, like a candle underwater. It shimmered in the center of the lake, not flickering, not floating. Just glowing.

She stared at it for what felt like an hour before it sank without a ripple. By the time she went back inside, her hands were trembling.

Clara told no one. Not at first. But the next day, she did what she always did when something bothered her—she researched. Elderbrook’s library was small and dusty, but deep in the archives, Clara found a folder labeled “MISSING: 1976.”

Inside were seven photographs. Teenagers, all of them, smiling with that 70s flair—flared pants, parted hair, polaroid charm. The file said they went out on a boat during the Harvest Moon. None of them ever came back. The boat was found floating near the reeds, empty.

As Clara flipped through the old papers, something caught her attention: a quote from a man named Arthur Bell, a retired sheriff who’d investigated the disappearance.

“The light was there. I saw it. Blue like moonfire. Then it was gone. And so were they.”

The more Clara read, the more she knew: the stories weren’t just stories.

She needed to see it again.

That night, Clara went to the edge of the lake. She took her grandmother’s old lantern and stepped into a rusting rowboat tied to the dock. With each paddle stroke, the town shrank behind her, swallowed by the fog. And then—like a breath held too long—the blue light returned.

Only this time, it was closer.

She stopped rowing. The light floated just below the surface, inches from the boat. It pulsed slowly, like a heartbeat. And then it rose.

Clara’s breath caught as a shape emerged—a figure, human in outline, made entirely of light. It stood on the water as if the lake were solid. Its face was blurry, as though not fully formed, but its eyes glowed with sadness.

“Help,” it whispered, though its mouth didn’t move.

Clara couldn’t speak. She simply nodded.

The figure reached toward her with a hand of light, touching her forehead with a sudden flash—and everything went white.

When Clara awoke, she was on the dock. The boat was tied neatly, the lantern beside her, still warm. But in her hand was a photo. It showed the missing teenagers, standing together by the water. Only now, Clara was in the photo too, standing among them.

When she returned to the library, the folder was gone. In its place was a new one—"FOUND: 2025." Inside were seven photos. The same teenagers. But older now. Safe. Alive.

And no one else in town remembered they were ever missing.

Elderbrook slowly forgot the stories again. But Clara remembered. She became the keeper of the tale, the quiet guardian of the lake.

And every year, during the Harvest Moon, she placed a single blue lantern on the water—not to warn others, but to thank the light beneath the lake for giving something back.

By Shaheer.