I’m A Deep Sea Welder Working 500 Feet Underwater. Someone Just Knocked On The Hatch.
At this depth, the pressure is enough to crush a tank. We are the only living souls for miles. So when I heard the rhythmic banging on the metal hull, I knew we were already dead.
I’m A Deep Sea Welder Working 500 Feet Underwater. Someone Just Knocked On The Hatch.
There are jobs that are dangerous, and then there is saturation diving. I live in a pressurized metal tube, barely the size of a minivan, suspended 500 feet below the surface of the North Sea. For 28 days, this capsule is my entire world. Outside, the water is pitch black, near freezing, and the pressure is so immense that if the hull breached, my body would turn to jelly in a fraction of a second.
It’s just me and my partner, Miller. We take turns. One sleeps, one monitors the comms. It’s a quiet, claustrophobic existence.
Or it was, until 04:00 hours last night.
Miller was asleep in his bunk, snoring softly. I was reading a book, trying to ignore the constant hum of the life-support scrubbers. The ocean outside was silent. Down here, sunlight never reaches. It is a world of eternal night.
Then, I heard it.
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
Three distinct, metallic strikes against the outer hull of the diving bell.
I froze. My first thought was mechanical failure. A loose cable? A piece of debris falling from the support ship above?
I waited.
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
It was rhythmic. Intentional. Someone—or something—was hitting the outside of the bell.
I felt a cold sweat break out inside my suit. "Miller," I hissed, shaking him awake. "Wake up."
Miller grunted, rubbing his eyes. "What? Pressure drop?"
"No. Listen."
We both sat in silence. A minute passed. Then, it happened again, louder this time, right next to the reinforced glass porthole.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
Miller’s face went pale. "Is there another diver down here? Did the topside send a rescue team?"
"Topside would have radioed us," I whispered. I grabbed the comms mic. "Topside, this is Bell 2. Do we have company down here? Over."
Static crackled. Then the voice of the supervisor came through, clear and calm. "Negative, Bell 2. You are the only objects on the sonar. Why?"
I looked at Miller. "Topside, we are hearing... knocking. On the exterior hull."
There was a long pause. "Bell 2, sonar is clear. It’s probably just the umbilical cable hitting the side in the current."
It wasn't the cable. The cable makes a scraping sound. This was knuckles on metal.
I moved toward the small, circular porthole. It was the only window to the outside world. I turned off the internal cabin light so I could see out into the darkness. I pressed my face against the thick glass, peering into the abyss.
At first, I saw nothing but the black void. Then, I turned on the external floodlights.
The beam of light cut through the murky water, illuminating the silt and particles floating like dust. And then, I saw it.
It was floating about five feet away from the glass.
It looked human, but it was wrong. It was naked, its skin pale white like a dead fish's belly. It had no scuba gear. No breathing apparatus. No tank. At this depth, a human body should be crushed instantly. The lungs would collapse.
But this thing was swimming.
It had long, drifting hair that floated around its head like a halo. It turned slowly to face the light. It had no eyes, just smooth skin where sockets should be. And its mouth was a vertical slit, like a gash in its face.
It drifted closer to the glass. I wanted to scream, but my voice was stuck in my throat. Miller was looking over my shoulder, gripping my arm so hard it hurt.
The thing reached out a hand. Its fingers were long, with extra joints. It tapped gently on the glass, right in front of my face.
Tap.
Then, a voice came over the comms speaker. But it wasn't the supervisor. It was a wet, gurgling sound, broadcasting on our private frequency.
"Open... the... door. It's... cold."
I scrambled back from the window. "Topside! Pull us up! Emergency ascent! NOW!" I screamed into the mic.
"Bell 2, calm down. We can't pull you up that fast, you'll get the bends and die. What is happening?"
I looked back at the porthole. The thing was pressed against the glass now. Its vertical mouth opened, revealing rows of translucent, needle-like teeth. It wasn't knocking anymore. It was latching on.
We are currently being winched up. It takes hours to decompress safely. But the banging hasn't stopped. It’s getting louder. It sounds like the metal is starting to dent.
I don't think we’re going to make it to the surface.
About the Creator
Noman Afridi
I’m Noman Afridi — welcome, all friends! I write horror & thought-provoking stories: mysteries of the unseen, real reflections, and emotional truths. With sincerity in every word. InshaAllah.
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My Reflection Just Blinked When I Didn't. Now It Won't Stop Smiling.
My Reflection Just Blinked When I Didn't. Now It Won't Stop Smiling. It started on a Tuesday morning. I was brushing my teeth, groggy from a lack of sleep, staring blankly into the bathroom mirror. It was a mundane routine I had done thousands of times. I spat into the sink, rinsed my mouth, and looked up to wipe my face. That’s when it happened. I stared at myself—my tired eyes, the stubble on my chin. And then, my reflection blinked. I didn't blink. My eyes were wide open, stinging slightly from the dry air. But the man in the mirror closed his eyes for a split second and opened them again. I froze, the towel dropping from my hands. "I'm just tired," I whispered to the empty bathroom. "Hallucinations. Sleep deprivation." I splashed cold water on my face and left for work. I tried to put it out of my mind, but a cold knot of anxiety tightened in my stomach all day. When I got home that evening, I avoided the hallway mirror. I avoided the reflection in the microwave door. But eventually, I had to use the bathroom. I walked in, keeping my head down. I washed my hands. Slowly, terrified of what I might see, I lifted my gaze. My reflection was there. But it wasn't mimicking me anymore. I was standing still, my hands gripping the edge of the porcelain sink so hard my knuckles were white. The reflection was standing relaxed, its arms crossed over its chest. And it was smiling. It wasn't a friendly smile. It was a predatory, mocking grin that stretched too wide, showing too many teeth. It was the smile of someone who knows a secret that is about to destroy you. I stumbled back, knocking over a bottle of shampoo. "What are you?" I stammered. The reflection didn't speak. It just tilted its head to the side, mimicking a confused puppy, but the malicious smile never left its face. Then, it raised a hand and pointed at me. Not at my face, but behind me. I spun around, heart hammering, expecting to see a intruder. The bathroom was empty. The door was locked. When I turned back to the mirror, the reflection was closer. It looked like it was pressed right up against the glass from the inside. Its breath was fogging up the mirror surface—from the other side. I ran. I ran out of the bathroom, slammed the door, and pushed a heavy dresser against it. That was three hours ago. I am sitting in my living room now. I have covered every reflective surface in the house. The TV screen is draped with a blanket. The windows are covered with cardboard. I even turned my phone screen away from me. But I can hear it. From the bathroom, there is a sound. It’s a tapping sound. Not soft, tentative tapping. It is the sound of hard knuckles rapping against glass. Tap. Tap. Tap. And then, a voice. It sounds exactly like mine, but distorted, as if spoken through water. "Let me out, David. It’s my turn to be real. You’ve been tired for so long. Just switch places with me." The tapping is getting harder. I can hear the glass beginning to crack. I realized too late that mirrors aren't just surfaces that reflect light. They are windows. And I think the glass was the only thing keeping the window shut. I can hear the bathroom door handle turning. The dresser is heavy, but the thing on the other side sounds strong. And the worst part? As I look at the black screen of my laptop sitting on the coffee table, I can see a faint reflection of myself in the dark monitor. I’m crying. But the reflection in the laptop screen is laughing.
By Noman Afridiabout a month ago in Horror
The Station Without Trains
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By Do bol ho jaaye 3 days ago in Horror
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"I just can't do this anymore..." "Do what?" What can't you do? Put gas in your own car? I swear to God you make me take care of everything, don't you? You know I'm on my way to work right now but that never stops you from bothering me, does it?"
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