The Lagoon

Venice at night was a different city. The cobblestone streets, bustling with tourists by day, became silent and lonely under the thick fog that rose from the canals. The water was still, black as ink, and the air heavy with dampness. The old city, with its decaying buildings and twisting alleyways, seemed alive with something sinister—something ancient.

Marco had lived in Venice his entire life. He was a historian, fascinated by the city’s rich past. But it wasn’t the famous landmarks or grand palazzos that interested him. No, Marco was drawn to the dark stories that lurked in the shadows—tales of Venice’s forgotten dead. He spent his days pouring over dusty manuscripts, researching the legends of plague victims, lost souls, and the hidden corners of the city where people had vanished without a trace.

One such place was an abandoned palazzo on the outskirts of Venice, sinking slowly into the lagoon. It was said to be cursed, its former inhabitants long dead, their spirits unable to leave. Marco had always dismissed the rumors as fanciful stories, the kind Venetians told to frighten children. But recently, something had changed. He had begun to hear voices—soft, whispering voices that seemed to follow him wherever he went.

"Come to us," they would murmur. "We’ve been waiting."

At first, Marco thought it was his imagination, the product of too many late nights spent reading ghost stories. But the voices grew louder, more insistent, calling him by name, leading him to the decaying palazzo. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt drawn to the place, as if something—someone—was calling him.

One cold, misty evening, Marco finally gave in to the pull. He left his small apartment and wandered through the labyrinthine streets, the fog swallowing the city whole. The palazzo loomed in the distance, its once-grand façade cracked and weathered, the windows dark like empty eye sockets. The air was colder here, the smell of rot and brine thick in Marco’s nose as he approached.

The front door hung off its hinges, creaking as Marco pushed it open. Inside, the air was damp, and the walls were covered in a thin layer of mold. Dust hung in the air like a thick cloud, and Marco could hear the faint drip of water somewhere deep within the house. As he stepped inside, the whispers grew louder, echoing through the empty halls.

"Come closer," they beckoned.

The hallway seemed to stretch on forever, twisting and turning in impossible ways. Marco’s footsteps echoed in the silence, the sound swallowed by the oppressive gloom. The deeper he went, the more disoriented he became, as if the palazzo itself was shifting, leading him somewhere. He passed rooms filled with decaying furniture, their walls adorned with faded portraits of long-dead Venetian nobles. Their eyes seemed to follow him as he moved, their faces twisted into unnatural expressions.

Finally, Marco entered a grand ballroom, its floor cracked and uneven, the ceiling adorned with a decaying chandelier that swayed slightly in the still air. The room was empty, but Marco could hear the faint sound of music—distant, as if coming from another time. And then he saw them.

Ghostly figures, dressed in elegant 18th-century attire, danced across the ballroom floor. Their faces were pale, almost translucent, their eyes hollow and sunken. They moved in perfect unison, their feet barely touching the ground. As Marco watched, one of the figures broke away from the others—a woman in a black, tattered gown. She glided toward him, her face hidden behind a dark Venetian mask.

"You’ve come," she whispered, her voice like the rustling of dead leaves. "We’ve waited so long."

Marco couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. The woman’s cold hand reached out, brushing against his cheek. Her touch was icy, sending a chill down his spine.

"You belong to us now," she whispered, her voice echoing in his mind.

Suddenly, the room around him began to dissolve. The walls crumbled, the floor gave way, and Marco felt himself falling—falling into the cold, black water of the lagoon. The faces of the ghosts swirled around him, their laughter echoing as the water closed over his head, pulling him deeper into the darkness.

The next morning, Marco was gone. His apartment was untouched, his notes on Venice’s ghosts scattered on his desk. No one ever saw him again. Some say he joined the spirits of the lagoon, forever lost in the city’s haunted canals. And on misty nights, if you walk near the old palazzo, you might still hear the whispers, calling to those who dare to listen.

Venice never forgets its dead.