The Signal Beneath the Lake

The Signal Beneath the Lake

by [John Smith]

Some signals aren't calls for help. They're traps.

The lake was always quiet. Not just calm, but unnaturally silent—like the world held its breath around Black Hollow Lake. Locals whispered stories about the deep water and what might live beneath, but none dared go past the tree line after dusk.

Then came the signal.

It started subtly—barely a blip on Nora Jennings’ equipment. She was part of a university field study, cataloging natural electromagnetic frequencies in remote regions. Her station was set up on the edge of the lake, hidden from the rest of the world by a thick pine forest and a cloudless summer sky.

Her laptop pinged at exactly 3:17 a.m. A single tone. Then silence.

A few seconds later—three quick pulses. Another pause.

She checked the frequency—low, far below human hearing range. But the pattern was unmistakable. Too organized. Too... intentional.

“Hey, Marcus,” she radioed to her professor. “I think I picked something up. It’s... strange.”

“It’s a lake, Nora. Probably just an echo bouncing off the walls.”

But it wasn’t.

The next night, the signal came again—stronger. She recorded it, enhanced the tones, and slowed them down. Beneath the mechanical hum, something else surfaced. A whisper. Fragmented words.

“Help... beneath... gate...”

Nora vanished on the third night.

Her tent was found soaked and torn at the water's edge. Her laptop lay half-buried in mud, still recording static. No signs of a struggle. No footprints. Just silence.

Police said it was an accident—maybe she drowned. But they never found her body.

Ben Holloway wasn’t satisfied with that answer.

Seventeen years old, quiet, tech-obsessed, and too smart for his own good, he’d grown up near the lake. It was a five-minute bike ride from his backyard, but his parents always warned him to stay away.

After Nora’s disappearance, he hacked into her university cloud backup and found the files. He played them on loop. There was something hypnotic in the signal. Something calling.

He grabbed an old hydrophone from the garage, strapped on a GoPro, and paddled out to the middle of the lake one night, alone.

As soon as he dropped the mic into the water, the signal returned—louder than ever. The boat vibrated. His flashlight flickered.

Then he heard it.

Not from the headphones.

From beneath the boat.

A voice, barely a whisper: “Ben... help me...”

He leaned over the edge—and saw light beneath the surface.

Not reflection. Not algae. A glow—circular, faintly pulsing.

Ben dove.

The cold hit him like knives, but he kept going, drawn by the light. At fifteen feet down, he saw it: a massive metal ring embedded in the lakebed, covered in symbols that shifted as he looked at them.

Something ancient.

Something alive.

He surfaced, gasping, heart racing, and knew two things for certain:

This was not just a lake.

The signal wasn’t a distress call. It was a trap.

He told his father everything.

Dr. Marcus Holloway didn’t believe him—until Ben played the enhanced audio.

One of the whispers wasn’t Nora.

It was Evelyn. His wife. Ben’s mother.

Dead ten years. Drowned in this same lake.

They returned that night with gear.

Marcus descended first. As he approached the ring, it pulsed in response—like it sensed him. Then, without warning, the gate opened just a crack.

A hand reached through.

Not human. Webbed. Pale. Familiar.

Marcus screamed. The tether snapped.

Ben barely pulled him back in time. He was alive—but changed. Shaking. Silent. Terrified.

Through chattering teeth, he whispered,

“It’s not a gate. It’s a prison.”

Three nights later, the town began to shift.

Phones picked up static at 3:17 a.m.

Streetlights blinked in a pattern—three pulses, pause, one long flash.

Birds stopped singing.

And one by one, people vanished.

Ben tried to warn them. No one listened.

So he made a choice.

He took a makeshift explosive from the science lab, recorded a loop of white noise to block the signal, and returned to the lake. Alone.

This time, the gate opened wide as he approached. He planted the charge—seconds ticking down.

Then he saw her.

Nora. Floating just beyond the threshold. Alive. Reaching for him.

Or was it her?

Something was off. Her eyes glowed faintly. Her mouth never moved, but her voice echoed in his mind.

“Stay with me...”

He closed his eyes. Pressed the detonator.

The explosion was contained. Barely.

The lake boiled for a full minute. Then... stillness.

No more signal.

No more disappearances.

Just the lake, silent once more.

They never found Ben’s body. Or Nora’s.

But every year, on the anniversary of the blast, at exactly 3:17 a.m., static returns to radios across Hollow Pines.

Some say it’s just interference.

Others swear they hear a voice in the hum.

Whispers.

Names.

Warnings.

The lake is quiet again.

But silence, as they’ve learned, is never safe.

It only means something...

is listening.