The Whispers Beneath the Lake



It was supposed to be a peaceful summer getaway. The kind of trip people take to forget the noise of the city, the tension of work, the exhaustion of existing. For Ava, the lake house her aunt left behind in her will was meant to be a place of healing. But the first night she arrived, she realized that peace wasn’t what lived there anymore.

The lake shimmered under the moonlight, so still it looked like glass. A heavy mist hovered above the water’s surface, curling around the dock like pale fingers. Ava could hear the frogs croaking in the distance, the rustle of trees, and—something else. A faint, rhythmic whisper that seemed to come from the lake itself.

She ignored it at first. “It’s just the wind,” she told herself, dragging her suitcase across the creaking porch and unlocking the door. Inside, the air smelled of dust and cedar. The furniture was draped in white sheets, and spiderwebs clung to the corners. She clicked on a lamp, and its flickering light revealed family portraits on the wall—her aunt smiling with eyes that now seemed to follow her.

Ava unpacked, made tea, and sat near the window that overlooked the lake. That’s when she saw it: a ripple in the water, though there was no wind. Then, just for a second, she thought she saw a hand break the surface before vanishing again.

Her heart pounded. “No, no, no… I’m just tired.”

She shut the curtain and tried to convince herself it was her imagination.

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The Voice in the Water

The next morning, the air was thick with fog. Ava went outside to clear her mind and noticed a trail of wet footprints leading from the dock… straight to her porch. They were small, bare, and faintly red—as if mixed with blood. But when she followed them, they stopped abruptly at her front door.

She called the local caretaker, a gruff old man named Miller who looked after the property. When she showed him the footprints, his expression turned grave.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he muttered. “This lake… it’s not right.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

He hesitated. “People say the lake takes what it wants. A child drowned here years ago—my nephew. Folks claimed to hear him crying from the water. Some even say he never left.”

Ava felt her stomach twist. “That’s just a story.”

Miller stared out toward the lake. “Maybe. But don’t go near the water after dark. That’s when it calls.”

The Second Night

That night, Ava woke to the sound of whispering again. But this time, it wasn’t faint—it was inside the house. She grabbed her phone flashlight and crept downstairs, her pulse thundering in her ears.

The whispers grew louder, coming from the window that faced the lake. Slowly, she approached. And there, outside in the mist, stood a small boy. His skin was pale, his eyes hollow, and his clothes dripped with lake water. He raised his hand and pressed it against the glass.

“Help me,” he mouthed.

Ava stumbled back, the phone slipping from her grasp. The light flickered, and for a moment the entire room was filled with the sound of water rushing, drowning everything. When she blinked, the boy was gone—but the floor was wet beneath her feet.

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The Drowning Past

The next day, Ava searched through her aunt’s old papers and found something shocking—a faded newspaper clipping from 1989.

“Local Boy, Age 8, Drowns in Morrow Lake – Body Never Recovered.”

The photo was the same boy she saw last night.

In the margin, her aunt had written: “I hear him too.”

Ava’s breath hitched. Her aunt hadn’t died peacefully as everyone thought—she had drowned in the lake ten years ago.

That evening, Ava made a decision. She would end this curse. She took a lantern and walked to the dock, the water eerily still beneath the fog.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she whispered into the night.

But the lake whispered back.

She saw the ripples again—then the boy’s face, rising slowly to the surface. His eyes were full of sorrow, not malice. Ava leaned closer. “You can rest now,” she said softly.

Then something grabbed her ankle.

She screamed, trying to pull back, but the water dragged her down. The lantern fell, shattered, and fire spread across the surface as she sank deeper and deeper. Through the murky water, she saw faces—her aunt’s, Miller’s nephew’s—hundreds of them, all whispering.

When the morning came, Miller found the dock empty. Only the lantern remained, half-burned, floating near the edge.

He shook his head and whispered a prayer.

The lake was calm again.

Epilogue

Weeks later, the property was sold to another family. A little girl stood at the same window where Ava once sat, watching the water shimmer.

“Mommy,” she called, “there’s someone in the lake. He says he’s waiting for a friend.”

Her mother laughed. “Sweetheart, there’s no one there.”

But as the girl turned away, tiny wet footprints appeared on the floor—leading straight to her bedroom.