Voices from the Lake

I remember the first time I heard a voice. I was seven, by the edge of Lake Stilwater. The water was calm, like a tired animal. It was our summer trip, a tradition that ended too soon.

The lake was our paradise. Deep in the woods, it was quiet and untouched. My dad called it our "sanctuary." But, sanctuaries shouldn't whisper your name.

I was throwing pebbles into the water when I heard it. A soft, musical voice. It sounded like a girl's, but not quite human. It called my name.

“Eli…”

I froze, looking around. No one was there. My mom was inside, and my dad was chopping wood. I was alone.

“Eli… come play…”

I ran back to the cabin, my heart racing. I didn't tell anyone. Who would believe a lake spoke to me?

That night, I dreamed of a girl with pale skin and seaweed-like hair. Her eyes were black holes. She was under the water, reaching for me.

The dreams never stopped.

We stopped going to the lake after that. My dad said it was for a new job. But I wondered if he heard it too. If he saw her.

Years went by. I grew up, moved to the city, and became a teacher. I got married and had a daughter. The lake became a memory I avoided. Until last summer.

My mom passed away, leaving me the old cabin. It was empty, with wood eaten by time. My wife, Lena, wanted to fix it up. She thought it could be our getaway.

I didn't argue. I didn't tell her about the voice.

We arrived in late July. Our daughter, Abby, was six. She loved the place, just like I did when I was her age. She took to the lake like a fish.

The first few days were peaceful. We cleaned and painted. Abby would sit by the water for hours, humming.

Then, on the fourth night, she said something that chilled me to the bone.

“Daddy, the girl in the lake says hi.”

I dropped the plate, shattering it on the floor. Lena laughed it off, but I knew. I knew.

I sat with Abby that night, trying to stay calm. “What girl, sweetheart?”

“She's pretty,” Abby said. “But sad. She wants me to come play with her under the water.”

I barely slept. I sat on the porch all night, staring at the lake. The surface shimmered, black and glassy. I saw something ripple, something moving just beneath.

The next day, I found Abby on the dock, leaning over the edge. Her hand stretched toward the water.

“She says she misses you, Daddy.”

I yanked her back so hard she screamed. Lena was furious. I tried to explain, but how do you explain a childhood ghost to your rational, loving wife?

That night, the dreams came back. The girl was closer now. I could see her face more clearly. Rotten flesh. Hollow eyes. Her lips never moved, but I heard her voice.

“You left me.”

I remembered something then. Something I'd buried.

The summer I heard the voice, another child had gone missing. A girl named Lila. Seven years old. Vanished without a trace. Everyone thought she wandered into the woods. But I knew better.

The last place she was seen was by the lake.

I had seen her, just once. She was playing alone near the dock. I remember hearing her laugh, then a splash. And silence. I never told anyone. I was too afraid.

And now, she was back.

That night, the house groaned with a storm that hadn’t been in the forecast. Rain lashed the windows. Thunder rattled the glass. And through it all, I heard Abby whispering.

“Okay… I’ll come now…”

I ran to her room. Her bed was empty. The front door was open, swinging in the wind.

I raced to the dock. Abby stood at the edge, arms outstretched. The lake roared beneath her.

“Abby!” I screamed.

She turned, her eyes distant. “She’s lonely, Daddy. She wants a friend.”

I grabbed her just as she stepped off. Pulled her into my arms and ran. Behind me, the water exploded upward, as if something massive had just surfaced.

We left the next morning.

But I can hear the voice.

Every night, at 3:33 AM.

“Eli…”

It’s followed me here. Into the city. Into my dreams. Into my daughter.

She talks in her sleep now. In a voice that isn’t hers.

“She’s waiting…”

I know what I have to do. I have to go back. To the lake. To end it.

Because the lake remembers.

And the dead don’t like to be forgotten