Whispers from the Deep

It started when the lake thawed. A soft melody, faint but unmistakable, drifted on the breeze as the ice cracked and melted. At first, it was almost beautiful—a wordless hum that seemed to rise from the depths of Blackwater Lake. But beauty can be a lie.

Blackwater Lake was a place of secrets, its depths murky and bottomless. Legends whispered of a village that had been swallowed by a flood decades ago, its bell tower still visible when the water was low. The old-timers called it the Drowned Choir. I thought it was just a story until I heard the song.

The first night, it came to me in my sleep. A soft, mournful melody that pulled at something deep inside me. When I woke, the sound lingered, faint but insistent, like an echo caught in the back of my mind. I tried to ignore it, but the song grew louder with each passing night.

By the third night, the melody was clear enough to follow. I found myself walking to the lake, drawn by the sound. The moonlit water was eerily still, the surface like polished glass. As I stepped closer, I saw them—figures beneath the surface, their faces pale and distorted, their mouths moving in unison.

They were singing.

The next morning, I convinced myself it had been a dream. But when I checked my boots, they were wet, caked with lake mud. I tried to tell someone, but the words caught in my throat, as if the lake itself forbade me from speaking. The song—it was in my head now, a constant refrain I couldn’t escape.

By the seventh night, I stopped sleeping. Shadows moved at the edges of my vision, fleeting glimpses of figures that vanished when I turned to look. The song grew louder, its notes sharp and discordant, cutting through my thoughts like shattered glass.

I couldn’t stay away. The lake called to me, its song promising answers, an end to the torment. I stood at the shore, the cold water lapping at my feet, and watched as the figures emerged. They weren’t human, not anymore. Their flesh was pale and bloated, their eyes black voids that seemed to draw in the light. But their voices—their voices were achingly beautiful.

They reached for me, their hands like claws, and I couldn’t move. The song filled my head, drowning out my thoughts, my fears. I felt myself sinking, the cold water closing over me as their voices wrapped around me like a shroud.

When I woke, I was back in my bed, my clothes soaked and my lungs burning. The song was gone, replaced by an aching silence that felt worse. My reflection in the mirror wasn’t mine anymore. My eyes—they were black, endless, just like theirs.

The song has left me, but I’ve become the melody. At night, I hear others humming, their voices joining the Drowned Choir. It’s only a matter of time before the lake claims them too.