"The Silence Below

The lake had no name.

Locals called it “the Hollow,” not for its shape, but for the way sound died near its banks. Birds would perch on surrounding branches, but never sang. Frogs, abundant in the surrounding marshland, fell quiet as soon as the water's edge came into view. Even the wind, which moaned endlessly through the pine forest, seemed to hold its breath when it passed over the surface.

Elise had come to escape noise—real noise. The kind that crashes through the walls of a small apartment in the city: traffic, voices, sirens, arguments. After the divorce, she needed silence like oxygen. So she rented the old cabin that leaned slightly toward the Hollow, a place long ignored by vacationers and locals alike.

She hadn’t asked why it was so cheap. She didn’t want reasons. She wanted quiet.

On the first night, the silence was complete. No insects, no creaking floorboards. Not even the distant rustle of trees. It pressed in around her like velvet, thick and smooth, almost soft. She slept better than she had in months.

The second day, she rowed a little boat across the lake’s dark surface. The water, so clear near the shore, turned to inky black in the center. As she dipped her hand into it, she expected the usual cool resistance of mountain lakes. But this felt… warmer. Not warm exactly, just less cold than it should’ve been. Like it was hiding something, maybe a current—or something deeper.

She withdrew her hand quickly.

Each day after that, Elise ventured a bit farther out, drawn not by curiosity, but by a kind of dull magnetism. The lake didn’t call to her, exactly, but neither did it let her go. She would sit on the warped dock for hours, book in hand, never turning a page.

At night, the silence changed. It grew thicker, somehow more awake. She tried playing music, but it sounded flat, like the notes were being swallowed. Phone calls with her sister were brief. The signal was fine, but Elise struggled to speak, as if the words had to push through mud.

On the fifth night, she dreamed she was underwater. Not drowning—floating. But it wasn’t peaceful. There was something in the dark with her. Watching. Waiting.

She woke with lakewater in her mouth.

Not just the taste of it—actual water. She coughed, sputtered, and stumbled to the bathroom to vomit up what felt like a full mouthful. But how? The cabin was locked. No leaks. No dampness. She didn’t sleepwalk, not since she was a child.

On the sixth day, Elise avoided the water entirely. She stayed inside, curtains drawn. The silence pressed harder, now more than absence—it was presence. She could feel it watching her, not with eyes, but with awareness. She took to whispering to herself, anything to break the tension.

“It’s just a lake. Just a place. Nothing’s wrong.”

But the house creaked now, not like old houses do, but like something moved just beneath the floorboards. Soft, shifting weight. A brushing sound, like reeds against a boat’s hull.

She considered leaving.

That night, she didn’t sleep. She sat on the edge of the bed until dawn, staring at the door. At exactly 3:17 a.m., there was a knock—not on the door, but on the window facing the lake.

Three slow taps.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t. Just stared at the window. Nothing was there. But the taps came again. Three.

She turned on every light in the cabin. But outside, the world remained a void—no stars, no moon, no sound.

The next morning, she packed. She didn’t care about the money. She didn’t care about the peace she’d been chasing. Whatever the Hollow was, it didn’t want her. Or worse—it did.

But as she drove away, something shifted. The further she got, the more the world returned. A bird flew overhead. The wind rustled the trees. By the time she reached the highway, traffic buzzed in the distance. She rolled down the window and smiled.

That night in her apartment, she left the TV on. The noise was comforting, even if she couldn’t follow the plot. She left the window cracked to hear the city.

At 3:17 a.m., she woke up choking.

Water poured from her mouth—cold this time, impossibly cold—and pooled onto the floor.

And from the window, high above the city streets, came three slow taps.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The silence hadn’t stayed behind. It had followed her.

It lived beneath things—not just water, but mind, memory, sound.

The Hollow was not a place.

It was a door.

And it was open now.