The Bench by the Reservoir

It was a sweltering Thursday in late August when I trudged home from the town’s only grocery, a plastic bag cutting into my fingers. The heat shimmered off the asphalt, and the air smelled of dust and dried pine needles. I’d moved to Maple Hollow after my husband’s death—a small, overlooked town nestled against a man-made reservoir, where the water lapped against concrete banks and the silence felt heavy. I liked the solitude, the way no one asked questions.

As I rounded the bend near the old pump house, I saw a figure sitting on the bench that overlooked the water. It was Arthur, a retired history teacher I’d befriended during my morning walks. He was a stout man with kind eyes and a habit of whittling small wooden birds. We’d often share the bench, watching the ducks and talking about our children. His daughter was a firefighter; my son worked in the city’s water department. We never spoke of anything deeper, but I cherished those quiet afternoons.

Today, though, something felt off. Arthur was sitting perfectly still, his hands resting on his knees, his usual carving knife absent. As I approached, he didn’t turn or offer his customary smile. He just stared at the water, which was unusually still, reflecting the pale sky like a sheet of tarnished mirror.

‘Arthur?’ I called out, shifting my grocery bag. He didn’t respond. I stopped a few feet away, a prickle of unease crawling up my spine. ‘You all right?’

Slowly, he turned his head. His face was the same, yet different. His eyes, usually warm, were now flat and glassy, like the surface of the reservoir. He blinked once, then said in a voice that was not quite his, ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

I forced a laugh. ‘Waiting for me? I’m just heading home.’ But my legs felt rooted to the spot.

He stood up, and I noticed he was wearing the same brown jacket he always wore, even in this heat. He took a step toward me, and the air around him seemed to shimmer, like heat rising from the pavement. ‘You know, I used to think you were afraid of me,’ he said, his voice low and even. ‘But now I see you’re just afraid of yourself.’

‘I’m not afraid of anything,’ I said, but my voice cracked.

He smiled, and there was something wrong with the smile. It was too wide, too knowing. ‘Your husband. He used to hit you, didn’t he?’

My heart hammered. I never told anyone that, not even Arthur. I gripped the bag tighter. ‘That’s none of your business.’

He took another step closer, and I could smell a faint odor of chlorine and algae, like the reservoir had gotten into his clothes. ‘I know things, Elsie. I know you’re lonely. I know you think you’re free now, but you’re not. You’re just as trapped as I was.’

His words stirred something cold inside me. I took a step back. ‘What do you mean, trapped?’

For the first time, his expression wavered, a flicker of confusion crossing his features. He looked down at his hands, then at the water. ‘I can’t leave,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘I tried, but the water… it calls me back.’

I didn’t understand. I looked at the reservoir, and for a moment, I saw a dark shape just beneath the surface, moving slowly, like a log. Or a body. I blinked, and it was gone.

‘Arthur, you’re scaring me,’ I admitted.

He seemed to snap out of his trance. He shook his head, and his eyes regained some of their usual warmth. ‘I’m sorry, Elsie. I’ve been… not myself lately. The heat gets to you.’ He wiped his forehead, though there was no sweat. ‘Would you like to sit for a while? I have some lemonade in my cooler.’

I hesitated, but the rational part of my brain told me I was being foolish. He was my friend. I set down my bag and sat on the bench, keeping a careful distance. He took a seat beside me, and I noticed his hands trembled slightly.

We sat in silence for a long moment, watching the water. Then he spoke. ‘Do you believe in ghosts, Elsie?’

I laughed, but there was no humor in it. ‘No, of course not.’

He stared at the reservoir. ‘This place was built in the sixties. They flooded an entire town to make it. Houses, a church, a cemetery. They say the dead never really moved on.’

I felt a chill despite the heat. ‘That’s just a local legend.’

‘Is it?’ He turned to me, and his eyes were glassy again. ‘I saw her last night. A woman in a white dress, standing on the water. She waved at me.’

‘Who?’

‘My wife. Sarah.’ He swallowed. ‘She drowned here, you know. Twenty years ago. They said it was an accident, but she never learned how to swim. She wouldn’t have gone in voluntarily.’

I had known Arthur’s wife had died, but he never spoke of it. Now, his voice had a desperate edge. ‘I miss her so much, Elsie. I miss her every day. But lately, I feel like she’s still here, watching me. Waiting for me to join her.’

I reached out and touched his arm. ‘Arthur, you’re grieving. Maybe you need to see someone.’

He flinched away. ‘You don’t understand. You think you’re free, but you’re not. You’re just as haunted as I am.’ He stood up abruptly, his hands clenched. ‘You think you can move on, but every time you close your eyes, you see his face. You hear his voice. And you’re afraid that if you ever love again, you’ll end up like me.’

His words hit too close to home. I couldn’t deny that. My marriage had been a nightmare, and I’d sworn off men ever since. But to hear him say it… I felt exposed.

‘I think you should go,’ I said, my voice tight.

He looked at me, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of the kind man I knew. Then it vanished, replaced by that hollow stare. ‘You’re right. I should go.’ He walked toward the water’s edge, his steps deliberate.

‘Arthur, what are you doing?’ I called, standing up.

He didn’t answer. He just kept walking, until his shoes touched the water. I rushed forward, but before I could reach him, he turned and looked back at me. His face was serene, almost peaceful. ‘It’s time, Elsie. She’s calling me.’

Then he stepped in. The water closed over his head without a splash. I screamed, running to the edge, but the surface was already still again, a perfect mirror of the sky. There was no ripple, no sign of him.

I stood there, shaking, for what felt like hours. No one else was around. The only sound was my own ragged breathing. I thought about diving in, but I couldn’t swim, and the fear of that dark water was overwhelming.

Eventually, I stumbled back to my house, my grocery bag forgotten on the bench. I called the police, but when they arrived, they found nothing. No body. No evidence that Arthur had ever been there. They questioned me, but I could only tell them what I saw.

Later that night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about Arthur’s words. ‘You’re just as trapped as I was.’ I tried to push them away, but they lingered. I got up to get a glass of water and caught my reflection in the kitchen window. For a split second, I thought I saw a woman in a white dress standing behind me, but when I turned around, the room was empty.

I don’t visit the reservoir anymore. The bench is still there, but I can’t bring myself to sit on it. Sometimes, late at night, I think I hear the water lapping against the concrete, even though my house is a mile away. And I wonder if Arthur found his peace, or if he’s still out there, waiting for me to join him.

Because I know, deep down, that I’m still haunted too. Not by my husband’s ghost, but by the fear that I’ll never be free. And sometimes, when I look at the reservoir from my window, I see a figure standing at the water’s edge, waving at me. And I don’t know if it’s Arthur, or Sarah, or just my own reflection.

I just know that the water calls to me, too. And I’m afraid that one day, I’ll answer.