The Canals of Vinterra

In the autumn of 1994, I was seventeen, living in the fog-choked city of Vinterra, a place where the canals were as black as ink and the old stone bridges seemed to sag under the weight of centuries. My friends and I, bored and restless, had taken to dabbling in the occult. We had no proper ouija board, but we had constructed one from a torn cardboard box, marking it with letters and numbers in shaky handwriting, and we used a chipped whiskey glass as our planchette.

Our usual haunt was a half-flooded basement beneath a shuttered fishmonger’s shop on Canalside Row. The owner, a gaunt man named Mr. Kessler, would let us in for a few bottles of cheap vodka, and he would sit in the corner, drinking himself into a stupor while we conducted our séances. One November evening, when the fog was particularly thick and the canal outside lapped at the walls with a hungry sound, we gathered there: me, my friends Radek and Magda, and two others who had heard rumors of our sessions.

We set up the board on a heavy oak table that had been scarred by decades of fish scales and knife marks. We placed four candles at the corners, their flames trembling in the damp air. Radek, who had read about such things in a library book, suggested we call out to a spirit from history, someone with a name that would resonate. ‘Let’s try for the explorer, Marco Polo,’ he said, grinning. We all placed a single finger on the glass, and Radek began, ‘Marco Polo, are you with us? Marco Polo, we summon you.’

At first, nothing. Then the glass twitched, moved in a lazy circle, and picked up speed until it was tracing a perfect figure-eight. Our fingers stayed light, barely touching, but the glass moved as if pulled by an unseen hand. We asked, ‘Are you Marco Polo?’ The glass slid to ‘YES’ with a grating sound. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold, and I saw Magda’s eyes widen.

Encouraged, Radek asked, ‘Where are you now?’ The glass began to move, but it wasn’t spelling out a familiar name or place. It skated to ‘H’ then ‘E’ then ‘L’ then ‘P’. We looked at each other. ‘Help?’ I whispered. The glass then shot to ‘U’ ‘S’ ‘O’. ‘Uso?’ Magda said. ‘What does that mean?’ Before we could ask more, the candles flared, turning an eerie blue for a split second, and the glass flew off the table, shattering against the wall.

We all jumped back. Mr. Kessler, roused from his drunken sleep, mumbled something and toppled over. But we were too frightened to care. The glass had shattered, and the pieces lay on the concrete floor like tiny teeth. I felt a presence, a weight in the room, as if something had squeezed through a crack. Radek laughed nervously, ‘Probably just a draft.’ But we all knew the windows and doors were sealed.

We tried to pack up, but the letters on the board had rearranged themselves. The word ‘USOB’ was now spelled out in the scattered candle wax. ‘Usob,’ I said. ‘It’s a name.’ Magda, who had a faint memory of folklore, whispered, ‘There’s an old legend about a canal spirit called Usob. It says if you call its name, it will take you down to the black waters.’ We laughed, but it was hollow.

On the way home, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being followed. The fog had thickened to a pea-soup, and the streetlights were halos of sickly yellow. I walked alone along the canal path, and I heard a splash behind me. I turned, but saw nothing. Then a low voice, like water gurgling, spoke my name. I ran.

The next day, Radek didn’t show up for school. His mother called mine, frantic. The police dragged the canal and found his jacket snagged on a submerged grate, but no body. The day after, Magda disappeared from her locked bedroom. The police found her window open, but the drop to the alley was thirty feet, and there was no sign of a struggle. The only clue was the word ‘USOB’ scrawled in condensation on her windowpane.

I became obsessed. I spent hours in the local library, digging through old newspapers and parish records, looking for any mention of Usob. Finally, I found a crumbling pamphlet from 1884, a warning about the ‘Water Devil of Vinterra,’ described as a shapeshifter that lurked in the canals, luring the unwary with a whispered name. The pamphlet said it could be summoned by a makeshift board, and once summoned, it would hunt the summoners one by one, claiming them for the deep.

Terrified, I sought out the only person I thought might know more: an elderly woman named Mrs. Albrecht, who lived in a houseboat and claimed to have psychic abilities. She listened to my story, her face growing pale. ‘You must never speak its name again,’ she said. ‘It has a hold on you now. You must break the connection.’ She gave me a bundle of dried herbs and a small iron bell, telling me to ring it at midnight over the canal where we had performed the ritual.

I did as she said. On a freezing night, I stood on the same bridge, the herbs burning in a small tin can, the bell ringing in my trembling hand. As the last chime faded, the water below me rippled, and a shape rose from the blackness—a humanoid form dripping with slime, its face a blank oval of gray skin. It opened a mouth that was not a mouth, and from it came the voices of my friends: ‘Join us,’ they whispered in unison. I backed away, and the shape sank back into the water, leaving only a faint oily sheen.

I never went near the canals again. The police never found Radek or Magda. But I know they are down there, in the dark water, waiting. And sometimes, when I glance at a rain-filled gutter or a puddle after a storm, I think I see their faces looking back at me, their lips moving silently, forming the name of the one who got away. I have not spoken that name aloud since, and I never will. But I know it is only a matter of time before Usob comes for me, because I am the last of the five, and the summoning can never truly be undone.

I write this now as a warning. Never mock the shadows that lurk in the city’s forgotten waterways. And if you ever hear a whisper of a name you did not speak, do not turn around. Do not look into the water. Just run, and pray that the fog will hide you from what follows.