The Chill in the Chlorine

The summer I turned sixteen, I spent every day at the municipal pool. It was a sprawling complex of concrete and turquoise tiles, tucked behind the old high school, and it was usually packed with screaming kids and teenagers showing off. But that August, the heat was so oppressive that even the regulars stayed home, leaving the pool eerily deserted. I didn’t mind. I had a mission: to increase my lung capacity for the upcoming diving season. I would swim laps, pushing myself to hold my breath longer and longer, until the world dissolved into a silent, blue blur.

On that particular Thursday, the air was thick and still, and the water felt like a lukewarm bath. I was halfway through a lap, approaching the shallow end, when something brushed against my leg. It was a light touch, like a strand of seaweed, but there was no seaweed in a chlorinated pool. I shot my head out of the water, gasping, and scanned the area. The pool was empty as far as I could see. The lifeguard was absently scrolling through her phone. I shook my head, convincing myself it was a cramp or maybe a wayward stream of chlorine. I resumed swimming, but I couldn’t shake the feeling of unseen eyes on my skin.

Later, as I was resting at the deep end, I felt it again—a sharp kick to the same calf. It was forceful enough to make me stumble in the water. I whirled around, expecting to see someone laughing, but there was no one. The surface was undisturbed, flat and glassy. The water felt different there too—cold spots that sent shivers up my spine, alternating with pockets of unnerving warmth. I had heard stories about the pool being built over an old settlement, but I’d always dismissed them as urban legends. Now, I wasn’t so sure.

Curiosity got the better of me. I decided to stay, not out of bravery but out of a strange fascination. I floated on my back, watching the clouds drift overhead, and tried to let the pool’s mysterious occupant reveal itself. Suddenly, I heard a soft murmur, like a voice burbling underwater. I dove, opening my eyes despite the sting of chlorine, and saw a faint silhouette at the bottom of the deep end. It was a girl, about my age, with long, dark hair fanning out around her head like a dark halo. She was wearing a vintage one-piece swimsuit, faded and gray. She looked up at me, and her eyes were empty, like the color had been drained from them.

I surfaced, sputtering, my heart pounding. When I looked again, she was gone. But I knew I had seen her. I climbed out of the pool, my legs shaking, and wrapped myself in a towel. The lifeguard noticed my pale face and asked if I was okay. I nodded, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the girl. She seemed sad, not menacing. I felt a pang of sympathy, wondering what had happened to her.

The next day, I returned to the pool, determined to confront her. The place was nearly empty again, and the water seemed to beckon me. I swam to the deep end and waited. It didn’t take long. I felt a gentle tug on my ankle, and then she appeared beside me, her head breaking the surface with a soft splash. She didn’t speak, but she pointed to the bottom of the pool. I dove down, following her, and there, in a patch of glowing light, I saw it—a small, rusted locket half-buried in the filter grate. I grabbed it and surfaced.

In the changing room, I pried the locket open. Inside was a faded photograph of a young girl, smiling, and an inscription: ‘Evelyn, 1923.’ I did some research that night and learned that the pool had been built in 1925, on the site of a farmhouse that had burned down. Evelyn had been the farmer’s daughter, and she had drowned in the nearby creek. Somehow, her spirit had found its way to the pool, and she had been waiting all these years for someone to find her locket, the only keepsake from her life.

I felt a profound sadness for her, but also a sense of purpose. I took the locket to the old cemetery and placed it on the grave of Evelyn Simms, marked with a simple stone. As I left, I felt a warm breeze, unlike the oppressive heat of the day, and I knew she was at peace.

The next time I went swimming, the water was just water—clear, warm, and empty. But sometimes, when I’m floating in the deep end, I think I catch a glimpse of a pale figure at the bottom, waving at me, and I smile. I’ll never know for sure if she’s truly gone, but I like to think that she finally found the rest she deserved.