The Cistern’s Tenant

The summer I turned thirteen, my family moved into a crumbling farmhouse in the Finger Lakes, far from the suburban noise of Rochester. My parents hoped the isolation would cure my father’s restlessness, but I found the stillness suffocating. Our only solace was the ancient in-ground pool, a relic from the 1970s with cracked tiles and a perpetually murky depth. Its water came from a natural spring, and the previous owner had warned us it was ‘a bit temperamental’.

My cousin Maya and her friend Zoe came to stay for a week. To escape the heat, we spent our afternoons in the pool, daring each other to touch the ominous drain at the bottom. The water was cold, almost icy, no matter the sun, and an odd metallic taste clung to our mouths. We were floating on our backs, drifting into a half-doze, when the first sound came: a short, strangled yelp from directly beneath the surface. It was sharp, human, and utterly wrong.

We shot up, gasping. ‘Did you scream?’ Maya asked, her teeth chattering. Zoe was already shaking her head. I looked at them, their mouths clamped shut, but the sound had been so close. We decided it was a trick of the plumbing, a water hammer, maybe. But we were all reluctant to submerge again.

Curiosity, that fatal flaw, dragged us back down. We held our noses and sank, eyes open in the green gloom. The second time, we heard a low, guttural hiss that seemed to emanate from the very walls, growing into a growl that vibrated through our chests. We burst to the surface, screaming. The filter was off; I’d switched it that morning because it was rattling. There was no mechanical source.

That night, we couldn’t sleep. The pool glowed under the porch light, its surface like black glass. I thought I saw a ripple near the steps, but there was no wind. The next day, we tried to avoid the pool, but the heat drove us back. We stayed in the shallow end, feet planted solidly on the slimy tiles. That’s when the water began to move on its own—a gentle circular current, as if something was circling just beneath our feet. We scrambled out and watched from the lawn chairs. The current continued for a full minute before settling.

On our final evening, we made a pact to uncover the truth. We put on goggles and dove to the deepest corner, where the hole to the spring was covered by a rusted grate. As we hovered above it, a face pressed up from the darkness below—not a human face, but a pallid, eyeless thing with a wide mouth lined with needle teeth. It opened its mouth and let out the scream, and we saw its throat undulate with the hiss-growl. We shot to the surface, shrieking, and didn’t stop until we were inside the house.

I told my parents we’d never swim there again. They laughed it off, blaming a prank. But the next morning, the pool was drained. Not a drop remained. The grate was gone, and in its place was a dark, damp tunnel that smelled of stale water and rotting meat. My father had it filled with concrete the following week. But as I said goodbye to Maya and Zoe, I saw it in their eyes: the same terror I felt. And that night, in the silence of the house, I heard a faint hiss from the walls, and a growl, and something scratching at the foundation. It had not left. It had merely found a new home to haunt.