The Concrete Lullaby

I’ve been on edge for three days now, but it wasn’t until last night that I had to accept something was truly wrong. The feeling started with a news item about a man who vanished from a small town, but I live in a city, so it was easy to ignore. His name was Harold Pemberton. His face was on grocery store flyers, but I never looked twice.

Then, a few days ago, a maintenance crew was inspecting the old quarry on the north side of the city, where the water’s so deep and cold it never gets above fifty degrees. They spotted a glint of metal under the surface, and called the police. They pulled out a rusty sedan with Harold Pemberton still in the driver’s seat, seatbelt buckled, hands on the wheel, as if he’d just parked and waited. The radio was still on, tuned to a static-filled frequency. It was ruled a suicide, but the coroner noted his lungs were full of water, not air, which is normal for drowning, but his expression was strangely peaceful.

Hearing about it at dinner gave me a chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. My mother tried to change the subject, but I couldn’t shake the image of that man calmly driving into the black water. That night, I lay in bed, replaying the details, and I imagined what it would be like to sink into that silence, to let the cold take you. I scared myself so thoroughly that I had to turn on every light in my apartment.

But the real trouble started the next morning. I woke up with a faint, high-pitched hum in my ears, like the afterimage of a mosquito. At first, I blamed it on the faulty ceiling fan. I went about my day, but the hum persisted, growing louder when I was in the bathroom, almost like a whisper chanting in a language I didn’t know. I even checked for alarms, but everything was silent. The apartment manager said it was just the plumbing.

That evening, I was brushing my teeth when I noticed something in the mirror. The reflection of the bathtub, which I could see over my shoulder, seemed distorted. For a split second, the shower curtain rippled as if a draft had passed, though the window was closed and the fan off. My hand froze. I turned around, but there was nothing. Still, the hum intensified, and I could have sworn I heard a faint, rhythmic tapping, like knuckles on porcelain.

I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Harold Pemberton’s face, but it wasn’t his face anymore. It was mine, bloated and pale, staring up at a water-stained ceiling. I tried to rationalize: it was just a story, it didn’t involve me. But that night, I felt a dampness on my pillow, and when I touched it, it wasn’t sweat. It was cold, mineral-smelling water.

Last night, the hum turned into a full-blown sound. It was a song, a lullaby, sung in a low male voice, coming from inside my closet. I threw open the door, but there was only my clothes. The song stopped, but I saw it then, in the mirror again, behind my reflection: a dark shape, vaguely human, standing in the corner of the bathroom, dripping wet. It was there for just a second, and then it was gone.

I grabbed my keys and ran to my car, driving aimlessly for hours. I ended up at the quarry, though I had no intention of going there. The chain-link fence was cut, and there was an opening. I parked and got out, my legs trembling. The water was perfectly still, reflecting a sliver of moon. And then I heard the voice again, not from my car, but from the water. It said my name, clearly, as if it knew me.

I ran back to my car and drove home, shaking so hard I could barely hold the wheel. I didn’t sleep. At dawn, I heard a news report on the radio: the rescue team had found something else in the quarry, a second vehicle, a newer sedan matching my make and model. They were checking to see if it belonged to a missing person. My heart stopped. My car was in my driveway, but when I looked at the phone, there was a text from my own number: ‘Let me in.’

I’m writing this from my apartment, which I’ve barricaded. The hum is back, louder now, and the walls are weeping moisture. In the mirror, my reflection is always a second behind me. And in the corner of my eye, I see him: Harold Pemberton, not drowned, but standing in my doorway, his lips moving, singing that lullaby. He’s not asking me to join him. He’s telling me it’s time to take his place, to become the new story that scares a stranger into staying awake. I don’t know how much longer I can hold out. The water is rising in the bathroom sink, and the song is coming from every drain.