The Hollow Current

I never believed in the old stories about the Blackwood Reservoir. Nestled in the folds of the Vermont hills, it was a place of serene beauty during the day, its dark waters reflecting the dense pines that crowded its banks. My family had a cabin a mile away, and every summer we’d hike through the woods to swim in its cool depths. It was our tradition, a rite of passage for the younger cousins. At twenty-two, I was the eldest, the one who was supposed to keep an eye on the kids. I thought I knew every inch of that lake, every shadow, every submerged log.

The day started like any other. The sun was high, the air thick with humidity, and the water looked invitingly dark and cool. My cousins, twelve-year-old Maya and fourteen-year-old Ben, splashed and laughed near the shore while I swam farther out, feeling the familiar chill seep through my skin. I did a few laps, then floated on my back, staring at the sky. It was then that I felt it—a cold, firm grip around my left ankle. It wasn’t a cramp; it was a hand, unmistakably human, with fingers digging into my flesh. I yelped and jerked my leg, but the grip tightened, pulling me downward with a force that defied logic.

I screamed, thrashing wildly. My cousins looked up, their faces turning from laughter to alarm. I managed to shout for help, but as I twisted to see what held me, there was nothing—just dark water rippling where a hand should have been. Heart pounding, I scrambled towards the shore, but the grip returned, this time wrapping around my calf and wrenching me under. The world became a blur of bubbles and muted sound. I flailed, trying to find purchase, but my feet found only emptiness. The water was murky, and I could see nothing. Panic seized me as I realized I was being dragged deeper, away from the shore, away from my cousins’ frantic shouts.

Somehow, I broke the surface, gasping for air. Maya and Ben were at the water’s edge, reaching out to me, their voices thin in my ears. ‘Grab my hand!’ Ben yelled. I swam with every ounce of strength, but the hand returned, grabbing my ankle again, this time with a vicious yank that sent me spiraling back under. I fought, my lungs burning, my mind a white noise of terror. I clawed at the water, but there was nothing to hold onto. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, the grip released. I shot to the surface, coughing and weeping, my cousins pulling me onto the pebbled shore.

When I finally caught my breath, I looked at my ankle. There were finger-shaped bruises already forming, distinct and clear against my pale skin. Maya and Ben had gone silent, their faces pale. I tried to explain, to say something rational, but the words died in my throat. The lake was still, the water glassy. But in the periphery of my vision, I saw a ripple that made no sense—a pattern that seemed to spell out a name, though I couldn’t read it. I didn’t sleep that night. I kept replaying the feel of that hand, the cold certainty that it had been human, but there was no one else at that lake. No one for miles.

The next morning, I decided to confront the lake. I took my father’s old rowboat and paddled to the center, peering into the depths. The water was so dark it seemed bottomless. I leaned over, and for a moment, I thought I saw a face staring back at me—pale, with milky eyes, a woman’s face, just beneath the surface. I recoiled, and it was gone. I rowed back, my hands trembling. I knew then that the lake had a secret, and it was not done with me.

A week later, my cousin Maya disappeared. She had gone to the lake alone, despite our warnings. We searched for hours, dragging the water, calling her name. When they finally pulled her out, her face was peaceful, but her body was cold. The autopsy said she had drowned, but I knew better. I saw the bruises on her ankle, the same pattern as mine. The lake had taken her.

I never went back to Blackwood. But sometimes, when I close my eyes, I still feel that cold grip on my ankle, and I hear a voice whispering from the water, calling me back. I don’t tell anyone about the handprints that appear on my skin every night, or the way I wake up with my toes just shy of a body of water. I don’t tell them that the lake’s current is hollow, and it’s always hungry.