The Hollow Reel

The sun had begun its slow descent over the cliff-lined coast of Lanzarote, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. I was twelve that summer, and my parents had rented a sprawling villa complex carved into the volcanic rock, complete with a saltwater pool that seemed to float above the Atlantic. My younger sister, Maya, was eight and clung to her inflatable sea horse like a lifeline, her legs kicking frantically as she tried to keep pace with me.

I had just discovered the thrill of underwater exploration, armed with a cheap plastic snorkel and a pair of goggles that fogged up every few minutes. The pool was a labyrinth of natural rock formations and sunken grottos, with a central island of dark basalt where a lone palm tree swayed. I was convinced that pirate treasure or maybe a lost mermaid’s trinket lay at the bottom, waiting for me.

That afternoon, as the other guests retreated to their shaded loungers, I floated face-down, the world reduced to a symphony of bubbles and the distant murmur of the sea. My goggles revealed a mosaic of azure tiles, interrupted by patches of sand that had blown in from the beach below. And then, in the corner near the deep end, I saw something glint—a flash of silver buried just beneath the sediment.

My heart pounded as I kicked down, my fingers brushing the rough texture of the object. It was a small, cylindrical reel, like something from an old film projector, but made of polished steel, intricately etched with symbols I didn’t recognize. I surfaced, gasping for air, and inspected my find. The reel was cold to the touch, and as I rotated it, a loose tape inside began to unspool. I pulled at the thread, and it came free, a long ribbon of black film, each frame showing a blurry image of a face—a woman, her mouth open in a silent scream.

I tucked the reel into my swim trunks pocket, intending to examine it later, but Maya saw it as I climbed out.

‘What’s that?’ she asked, paddling towards me.

‘Nothing,’ I said, trying to hide it, but she had a stubborn look in her eye. ‘Just some junk.’

‘It’s not junk, it’s a treasure. You found treasure!’ she squealed, and I knew I’d never hear the end of it.

That night, while our parents drank wine on the terrace overlooking the ocean, I sat on my bed with the reel under the lamp. The film was brittle, cracking as I tried to unspool it further. I held a frame to the light and squinted. The woman’s face was not just any face—it was the face of my grandmother, who had died the year before. Her mouth moved as if trying to speak, and the film began to hiss, a faint whisper emanating from the reel.

I dropped it, startled. The film went silent. But when I picked it up again, the whisper returned, growing louder. It was as if the reel was pulling sound from the air, mixing it with a cold breeze that made the curtains flutter. I heard my name—my real name, not the nickname my parents used—and then a sobbing, choked plea: ‘Help me…’

I didn’t sleep that night. I wrapped the reel in a towel and shoved it in my suitcase, hoping to forget it.

But the reel had other plans. The next day, as I swam in the pool, I noticed the water seemed murkier near the deep end. I dove down, and there, at the bottom, was a new object: a child’s hair clip, similar to one Maya wore. I surfaced, terrified, and saw Maya sitting on the edge, innocently kicking her feet. Her hair was loose, no clip to be found. ‘Where’s your clip, Maya?’ I asked, trying to sound calm.

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I lost it earlier.’ A chill ran down my spine. The clip in my hand was identical, but it was hers—I had given it to her that morning.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that the reel was connected to these occurrences. That evening, I took it out again, and the film had begun to unspool by itself, images flickering like a lantern show. I saw my grandmother in her kitchen, then in the hospital, then in a dark place, surrounded by water. Her hands pressed against a window, her face contorted in despair. And then the reel showed me the pool, but not as I knew it—it was empty, a concrete basin, and there was a woman lying at the bottom, not moving. I reeled back, realizing that the woman was wearing the same dress my grandmother wore in her final photograph.

The whispers grew demanding. ‘Release me. Wind me back.’ I didn’t know what that meant, but I knew I had to get rid of the thing. I tried to throw it in the pool, but it seemed to resist, the film wrapping around my fingers like barbed wire. I finally dislodged it and flung it into the deep end. It sank, disappearing into the murky darkness.

The next morning, the pool was drained for cleaning. The maintenance man found the reel, and I watched from the balcony as he held it, turning it over with a puzzled expression. But when he looked up, his eyes were not his own—they were milky, like a cataract, and he was smiling. He pocketed the reel and walked away, and I never saw him again.

Maya started having nightmares. She’d wake up screaming, clawing at her throat, gasping for air. She said she dreamed of a woman in the water who wanted to take her down. I knew exactly who that woman was. I couldn’t tell my parents; they’d think I’d lost my mind.

On our last night, I couldn’t sleep. I sneaked out to the pool, now refilled and glowing with underwater lights. The water was still and black, but as I peered over the edge, I saw something moving below—the reel, floating just beneath the surface, spinning, the film unspooling like a ghostly tongue. And then the film formed a shape, a face pressing up from the water, my grandmother’s face, and she whispered, ‘You should have never brought me back.’

I stumbled backward, and the pool lights flickered, then went out. In the darkness, I felt hands wrap around my ankles, cold and bony, dragging me towards the edge. I screamed, but no sound came out. The water rose, swallowing me, and I saw the reel at the center, spinning, drawing me in, its film wrapping around me like a cocoon.

I woke up in my bed the next morning, drenched in sweat, the smell of salt and decay in my nostrils. The holidays were over, and we flew home. But when I unpacked my suitcase, I found the reel tucked inside my clothes, still damp, its film now showing a new image: a small boy, his face frozen in terror, sinking into a dark abyss. And I realized, with a growing horror, that the boy was me.

Now, years later, I still have that reel. I keep it locked in a steel box in my attic, the box wrapped in chains, but at night, I can hear it turning, the whisper of my name, and the soft, wet sound of my grandmother’s voice, pleading, ‘Wind me back. Wind me forward. Set me free.’ But I will never open that box. Because I know that if I do, the reel will take me back to that pool, to that moment, and this time, it won’t let me go.