The Lantern’s Last Gasp

I should preface this by saying that my English, while serviceable, is not my first language—I grew up speaking Portuguese in a small coastal town, and even after twenty years in Canada, some nuances still slip through. I also want to stress that I am a rational person, a retired nurse who has seen the mundane and the clinical, yet what I experienced last autumn at the Brantford Public Pool has left me questioning everything I thought I knew about reality.

The Brantford Pool was my usual haunt until it closed for renovations in October. Reluctantly, I moved my early morning swims to the Crestview Aquatic Centre, a newer facility across town that had just reopened after a year-long remodel. Crestview was sleek, all glass and stainless steel, with a six-lane lap pool. The two outer lanes were reserved for swim lessons, and the two inner lanes were for adults. The lanes were separated by floating plastic dividers that bobbed gently.

On my first visit, I noticed the changing room had a peculiar smell—not the typical chlorine and mildew, but something like old wood smoke and damp earth. I shrugged it off, thinking the ventilation was new. But as I entered the pool area, I saw a large mural on the far wall: a lighthouse on a rocky cliff, its beam sweeping across a dark sea. Oddly, the light was painted a sickly green, and the waves seemed to have faces hidden in them. A shiver ran down my spine, but I dismissed it as an artistic quirk.

My swims became ritualistic. I would arrive at 6 a.m., when the pool was nearly empty, and swim laps for forty-five minutes. The water was always perfectly clear, the temperature just right. But about ten days in, I began to notice things. First, the float dividers would occasionally tremble, as if something were brushing against them, even when no one was nearby. Second, the underwater lights, which were supposed to be white, would sometimes flicker to a dull green, matching the lighthouse beam. I kept telling myself it was a wiring issue.

The real anomaly began on a Tuesday. I was mid-lap, breathing rhythmically, when I saw a figure in the lane beside me. It was a woman in a long white dress, drifting just below the surface, her hair fanning out like seaweed. She wasn’t swimming; she was motionless, staring up at the ceiling with milky eyes. I stopped, heart pounding, and blinked. The figure was gone. I scanned the pool; the only other swimmer was an elderly man doing slow breaststroke in the far lane. I convinced myself it was a trick of light, a shadow from the ceiling.

But the following day, I saw her again. This time, she was closer, near the dividing line, and she was mouthing something. I couldn’t understand, but her lips formed a word that looked like ‘help.’ I yanked off my goggles, but she vanished. I got out of the pool, my legs shaking. I confronted the lifeguard, a teenager with a bored expression. He said, ‘Oh, that’s probably just the reflection from the skylights. Or maybe you saw the cleaning lady—she wears a white uniform.’ I knew it wasn’t a cleaning lady.

Desperate for an explanation, I started coming even earlier, at 5:30, hoping to catch the pool in a more ordinary state. That’s when I noticed the diary. It was tucked between the vending machine and the wall, a small leather-bound book with a rusted clasp. I shouldn’t have taken it, but I felt compelled. Inside, written in a neat cursive, were entries from a woman named Helena. She described swimming at Crestview in the 1980s, when the centre was first built. She wrote about a ‘green light’ that would sometimes shine through the water, and about feeling a presence in the lane, something cold and whispering. Her final entry read: ‘I can’t ignore it anymore. It wants me to join it. Tonight, I’ll swim to the deep end and never come up.’ I felt a chill as I realized the diary ended abruptly.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about Helena and the figure. I decided to go to the pool at midnight, when it was closed, to see if I could find answers. I knew the night security guard, a friendly man named Bob, and I convinced him to let me in, saying I’d left my watch in the locker. He reluctantly agreed. The pool was eerie in the dark, the water a black mirror. The underwater lights were off, but the emergency exit sign cast a green glow. I stood at the edge, peering into the deep end. And then, I saw it—a green glow rising from the bottom, like a lantern being lit. The water began to churn, and Helena’s face appeared, her skin pale, her eyes black. She reached out a hand, and I felt a cold grip on my ankle, pulling me toward the edge. I screamed, but no sound came out. I yanked back, stumbling, and the grip released.

I fled, leaving the diary behind. Bob found me in the parking lot, pale and shivering. I told him everything. He sighed and said, ‘Yeah, there’s been stories. A woman drowned here in ’83. They never found her body. Some say she’s still looking for someone to take her place.’ I never went back to Crestview. I now swim at a small private club, where the water is always bright, and the walls are plain. But sometimes, at night, I smell smoke and earth, and I see a green light flickering in my peripheral vision. I don’t know if I believe in ghosts, but I know something happened. I just hope Helena finally found her peace. But I fear the lantern is still waiting.