The Puddle on Maple Street

My name is Clara, and I’ve been able to see them since I was seven. It started with a single puddle on Maple Street, the one that always formed after rain in front of the old Hendersen house. But this puddle was different. It didn’t reflect the sky or the clouds; it showed a room, a bedroom with peeling wallpaper and a bed with rusted springs. And in that bed, a figure lay, motionless, but somehow aware. I told my mother, but she said it was just my imagination. But I knew what I saw.

As I grew older, the puddle became a portal. Whenever it rained, I’d see the same room, but the figure would be closer to the surface, its face pressing against the water like a child looking out a window. It had no features, just a smooth, grey membrane, but I could feel its hunger. It wanted out. And I was the only one who could see it.

I tried to avoid Maple Street, but it was the only route to school. So I’d cross the street, holding my breath, but I could feel its gaze even through the rain. One day, I decided to confront it. I stood by the puddle, my reflection merging with the water, and I saw my own face staring back, but with that featureless mask imposed over it. I spoke to it, asking what it wanted. The water rippled, and a voice, like gravel and water, said, ‘Let me in.’

I refused, and I ran. But the visions didn’t stop. Every mirror, every glass of water, every polished surface, I saw that face, pleading, threatening. My parents thought I was going mad. They sent me to a therapist, but I couldn’t tell the truth. They’d lock me up. So I pretended it was a phase, but it wasn’t.

The puddle on Maple Street grew. It spread across the road, engulfing the sidewalk, and the water became dark, oily. One night, I woke to the sound of dripping. My bedroom door was open, and on my floor was a small, dark puddle, shaped like a handprint. I screamed, and it vanished. But then I heard a knock on my window. It was a figure, slick with water, standing in the rain. It pressed its hand against the glass, leaving a smear that looked like oil. And then it melted back into the storm.

I knew I had to act. I researched local legends and found that the Hendersen house had been abandoned after a family drowned in a flood, but their bodies were never found. The puddle was their grave, and they wanted company. So I decided to burn the house down. I thought if I destroyed the anchor, the puddle would dry up. But when I got there, the house was already a burnt shell, but the puddle remained, pristine.

I stood at the edge of the puddle, and I saw not one, but dozens of faces, all pressing upward, all moaning. They were the spirits of all who had been claimed. And one of them was a little girl who looked just like me at seven. She reached out, and I felt a cold hand grasp my ankle. I looked down, and my reflection was gone; it was a void. I tried to pull away, but the ground gave way, and I fell into the puddle, into the water, into the house.

Now I am one of them, pressed against the surface, looking out at the world through the puddle on Maple Street. I see the rain, the passersby, and sometimes a child who stops and stares, transfixed. And I know, one day, they too will become a part of us. The puddle is patient. It waits for all.