The Refrain of the Drowned Choir

The first time I heard it, I was in the shower at my aunt’s old farmhouse in the middle of Kansas. The water was scalding, the way I like it, and the steam was curling up around the fluorescent light like something alive. I was alone—my cousin had gone into town for feed, and my uncle was out checking the fences. I heard a voice cut through the hiss of the water, a man’s voice, deep and wet, calling, ‘Marla!’ Not my name, not exactly. Everyone calls me Marla, but my full name is Amarla. Only my mother ever called me that.

I froze, my hand stilled on the shampoo bottle. The voice came again, closer, as if it were just outside the shower curtain. ‘Marla, come down.’ It wasn’t angry or urgent; it was almost gentle, like a parent coaxing a child. But there was something wrong with the timbre—it had a bubbling quality, like words spoken through a mouthful of water. I turned off the water, my heart hammering, and listened. The house was silent except for the drip from the faucet. I wrapped a towel around myself and crept to the bathroom door, pressing my ear against the wood. Nothing. I opened it and peered down the hallway. The old farmhouse stretched out, dim and dusty, with sunlight slanting through the windows. No one. I checked every room, even the cellar stairs, but the house was empty. I told myself it was the wind, or the old pipes, but I couldn’t shake that voice.

The second time happened two weeks later, at the county fairgrounds where I was helping set up for the Harvest Festival. I was in a storage shed full of old carnival props—carousel horses with chipped paint, a fortune teller’s booth, and a rack of costumes that smelled of mothballs and sweat. I was hanging up a sequined gown when I heard it again, from the far end of the shed: ‘Amarla.’ This time it was my full name, and it echoed slightly, as if the shed were underwater. I spun around, but there was no one among the hanging coats and faded banners. The voice continued, a low, resonant hum that seemed to vibrate in my chest, and then it resolved into words: ‘Come to the lake. We’re waiting.’ I bolted out of the shed, nearly tripping over a severed mannequin arm, and ran into the midday sun. The fairgrounds were bustling with workers, all oblivious. When I told my friend Jenny, she laughed and said I was just nervous about the festival.

But the dreams started after that. Every night, I would find myself standing on the shore of a moonlit lake, its surface glassy and black. In the water, just below the surface, I could see faces—pale, bloated, with open mouths, as if they were singing. Their voices rose in a disjointed chorus, a mournful melody that drew me closer to the water’s edge. I would always wake up gasping, my sheets soaked with sweat, the melody still ringing in my ears. I tried to ignore it, to convince myself it was stress, but the dreams grew more vivid. I started hearing the voice during the day, in the rustle of wind through wheat, in the hum of the refrigerator, in the static of the radio.

Then, three nights ago, I was at my aunt’s house again, lying in bed in the room that used to be my mother’s. The moon was full, casting silver shapes on the floor. I woke to the sound of dripping water, a steady plink that was too consistent to be the leaky faucet. I sat up, and there, in the corner of the room, stood a figure—a man, tall and gaunt, his skin slick with moisture, his eyes black and hollow. He was dressed in what looked like an old-fashioned bathing suit, the kind from a century ago. He opened his mouth, and water poured out, not splashing but flowing as if from a spring, and he spoke in that same voice, ‘Amarla, you must join the choir. The lake is hungry.’

I screamed, but my aunt slept through it, and in the morning I found a puddle of water on the floor where he had stood. My aunt, a stoic woman who didn’t believe in ghosts, just sighed and said, ‘It’s the old well. It’s been acting up.’ But I knew better.

Last night, I finally gave in. I drove out to the lake that had been in my dreams, a small, forgotten body of water surrounded by cattails and twisted willows. The moon was high, and the lake was as still as death. I stood at the edge, and the music began—the same mournful hymn, now clear and close. I saw the faces breaking the surface, their mouths moving, their eyes pleading. The water started to rise, lapping at my shoes, cold and inviting. I didn’t run. I stepped forward, and the water welcomed me. The last thing I felt was a chorus of hands pulling me down, and a voice, my mother’s, whispering, ‘You’re here now, Amarla. You’ll sing forever.’

The search party found my car parked by the lake, but no body. They dredged the water and found nothing. My aunt keeps the house now, but she says she hears singing sometimes, coming from the old well. She’s thinking of selling. But I know the truth: I’m still down there, my lungs filled with water, my voice part of the choir, and every once in a while, I call out to the living, hoping to bring them down to sing with us.