The Still Pond

During a summer break from university, I stayed with my Aunt Maeve at her farm in the rolling hills of County Kerry, Ireland. The farm was a patchwork of stone-walled fields, with a small, murky pond at the edge of the property, half-hidden by drooping willows. The nearest village was Cloonmore, a place where gossip traveled faster than a fox through a henhouse, and every face was as familiar as the back of your hand.

One afternoon, lured by the rare warmth of the sun, I took a stroll along the overgrown path that skirted the pond. I was startled to see an old woman I recognized from the village, Mrs. O’Malley, standing at the water’s edge, staring at the surface as if it held a secret. We exchanged pleasantries, and she told me with a worried frown that her prize rooster had died without any cause, and that the pond had seemed to “shrink” a little each day. She also mentioned that her granddaughters had been having strange nightmares. I chalked it up to an old woman’s fancies, wished her well, and continued on my way.

Returning to the farmhouse, I found Aunt Maeve in the kitchen, a pot of tea already brewing. We sat at the worn wooden table, the familiar smell of turf smoke and baking bread filling the room. I told her about my walk and my chat with Mrs. O’Malley. As I repeated her words, my aunt’s cheerful expression soured. Her hand, which had been reaching for a biscuit, paused mid-air. ‘I’ve heard whispers,’ she said, her voice low and serious. ‘They say the pond is deeper than it looks. And that it has a taste for things that stray too close.’ I laughed it off, thinking she was trying to spook me, but she didn’t join in the laughter. She just stared out the window toward the willows.

That night, I woke to the sound of my dog, Bran, barking furiously. He was at the back door, hackles raised, staring toward the pond. I called him in, but he wouldn’t come. He only whimpered and paced by the door. I finally dozed off in an armchair by the embers. When I woke at first light, Bran was gone. I searched the farm, calling his name, my heart pounding. I found him by the pond. He was standing, rigid as a statue, his nose pointed at the water. When I approached, he didn’t even look at me. His eyes were fixed on something just beneath the surface, something that made the water ripple without any breeze. I managed to drag him away, but he was trembling, and he refused to go anywhere near the pond again.

A few days later, I was walking the boundary fence on the far side of the farm when I met young Seamus, Mrs. O’Malley’s grandson. He was pale, and his hands were shaking as he rolled a cigarette. He told me that his grandmother had fallen ill, and that she kept muttering about the pond ‘draining’ something from the land. He also said that the water level had dropped several inches, revealing a thick, black mud that gave off a sweet, sickly smell. I tried to reassure him, but I couldn’t shake the image of Bran’s haunted eyes.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I crept out to the pond, a flashlight in my hand. The air was still, heavy with the scent of damp earth and something else—something like old rot. The water was dark, oily, and perfectly still. I played the beam across the surface, and for a moment, I saw something: my own reflection, but distorted, my face stretched and pale, my eyes hollow. I stumbled back, my heart racing. When I looked again, the reflection was gone, and a thin film of scum was spreading from the center, as if something was churning the water from below.

I ran back to the house and told Aunt Maeve everything. She listened, her face grave, then took a clay jar from a high shelf and poured a line of salt across the doorstep. ‘That pond has always been a liason for sorrow,’ she said. ‘When I was a girl, a well was dug near it, and the well ran dry the next spring. The land remembers. Now, it’s hungry again.’ I didn’t sleep that night. I sat by the window, watching the pond, and as dawn broke, I saw Mrs. O’Malley walking toward it, a thin, frail figure in her dressing gown. I rushed out, but before I could reach her, she stood at the edge, looked back at me with a serene smile, and stepped into the water. She didn’t sink. She just… stopped. The water swallowed her calmly, with barely a ripple. I dove in after her, but it was empty. There was nothing but cold, black water that seemed to reach up and pull me down.

I woke up on the bank, coughing mud, my lungs burning. Aunt Maeve was kneeling over me, her hands on my chest. I was soaked, but there was no sign of Mrs. O’Malley anywhere. Bran was there, whimpering, licking my face. Aunt Maeve helped me inside, her face ashen. ‘The pond has taken what it came for,’ she said. ‘Now it will sleep again. But it will never forget your scent.’ Days later, I heard that Mrs. O’Malley’s body was found in her bed, peaceful, as if she had simply slipped away. The pond, however, was fuller than ever, its water dark and strangely warm. I left the farm the next week and never returned. But sometimes, in my dreams, I see that dark, still surface, and I know it’s waiting. And I know that the reflection I saw that night wasn’t mine. It was something older, something that lives in the silent places, and it has a name that I dare not speak aloud.