The Still Watcher by the Reeds

Three weeks after we moved into the old farmhouse, I found myself standing at the edge of the marsh that bordered our property. My brother, Leo, was supposed to be right behind me, but he’d lagged to tie his boot. The marsh was a sprawling, muddy expanse dotted with cattails and shallow pools, and at its center lay a dark, still pond that seemed to swallow light. We’d come to explore, chasing dragonflies and skipping stones, but as the afternoon wore on, the air grew heavy, and the light turned amber.

I remember the exact moment it began. Leo caught up, and we waded along the reeds, our boots squelching in the black muck. He was telling me about a frog he’d seen when I noticed something odd in the distance: a figure standing perfectly still at the far edge of the pond, half-hidden by the drooping willows. It was tall, too tall, and wore a long coat that hung without moving, even though a breeze had started to stir the reeds. I nudged Leo and pointed. ‘Who is that?’ I said. ‘Maybe a hunter?’ Leo squinted, then his face went pale. ‘We need to go home. Now.’ He grabbed my arm, and we started back the way we came.

But the figure didn’t stay still. As we moved, it moved too, not walking, but gliding, staying at the same distance, always in the corner of my eye. By the time we reached the porch, my heart was pounding. I slammed the door and locked it, peering out the window. The figure was gone, but I could swear I saw a ripple in the pond, as if something had just submerged.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in my room, the floorboards creaking, and I heard a sound like wet footsteps coming from the hallway. I thought it was Leo getting water, but when I called out, there was no answer. I crept to the door and looked out. The hallway was empty, but at the end, near the attic stairs, I saw a dark puddle on the wood floor. It hadn’t been there before.

Over the next week, things got worse. Every evening, the figure appeared at the marsh edge, and every evening, it came a little closer. Leo refused to talk about it, but I could see he was frightened. He started sleeping with a knife under his pillow. I tried to reason with him, but he just shook his head and said, ‘You don’t understand. It’s been waiting for us.’

Then, last night, I decided to confront it. I grabbed a flashlight and went down to the marsh, my boots sinking into the mud. The moon was full, and the pond was a mirror of silver. The figure stood at the water’s edge, and for the first time, I could see it clearly. Its face was smooth, like a mannequin’s, with no features, just a blank canvas stretching from its collar to its hairline. In its hand, it held a small, silver locket that glinted in the moonlight.

‘What do you want?’ I shouted, my voice trembling. The figure tilted its head, and then, impossibly, it spoke. Its voice was like the sound of stones grinding under a river. ‘You took my thought. Now I take yours.’ I didn’t understand, but I felt a sharp pain behind my eyes, and I stumbled backward. When I looked up, the figure was gone, and the locket lay at my feet. I picked it up, and inside was a tiny photograph of a young woman with a face that looked like mine, but not quite. Her eyes were hollow, and she was screaming.

When I got back to the house, Leo was waiting at the door, pale as death. He saw the locket and his face fell. ‘Where did you get that?’ he whispered. I told him. He made me sit down and then he told me the truth: our great-grandmother, who lived on this land a century ago, drowned in that pond. She was accused of witchcraft, and the townspeople took her daughter—her only child—and raised her as their own. They believed she was born with the devil’s mark. Our grandmother never spoke of it, but she always warned us: ‘Never look at the reeds after sunset.’ I thought it was superstition. But now I understand.

The figure is her, the mother. She waits for the reflection of a living child to reclaim what was stolen. And now that I’ve seen her, she’s attached to me. Last night, I dreamed of drowning in the pond, and when I woke, I was soaking wet, the sheets drenched. This morning, Leo found black muck under my fingernails. I’m writing this in the attic, barricaded, but I can hear the wet footsteps on the stairs. They are slow, deliberate, and getting louder. The locket is around my neck, and I can feel it growing cold. I don’t know if this is the end, but if anyone finds this, know that I am sorry—I should have listened to the warning. The reeds are singing now, and they are singing my name.