The Still Water Pact

The summer of 2009 had been a scorcher, and the only relief was the community pool behind the old grain mill. I was there with my cousin Dax, his little brother Toby, and my girlfriend at the time, Mira. We had the place mostly to ourselves as the sun bled into the horizon, casting long, twisted shadows across the cracked concrete. The water was a dark, tepid sheet, and we floated in it like lazy leaves, the chlorine smell mixing with the scent of dead cattails from the nearby marsh.

We’d been talking about the afterlife, sparked by a séance we’d had the night before in Dax’s basement. It wasn’t the cliché stuff—no board, no candles—just a circle of friends trying to see if we could feel a presence. Mira was a firm believer, Dax a skeptic, and Toby just tagged along, too young to be scared of anything but the dark.

As we drifted, I noticed Mira’s eyes losing focus, staring over my shoulder at the mill’s silhouette. ‘You see something?’ I asked, splashing her gently. She blinked, shook her head, ‘No, it’s just… the water looks weird. Like it’s not moving.’ Dax snorted, ‘It’s a pool, the filter’s broken, of course it’s still.’ But Toby piped up, his voice thin, ‘The ducks aren’t landing tonight.’ We all turned to look at the pond behind the mill, where normally a dozen mallards would be settling in. The surface was glassy, no ripples, and the usual quacks were absent.

That’s when I felt it—a coldness in the water, not the usual drop from the evening air, but something deeper, like a hand had stroked my ankle. I jerked back, and Mira looked at me, fear flickering in her eyes. ‘Did you feel that?’ she whispered. Dax laughed, ‘Your imagination.’ But I saw his shoulders tense.

We decided to get out, but as we climbed the ladder, Toby pointed at the deep end. ‘There’s something down there.’ We all looked. A dark shape, about the size of a child, was hovering near the drain, utterly still. It didn’t move with the water; it just hung there, like a photograph. Dax’s laugh died. ‘It’s a leaf,’ he said, but his voice cracked.

Mira gripped my arm. ‘We should go.’ But we were frozen, watching the shape. Then it began to rise, slowly, breaking the surface with a soft, wet sound. No head, no face, just a rough, waterlogged bundle of cloth that looked like a soaked burlap sack. It floated there, bumping against the pool wall, and I realized its shape was too familiar—it was like the body of a child, wrapped tight.

We scrambled out, grabbing our towels, not looking back. But as we ran toward the gate, I heard a splash, followed by a high, thin giggle from the water. I glanced over my shoulder, and the shape was gone. The pool was still, but now there was a thin film of something dark floating on the surface, like dust on a pond.

We piled into Dax’s car, and I started the engine, my hands shaking. ‘Did you see that?’ Mira breathed. Dax was pale. ‘No,’ he lied. Toby, from the back, whispered, ‘It said my name.’ I slammed the gas, gravel spitting, and we didn’t stop until we reached my apartment.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing the shape, and the giggle echoed in my head. I finally dozed off around three, only to be woken by a phone call from Dax. His voice was trembling. ‘The pool. It’s on the news. A kid drowned there in the seventies. They never found the body.’

We never spoke of it again, but for weeks, my ankles would itch, and I’d swear I felt a gentle tug underwater every time I took a shower. And sometimes, when I’d look out my window at night, I’d see a dark shape lingering near the storm drain. I moved away the next year, but I still have dreams of that silent pool, and in them, the water always parts to reveal that sodden bundle, and it’s always reaching for me. The summer of 2009 was the last time I ever swam in a pool, and I haven’t been to a body of water since. The still water pact was made that night—the dead keep their promises, even if we break ours.

In the end, I learned that the ghosts we didn’t believe in were the ones that found us easiest. We made the mistake of talking about them by the water, and the water listened. It always listens. And it waits for your feet to dangle, even for a second, to pull you under into its silent, patient dark.