The Sunken Grove

The summer I turned ten, we moved to a house on the edge of a reservoir that had been carved out of the old forest. It was a dry year, so the water had retreated, leaving a vast, cracked mudflat where the lake used to be. My parents warned me to stay away from the exposed land, saying it was ‘unstable,’ but to a kid, it was a whole new world to explore.

I met two brothers, Elias and Micah, who lived a few houses down. They were a year older and knew everything about the reservoir. One afternoon, they told me about a grove of trees that was now reachable, a place that was usually underwater. ‘You can see the old church steeple poking out,’ Elias said, his eyes wide. ‘And if you go at the right time, you can hear the bells.’ I thought he was joking, but the thrill of the forbidden made me agree to go.

We set out in shorts and old sneakers, the sun beating down on the cracked earth. The mud made sucking sounds under our feet, and the air smelled of rot and minerals. After an hour of walking, we reached the grove. It was a circle of dead, skeletal trees, their branches like grasping fingers. In the center was a stone well, half-buried in silt. The whole place felt wrong, like we were standing in a church that had been cursed.

Micah pointed to the well. ‘They say a preacher threw himself down there after the town flooded. He said the water was alive and wanted to swallow the whole place.’ I peered into the darkness, and I swear I saw something move. A whisper of white in the shadows. I stepped back, my heart racing.

That’s when we heard it: a low hum, like a distant motor, but sorrowful. It seemed to come from the well. Elias laughed nervously. ‘It’s just the wind.’ But there was no wind. The dead trees were perfectly still. The hum grew louder, and the water in the well started to rise, black and thick like oil. We turned to run, but the mud grabbed our feet, pulling us down.

We fought free and scrambled out of the grove, but the hum followed us. It was in our heads, a deep, resonant tone that made my teeth vibrate. When we finally reached the shore, we turned back. The grove was gone. A wall of water had risen, covering the trees, the well, everything. And in that wall, I saw a shape, a dark figure with outstretched arms, as if it were conducting the water.

We never told anyone what we saw. We became obsessed with the reservoir, drawn to it day after day, even when our parents forbade it. We started having the same dream: the well, the rising water, and a voice that said, ‘You woke me.’

One evening, we went back. The water had receded again, and the grove was more exposed than before. We walked to the well, and this time, we weren’t afraid. It felt like coming home. We looked down, and the water was clear. We saw our reflection, but not just ours. Behind us, a shadow moved.

We turned. There was no one. But the hum started again, louder, and the ground began to shake. The water in the well rose, spilling over the edge. We backed away, but the water followed us, snaking along the ground like a living thing. It reached up and wrapped around our ankles, cold and firm. A voice, ancient and cold, said, ‘You are mine.’

The next morning, we woke up on the shore, soaked and shivering. Our parents were frantic. They had been looking for us for hours. We told them we got lost, but we could feel the hum in our bones. We still hear it, every night, a low, mournful sound. And sometimes, when we look in the mirror, we see the water behind us, and the shadow that stands in it, waiting. We know it’s only a matter of time before we descend into the well, to join the preacher in the sunken grove.