The Water Test

It was 2011, at a remote forward operating base in the Helmand Province, and I was a civilian contractor running the water purification unit. My name is not important; call me the night man. I worked the graveyard shift, a solitary gig, with only the hum of the generators and the distant thump of artillery for company. We had converted a shipping container into a lab and office, a metal box of humming fluorescents and chemical smells, set on a patch of gravel that glittered like broken glass under the moon.

One night, about 0200, I was inside the conex, running the daily chlorine tests, when I heard a sound that didn’t belong: footsteps crunching on the rocks outside, slow and deliberate. I froze, listening. We had perimeter security, but they never came this far out without a radio call. I set down my beaker and went to the door, pulling it open. The floodlights from the watchtower cast long shadows, but there was no one there. The footsteps had stopped. I shrugged, chalked it up to a jackal or a guard checking the fence. I turned back to my work.

Then I saw them: shadows darting across the gravel, not of birds or insects, but of what looked like twisted, spiked crescents, moving impossibly fast, skittering over the stones. They flickered at the edge of my vision, vanishing when I turned to look directly. A chill ran down my spine. I stepped back inside, locked the door, and told myself it was the wind playing tricks with the searchlights. But the air was still, the night dead calm.

My shift ended at 0500, and I drove back to the living quarters in my pickup. The road was a rutted track between Hesco barriers, and the truck’s headlights cut a weak cone through the dust. I parked in the bay, killed the engine. As I was getting out, a sound erupted from the truck’s side: a frantic, pounding banging, like someone beating on the door with their fists. I yanked the door open, heart racing, ready to confront a drunk soldier. The parking area was empty. The banging had stopped the instant I opened the door. I stood there, breathing hard, listening. Nothing.

I didn’t sleep that morning. The image of those spiked crescents, those skittering shadows, played behind my eyelids. I tried to think of a logical explanation. There were feral dogs, maybe. But the shapes were wrong, and the footsteps had sounded almost human.

The next night, I drove out to the water point, a cluster of tanks and pumps set away from the main base, near a dry riverbed. The generator chugged, and I attached the hose to take a sample. The moon was bright again, casting silver light across the rocks, and I felt an inexplicable dread, as if something was watching me. I crouched by the valve, and as I reached for the spigot, I saw a reflection in the metal tank: a figure standing behind me, tall and thin, with arms that seemed too long. I whirled around, but there was nothing. The air was cold, colder than the desert night should be.

I grabbed the sample and hurried back to the truck. As I drove, I kept glancing in the rearview mirror, expecting to see something in the bed of the truck. Nothing but the dust and the dark. When I got back to the conex, I ran the tests. The water was fine, but the sample jar was colder than it should have been, the plastic frosted as if it had been in a freezer. I set it down, and that’s when I noticed the marks.

On the white enamel surface of the testing table, there were scratches, fresh and deep, forming a pattern: three parallel lines, like claw marks. They hadn’t been there before. I touched one, and it was warm, as if recently made. I backed away, my mind racing. The banging on the truck. The footsteps. The shadows. This place was wrong.

I called security on the radio, reported the scratches, but they dismissed it as wear and tear. I decided to check the water point again, this time in daylight. I drove out at noon, the sun beating down, and the scene looked benign: a couple of tanks, a pump shed, nothing out of the ordinary. But as I walked around, I found something in the soft sand near the riverbed: a footprint. It was barefoot, human-sized, but the shape was off—the heel was too narrow, the toes too long and splayed, like a hand. And there was no other set of prints leading to it.

That night, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being invited to something. I had a nightmare: I was standing in the conex, and the floor was rippling like water, and from the ripple rose a figure made of darkness, with a crescent-shaped head like a scythe. It reached for me, and I woke up gasping.

The next night, I refused to go out to the water point. I stayed in the conex, doing paperwork, but the shadows were worse. They flickered at the corners of my eyes, sometimes forming that crescent shape, sometimes like a hand with too many fingers. And I could hear whispers, not words, but a dry sibilance, like wind through dead leaves. I put on my headphones, blasting music, but the sounds cut through.

At 0300, a knock on the conex door. I froze. Three soft knocks, steady. I didn’t answer. The knock came again, harder. I grabbed a wrench, approached the door. I threw it open, expecting to face some horror. But there was nothing, just the gravel and the moon. Then I saw them: in the dust, a set of footprints leading up to the door, and stopping. No footprints leaving.

I slammed the door, locked it, and called the security desk. The voice on the radio was crackly, but I could understand: ‘We got your report. Look, we’ve had other similar calls from contractors. We don’t know what it is, but it’s been happening for years. Best advice: don’t go outside after 0200, and ignore any sounds. If you see a shadow with a crescent head, don’t look at it. And whatever you do, don’t take a water sample from the point when the moon is full.’

I looked at the calendar. The moon was waning, but it was close to full. I checked my watch: 0345. I had an hour left on my shift. I decided to wait it out, pack up my things, and get out of there. But as I was packing, I noticed the sample jar from earlier. It was still on the table, and now it was empty. The water sample was gone. And written on the inside of the jar, in water droplets, were the words: ‘You will be next.’

I didn’t wait. I grabbed my gear and ran for my truck. I drove away from the conex, not looking back. The base was quiet, the soldiers asleep. I got to my bunk and locked the door, but I couldn’t sleep. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for something to happen. But nothing did. The rest of my deployment was uneventful, but I never went to the water point at night again.

A year later, I was back in the States, working a water treatment plant in Ohio. One night, during the full moon, I stepped outside to check a puddle in the parking lot. And I saw them again: spiked crescents, zipping across the asphalt, just like in Afghanistan. I froze. I heard footsteps behind me, slow and deliberate. I turned. There was nothing. But the breeze carried a whisper, dry as leaves, and I knew: it had followed me. It wasn’t the place. It was the water. And I had tasted it. Now, it was always thirsty.