The Water Wager

It was our tenth anniversary, and we had chosen the isolated cliffside resort of Blackwater Cove to celebrate. The hotel, a converted Victorian asylum, perched precariously over the churning sea, its rusted fire escapes and boarded-up windows promising a uniquely unsettling experience. My wife, a firm pragmatist, had booked the historical ghost tour as a joke, a way to mock the gullible tourists. I, on the other hand, had always felt a strange pull towards the macabre.

Our guide was a wiry man named Elias, his eyes too bright and his smile too thin. He led our small group through the drafty corridors of the old building, his voice a low monotone that somehow amplified the silence between his words. We passed the old infirmary, the morgue, and finally, deep in the basement, we arrived at the old indoor pool. The air here was thick with the smell of chlorine and decay. The tiles were cracked, and a thick layer of grime coated the water that still filled the deep end.

Elias stopped at the edge, his flashlight beam dancing over the rippling surface. He spoke of a young patient named Millie, a girl who had died in the pool decades ago under mysterious circumstances. As he spoke, I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. My wife, ever the sceptic, whispered, ‘They always have a story for every drain.’ But then, a faint, almost childlike giggle echoed from the far end of the pool. A young woman on the tour, a college student with wide eyes, grabbed her boyfriend’s arm. ‘Did you hear that?’ she asked. Elias barely acknowledged it, simply continuing his tale.

He then produced a pair of dowsing rods, simple L-shaped pieces of wire. ‘These are for finding energy,’ he explained, his voice taking on an edge of excitement. He held them out, asking if anyone wished to try. My wife, always up for a challenge, stepped forward. ‘I’ll give it a go.’ She took the rods, holding them loosely as instructed. Elias asked, ‘Are you Millie?’ The rods, held in my wife’s hands, began to cross. A shiver ran through the group. ‘It’s just muscle movement,’ my wife said, but her knuckles were white.

Elias pressed on, his voice becoming more insistent. ‘Millie, do you want to play a game?’ The rods began to move erratically, pointing towards the water. Elias looked at my wife, a strange glint in his eye. ‘She wants you to join her in the pool.’ My wife laughed nervously. ‘Very funny.’ But as she laughed, the water in the pool began to churn, a swirling vortex forming in the center. The lights flickered. The whole group backed away from the edge, but my wife seemed rooted to the spot, her eyes fixed on the water.

Then, a small, pale hand broke the surface, reaching towards her. My wife stumbled back, but it was too late. Her feet slipped on the wet tiles, and she fell into the water with a splash. She surfaced immediately, gasping, but something was pulling her down. I dove in without thinking, my only focus on reaching her. The water was cold, impossibly cold, and I felt something brush against my leg—something that felt like fingers. I grabbed her arm and pulled, ignoring the resistance, the weight of the water, the darkness below.

We burst to the surface, coughing and sputtering, as the tour group stood frozen on the edge, Elias watching with an unreadable expression. He helped us out, handing us towels, but his smile was gone. ‘She’s very playful this evening,’ he said, but his voice was flat. We retreated to our room, shaking, not speaking of what had happened. I tried to convince myself it was a freak current, a hallucination, anything. But that night, as we lay in bed, I heard my wife’s voice, but it was not her voice. It was a small, sweet, childish voice that said, ‘Don’t leave without me.’

We left the next morning, hours before dawn. As we drove away from Blackwater Cove, I saw in the rearview mirror a small figure standing at the hotel’s front gate, waving. And though we tried to leave it all behind, a part of us knew that in the cold, salt-crusted walls of that old asylum, the game was still waiting for its next turn.