The night draped itself over the town like a filthy blanket, heavy with the stench of damp earth and decaying leaves, and there I was—slumped on the splintered steps of my porch, bottle in hand, swaying like a tree in an unseen tempest. My breath came out in bursts, sweet and sour, tinged with the last of the brandy I swigged. It curled around my tongue like a serpent—gentle, yet tightening, as the alcohol wormed its way through my veins, settling into the soft, unguarded marshes of my mind.
Across the road, beyond the twisted fence of weeds and brambles, lay the pond, an inexplicable body of water that had always seemed more like a darkened mirror than a mere collection of H2O. At this hour, it reflected nothing but a lonely, glaucous sky, the moon’s sickly light bathing it in a ghostly sheen. I stared at it, my vision swimming, blurring the edges of reality until the pond appeared to pulse beneath the surface—a living, breathing entity waiting for the right moment to drag me into its depths.
It’s funny, or maybe it’s tragic, how many nights I had squandered here, staring at that damn pond, drinking in the quiet solace of the world gone to sleep. Muffled echoes of laughter danced in the hallways of my mind, haunting memories of friends long vanished, their faces fading like the clouds on a grey horizon. They’d always said, “Don’t go near the pond, Billy; it’ll swallow you whole.” But drunk and brave—or maybe just drunk—I was drawn to its sinister allure, echoing calls beckoning me closer like a siren’s song.
Hunched over, I gulped from the bottle, the foamy liquor coating my throat like a warm embrace. I thought about how the pond was once a sanctuary, a place of refuge from the relentless tide of reality. I remembered the summer of ’89 when laughter hadn’t yet turned bitter and the sun spilled light across the water, turning it into a playground for dreams. But like everything else, time had twisted it into something dark, something writhing beneath the surface, full of shadows that seemed to look back at me with hungry eyes.
A chill crawled up my spine as I squinted at the pond, trying to see beyond the murky surface. The wind rustled through the trees, a low whispering that sent shivers streaking down my arms. I could almost hear my name carried on the air, calling to me. Was it just the alcohol playing tricks on my senses, or was something really there, lurking beneath the midnight waters? Was that a ripple, or just my imagination? I couldn’t tell anymore, and that’s when I felt the urge to stumble toward it, foot by heavy foot, the grass slick with dew and the earth soggy beneath my sneakers.
The water pulled me in like gravity, each step a surrender, each drunken stumble a promise to let go. I could see my reflection wavering in the black abyss, a distorted version of myself, eyes bloodshot and wild, a specter of the boy I used to be. It was becoming hard to breathe, the air thick with the scent of wet earth and decay, and I could almost taste the iron tang of fear on my tongue, a metallic reminder that I still existed in this world.
As I drew closer, the moon hung low in the sky, illuminating the edges of the pond, revealing the twisted roots of trees that clutched the water’s perimeter like skeletal hands. A low gurgle rippled through the air, and I shivered, a mixture of trepidation and intoxicating thrill. I dropped the bottle, and it shattered against the rocky ground—shards glittering like stars amidst the weeds. The sound seemed to wake something in the pond, something ancient, something unnameable.
“Billy…” it whispered, the voice oozing from the water like smoke.
“Hello?” I croaked, words slurring as I leaned over the edge, peering into the depths. What stared back was not just water; it was a void, a swirling mass of shadows inching toward the surface, hungry for warmth, for flesh, for me.
The alcohol buzzed in my mind, swirling with my terror, and the world around me blurred into a kaleidoscope of colors and sounds, disjointed and jarring yet strangely poetic. I felt as if I were collapsing into the pond itself, becoming one with the slick, dark water. Was this what they meant by losing oneself? In that moment of clarity amidst my drunken haze, I understood—this pond was a grave, a resting place for memories I never wanted to confront.
The whispers grew louder, melodic and sinister, beckoning me to join them in a chilling symphony. “Billy, dive deeper… come home…” Their words slashed through the haze, cutting into the fabric of my mind. I stumbled closer, heart racing, limbs heavy, when suddenly, a hand—cold, clammy, and impossibly smooth—snaked out from the depths, wrapping around my wrist with a grip that felt otherworldly.
I yelped, struggling against the pull. The world above began to fade, the moonlight replaced by a gripping darkness, the voices now rising to a crescendo, shrieking, howling, calling my name with an urgency that filled my lungs with dread. I could see now, pale faces rising from the depths, gaping mouths twisted in an eternal scream, eyes wide and unseeing, reflecting my horror back at me.
In that moment, I realized the truth—I was not the first fool to wander too close, to drink away the warnings and throw caution to the wind. The pond was a collector of souls, a hungry maw waiting to consume those drawn by its dark beauty. It was a history of despair, a resting place for secrets better left buried.
With a surge of adrenaline, I tore my wrist free from the grasp of the depths, my heart pounding in my chest as I staggered backward, breathless. I could feel their anger rising like bubbles in boiling water, the touch of fingers chasing after me, yearning for the warmth I had almost surrendered.
“Billy!” they screamed, “You can’t escape!”
I tumbled back to the ground, limbs flailing as I clawed away on the slick grass, adrenaline lighting a fire in my veins. The air pulsed with a bitter chill as I scrambled to my feet, turning and fleeing from the pond’s grasp. I stumbled, weaving through the trees, heart hammering like a drummer summoning a frantic cadence, terror propelling me forward into the night.
My breath came in desperate gasps as I fled down my street, desperate to put distance between myself and that monstrous mirror, that accursed pond. It was only when I reached the safety of the streetlights, their dull glare illuminating the pitch-blackness behind me, that I dared look back over my shoulder.
But when I did, all I saw was water, still and quiet, reflecting the moonlight as if it had never called out to me, never whispered my name in the dead of night. Only the broken shards of glass remained, scattered like fallen stars, glimmering in the shadows.
The spectral voices had faded, leaving the night heavy with silence. I staggered back toward my house, half-stumbling, half-running, overwhelmed by the weight of what I had nearly lost. The pond loomed behind me, a dark and sinister allure, yet I swore—**I swore**—it would never get me again.
But as I stumbled through my door, collapsing onto the wooden floor with my heart still racing and mind spinning, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was only a matter of time. The pond was patient, an ancient predator that would lie in wait until the moment I grew careless again. I took a deep breath, wiped my brow, and drank in the glow of my living room, each second a reminder that for now, I was safe.
But as night wrapped its heavy arms around the town once more, I couldn’t help but peer through the window, half-expecting to see the rippling surface dance under the motion of unseen hands, a silent promise of a different kind of loneliness—the kind that lingers long after the drinks are gone, and the shadows beckon from just beyond the glass.