The town warned children never to swim after dusk, but Adrian never believed in superstitions. One summer evening, he dove into the still waters of Blackthorn Lake. The surface shimmered like glass—yet beneath it, he heard voices, clear as whispers in his ear.

They weren’t echoes. They were pleas. Names, cries, fragments of lives cut short. Panicked, Adrian tried to surface, but something cold wrapped around his ankle. The voices grew louder, chanting now, pulling him deeper.

As his vision blurred, he realized with horror—each voice was calling for him