Years ago, in the shadow of the craggy northern hills, there was a village called Eldermoor. It wasn’t much—just a cluster of stone cottages, a crumbling church, and a mill that creaked like an old man’s bones. The townsfolk were quiet, insular, the kind of people who didn’t ask questions about the strange lights that flickered in the woods or the low hum that sometimes rose from the earth. Life was simple, until the dam came.
The government called it progress. A reservoir was needed to supply water to the growing cities downstream, and Eldermoor sat in the perfect hollow for it. The villagers fought, of course—petitions, protests, even a few desperate prayers in the church—but money and power won out. They were given a month to pack up and leave. Most did. Some didn’t. The stubborn ones, the ones who’d built their homes with their own hands, stayed until the water came creeping up their doorsteps. And then, one foggy spring morning in 1952, the dam gates closed, and Eldermoor drowned.
The reservoir swallowed the village whole. Roofs vanished beneath the glassy surface, the church steeple sank like a skeletal finger pointing at the sky, and the mill’s wheel spun its last before the flood took it. The water was cold, dark, and still—a mirror reflecting nothing but the gray clouds above. The people who’d left watched from the hills as their past was erased, and soon, Eldermoor became a ghost story, a whispered warning about clinging too tightly to things that can’t be saved.
Decades passed. The reservoir became a forgotten place, a spot for the occasional fisherman or hiker who didn’t mind the oppressive silence. But then the stories started. At first, it was just a fisherman claiming he’d seen lights under the water—faint, yellowish glows that pulsed like a heartbeat. People laughed it off as tricks of the eye, reflections of the moon or algae blooms. But the tales grew. Campers swore they heard voices rising from the depths, soft and mournful, like hymns sung through a veil of mud. Divers who went too deep came back pale and trembling, refusing to speak of what they’d seen. And then there was the photo—a grainy snapshot taken at dusk, showing pinpricks of light shimmering beneath the reservoir’s surface, unmistakable and impossible.
That’s what brought me here. My name’s Clara, and I’m a journalist—or I was, before the layoffs. Now I chase freelance gigs, the weirder the better, and the drowned village of Eldermoor was too good to pass up. I rented a cabin on the reservoir’s edge, a sagging thing with peeling paint and a view of the water that stretched out like a black void. My plan was simple: spend a week, take some photos, talk to locals, and write a piece that might finally get me noticed. I brought a flashlight, a camera, and a notebook. I should’ve brought something else—courage, maybe, or common sense.
The first night was quiet. Too quiet. No crickets, no wind, just the sound of my own breathing and the occasional ripple on the water. I sat on the porch, staring at the reservoir, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. I went to bed disappointed, chalking the stories up to bored rural imaginations.
The second night, I saw them.
I’d woken up around 2 a.m., restless, and stepped outside for air. The moon was a thin sliver, barely enough to see by, but as I looked out over the water, I noticed it—a faint glow, deep beneath the surface. At first, I thought it was a reflection, but the light didn’t move with the moon. It pulsed, slow and deliberate, like a lantern swaying in a breeze. Then another appeared, and another, until a dozen faint orbs dotted the blackness below. They weren’t random—they formed a pattern, a rough outline of streets and houses. Eldermoor’s lights were on.
I grabbed my camera, hands shaking, and snapped a dozen photos. The glow was dimmer through the lens, but it was there, undeniable. My heart pounded as I watched, half-expecting the water to part and the village to rise. It didn’t. The lights just stayed, flickering, as if someone down there was waiting.
The next day, I drove to the nearest town, a half-hour away, and showed the photos to a grizzled old man at the gas station. He barely glanced at them before muttering, “You shouldn’t have gone looking.” When I pressed him, he told me the story the locals didn’t like to share. Not everyone left Eldermoor willingly, he said. Some stayed, locked their doors, and waited for the water. Others tried to flee too late, caught in the flood as it roared through the valley. And a few—well, a few were never accounted for. The official report said they’d drowned, but no bodies were ever found. “They’re still down there,” he whispered, “and they don’t like being watched.”
I should’ve left then. But I didn’t. I went back to the cabin, determined to get more proof. That night, I set up my camera on a tripod, aimed it at the water, and waited. The lights came again, brighter this time, and with them came the sound—a low, keening wail that seemed to seep up through the floorboards. It wasn’t the wind. It wasn’t an animal. It was voices, layered and distorted, singing something I couldn’t understand. I recorded it, my skin prickling, and watched as the lights grew stronger, illuminating shapes beneath the water. Roofs. Windows. A steeple. And then, in one of the windows, a silhouette—tall, thin, and utterly still.
I don’t know how long I stared before I realized it was staring back.
The air turned cold, heavy, like the weight of the reservoir itself was pressing down on me. The silhouette didn’t move, but I felt its eyes—or what should’ve been eyes—boring into me. The singing grew louder, sharper, until it was a scream that rattled the windows. I stumbled back, knocking over the tripod, and the camera hit the floor with a crack. The lights flared once, blindingly bright, and then went out. The silence that followed was worse than the noise.
I didn’t sleep. I sat on the couch, clutching a kitchen knife, until dawn broke gray and weak over the water. When I worked up the nerve to check the camera, the footage was gone—corrupted, the screen said. The photos from the first night were still there, but they’d changed. The lights were clearer, and in one, there was a shape in the water—a face, bloated and pale, pressed against the surface as if trying to break through.
I left that morning. Packed my bags, drove straight home, and tried to forget. But I can’t. Every night, I hear that wail, faint and far away, like it’s calling me back. Last week, I found water stains on my apartment floor—dark, muddy patches that smelled of rot. They’re spreading. And last night, I woke up to a glow outside my window. Not the streetlights. Something deeper. Something waiting.
Eldermoor isn’t gone. It’s still there, under the water, and it remembers.