THE DROWNING

I knew it was wrong of me to watch. 

Every splash and gurgle carried out from the lake—reaching my hidden position in a tree—brought skeleton hands kneading the skin of my feet, delicate tremors climbing my back. The stories always said to never leave your bed at night. They said if you did, you would be the one taken. You’d be the one sent to the water, forced down until all breath left your lungs, heartbeat echoing like a whisper in your ears. They said you would become a part of the Drowning. 

I never believed them. I couldn’t see why I should when my father turned to my mother with a wicked smile after telling us the tales. It felt like something he made up. Something he spun from his own horrid dreams and memories.

And that’s what I truly believed. Fear never pierced my heart at night as it had with my siblings. My sleep went undisturbed, filled with pleasant visions of eating sweets and playing in the brook. 

And all too soon, with the ignorance of a fool, my father’s recited words left my mind.

I forgot all about it until I heard the chains.

It was past my bedtime when the first rattle of metal sounded just outside my window. I had been daring, staying awake hours after my mother put me to bed. I found finishing a book more important than avoiding the ancient Witch. 

The shackles clinked again and my stomach dropped to the floor, probably traveling down to hell for all I knew. I was quick with blowing out the candle and threw myself under a blanket on the floor, one eye peeking out at my window.

It was quiet. I was aware of every shiver that wracked my shoulders, every splinter I got from digging my fingers into the wooden floor.  

I was terrified, afraid of that thing I knew crept just outside my house.

The room grew colder as the minutes passed. The air left savage bites on my skin, and a draft seemed to pick up. I kept my attention on the glass because each time I glanced away, I swore I saw a shadowed figure standing there. 

The hairs on my neck stood on end. 

And that’s when the gasping started. 

I could feel a cold, stinging breath blowing on my face. It was ragged, huffing with snake-like hissing. Each puff smelled of decay.

I scrambled back, heart hammering and mouth agape. But when I looked, rubbed my eyes at the space around me, there was nothing. I was alone. I blinked, promising myself it was just my imagination. I never tried staying up so late. Fatigue must have been playing tricks on me. 

Yes, that’s it.

I just needed rest.

I lept to my bed, back to the room, and did everything I could to sleep. I forced myself to lie impossibly still. To be more silent than the dead. 

For minutes I felt that presence in the room, breathing those awful, choking breaths on my neck. 

And it was just as I finally started to fade to sleep that I caught the rattle of a chain and a croaking laugh. 

There was nothing in my room when I awoke the next morning. My day continued on like normal apart from the flooding headache that stayed with me. But the following night, I couldn’t help but stay awake in the darkness. 

Some sort of creeping, disturbing curiosity took hold. I needed to know it really happened. I needed to see if the Witch was real. 

But despite staying awake long past midnight, there was no sign of her. Disappointment became a familiar feeling in my throat. But the urge never left me. 

For weeks I laid awake until insomnia became a habit, until I started to believe it all really was a dream—that I simply remembered my father’s stories that day, causing me to imagine it all. 

But then, why did I feel this way?

This addicting want to sense her breath on my face made me wide-eyed with abnormality. I knew it would bring me nothing but misfortune, but I couldn’t let it go. I couldn’t bring myself to forget. 

And just as my desire was transforming into dispair, the sound of chains came. 

At the first brush of rattling metal, a jolt of fear mixed with excitement clutched me. I lept up from bed and crept to the window. I peeked around it with only one eye looking out. My breathing picked up and a sweat blossomed. I watched and waited, ever so patient.

I looked out at the other cabins. I examined the still shadows and with every hoot of an owl, my mouth went dry in anticipation. My hands tapped against the sill, teeth clenched. 

Then it happened again. There was the rattle of rusted iron with an empty groan following. 

A moment passed and a hooded figure lumbered into view. The dark form was swathed in a nightly fabric collecting holes and tears. A single, thick chain stretched out from underneath the cloth, reaching out before it met with a man. He walked as though drunk, mouth open wide, and gaze lifted towards the sky. He held the shackles with both hands. He stumbled on his feet as they walked and I could hear that familiar, mocking laugh from where I stood in my room. 

I didn’t waste any time. I slipped shoes on blindly, not bothering with a jacket. I toed through my home, careful when opening and closing the front door before slipping into the darkness. 

I followed not far behind the pair. 

For miles they went gliding past trees, growing further and further from the village. The man continued to moan and spit as though he was already having trouble breathing. 

I refused to go back to my room. Hours passed and I stayed with them. I found myself growing closer, not minding the little space separating us. Never once did the Witch turn to look at me. Not as they finally came to an opening just as the sun started to rise up from the earth. Not when I climbed into the tree to sit high from the ground, fingers latching onto wet bark.

It wasn’t until she was guiding the man into the lake that her attention slid to me. 

She grasped his chin, and as she slowly submerged him under the rippling surface, her empty eyes met mine. 

The Witch's stare held me still, unmoving. It sent an ice pick stabbing into my lungs. 

The man's thrashings and gurgles surrounded us, reaching out and begging for help.

I smiled.

And the Witch began to laugh.