The Last Room on the Left
The town of Elmbrook had one rule: never swim in the lake after sunset.
Locals spoke of strange disappearances, of shadows under the water, and of voices that called out at night, mimicking the cries of lost children. But for eighteen-year-old Rachel, who had just moved in with her grandmother after her parents’ death, the lake was nothing more than a scenic distraction from grief.
It shimmered under the sun, glassy and clear, surrounded by pine trees that swayed like sentinels. But once dusk approached, the lake transformed. The water turned a darker shade of black, no longer reflecting light but swallowing it whole. Locals would shut their windows, bolt their doors, and wait until morning.
Rachel, of course, didn’t believe in curses or folklore. Not after everything she’d been through. Her reality was already haunted — but not by ghosts.
So one evening, just past 7:30, when the sky was painted in streaks of purple and orange, she wandered down to the edge of Elmbrook Lake with her notebook in hand, headphones tucked into her ears. She wanted silence, not superstition.
She settled onto the old wooden dock. Its planks creaked beneath her as she dipped her feet into the chilly water. The air smelled of pine, and a soft breeze brushed her skin. For the first time in months, she felt a sliver of calm.
Then, the music in her headphones cut out.
Dead silence.
She checked her phone. Full battery. Everything working. But the music wouldn’t play.
And then she heard it.
A whisper. Barely audible, like someone breathing a secret through the trees.
She pulled the earbuds out.
The whisper came again. This time from the lake.
Rachel turned toward the water, heart thudding. “Hello?” she called, instantly regretting it.
Silence.
She peered into the lake. For a moment, she saw nothing. Just her own pale reflection. But as the wind stilled and the surface smoothed, she saw something else.
Another face.
Not hers.
It was just beneath the surface. A child’s face. Eyes open, lifeless. Mouth moving, forming words without sound.
Rachel jumped back, nearly slipping off the dock. When she looked again, the face was gone.
She scrambled to her feet, heart pounding. She told herself it was her imagination, trauma, stress — anything but real. She ran back home, notebook forgotten on the dock.
Her grandmother, a stern woman with gray hair tied tight in a bun, was waiting.
"You went to the lake,” she said, voice cold.
Rachel blinked. “Just for a few minutes. I didn’t—”
Her grandmother’s hand slammed against the table. “You don’t go near that place after sunset. Ever.”
Rachel stared, stunned. “You don’t actually believe that crap, do you?”
The old woman’s face went pale. “People have disappeared. Good people. Children. They hear things. See things. The lake remembers grief, Rachel. It feeds on it.”
Rachel said nothing. She didn’t sleep that night. Not because of the warning — but because of the whisper that kept echoing in her ears.
“Come back.”
The next morning, Rachel returned to the dock to retrieve her notebook. It was still there, a little damp but intact. She flipped through the pages. On the last one, where she had left it blank, was writing.
Words she hadn’t written.
“She’s here. She watches. Don’t look down.”
Her hands trembled. She shut the notebook and ran.
That night, she dreamed of the lake. But it wasn’t calm. It was violent. Stormy. And something was rising from it — a figure with long black hair and empty eyes, calling her name.
Over the next few days, Rachel tried to ignore it. She stayed indoors. Wore her headphones. Distracted herself. But the pull of the lake only grew stronger.
She began hearing whispers in running water — the kitchen sink, the shower. Always the same voice. Always the same word:
“Return.”
She researched the history of Elmbrook Lake and found nothing official. No reports. No missing persons. It was as if the town had scrubbed its own history clean. But one evening, she found an old box of newspaper clippings in her grandmother’s attic.
She opened it.
The headlines chilled her.
“Boy Vanishes from Elmbrook Dock — No Body Found.”
“Teen Girl Missing After Night Swim — Search Called Off.”
“Another Disappearance at the Lake — Locals in Panic.”There were dozens. All with the same location. All after sundown.
Rachel's hands shook. On one clipping from 1987, a photo showed a young girl with dark hair and pale skin. Underneath, the caption read: “Amelia Rourke, age 9. Last seen near the lake. Presumed drowned.”
Rachel recognized the face.
It was the one she saw in the water.
That night, she couldn’t stay away.
As the sky dimmed and the world turned blue, she made her way down to the lake one last time. She brought a flashlight, her notebook, and a single question:
What does the lake want?
She reached the dock.
The water was still.
Rachel knelt, opened the notebook, and whispered, “Why me?”
The flashlight flickered. Then died.
In the darkness, the water rippled.
A hand reached up from beneath the dock, pale and wet, fingers stretching toward her leg. Rachel gasped and stumbled back, heart in her throat.
From the lake, dozens of voices rose in unison — whispers overlapping, urgent, desperate:
“She trapped us.”
“She feeds on the sad ones.”
“You’re the door.”“Don’t let her in.”
Then silence.
And then, one voice louder than the rest, from directly behind her:
“Thank you for returning.”
Rachel turned.
A woman stood at the edge of the dock.
Drenched. Hair covering her face. Her dress was from another era — long, tattered, soaked through.
She didn’t blink.
She didn’t breathe.
And her feet didn’t touch the ground.
The figure drifted forward.
Rachel couldn’t move.
The woman extended a hand. Water poured from her fingertips.
“You lost someone,” she said. Her voice was like a current — soft, but strong enough to pull. “I can give them back.”
Rachel’s eyes filled with tears. “How do you know that?”
The woman smiled.
“I know pain. I am made of it.”
Behind her, the lake began to churn.
Something stirred beneath it — dark shapes circling like sharks, rising toward the surface.
“Come,” the woman whispered. “Just one step, and you can forget.”
Rachel took a breath.
And stepped forward.
But she didn’t fall in.
The dock cracked. Splintered. But the water didn’t take her.
Instead, everything stopped.
The wind. The voices. The churning.
The woman was gone.
Rachel stood alone, drenched in sweat, the sky now fully black above her.
And in her hand, the notebook had changed again.
New words, scrawled across the last page:
“You chose to remember. She cannot touch you now.”
Rachel dropped to her knees, sobbing.
In the weeks that followed, the whispers faded. The dreams stopped. But the lake remained — silent, dark, and watching.
Rachel never returned to it.
But sometimes, when she passes by, she swears she sees a figure beneath the surface, waiting for the next broken soul to whisper to.
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