Michael was the third child to vanish that year. His disappearance was no isolated tragedy. It followed an eerily precise pattern. Just like the other two before him, the last place he’d been seen was near the abandoned community swimming pool. The pool itself sat like a scar in the middle of town, surrounded by cracked concrete and weeds that reached out like fingers. It was impossible to miss, yet most people avoided even glancing at it. Nobody could quite remember when or why it had been closed. It had always been there, a deep hollow filled with shadows instead of water, its silence heavier than the summer air.
The elders claimed the pool had once been the heart of the town during the blistering heat of July, a place where children’s laughter echoed across the rooftops. But over time, it became something else entirely. Four years earlier, a boy had drowned under strange circumstances—though “drowned” was an insufficient word, for when they found his body, his lungs had been dry. After that day, the town council ordered the gates locked. And yet, the lock never seemed to stay on for long.
In the years that followed, a pattern emerged. Anyone who lingered too close to the pool either turned up dead or vanished without a trace. Not once did anyone see them leave. No footprints led away. No sign of struggle marked the ground. It was as though the earth itself had swallowed them whole. Eventually, in a desperate attempt to rid themselves of the cursed thing, the townspeople brought in truck after truck of sand, determined to fill the gaping wound and forget it had ever existed. For days, they poured sand into the hole, but the level never rose. It was as if the pool had no bottom at all. The workers said it was like dumping sand into the sky—it simply disappeared into nothingness.
When Michael went missing, the whispers began again. They said he had been seen near the chain-link fence that surrounded the pool. Some swore he had been calling out to someone. Others said he had been leaning over the edge, speaking into the water as though it were speaking back.
Weeks passed, and hope dwindled. But then came the sightings. A handful of his friends claimed they’d seen him—by the pool—standing motionless at the edge in the dim light of evening. He had been smiling, they said, and in his hands he clutched something—a toy, brightly colored, bobbing faintly in the breeze as though it weighed almost nothing. When pressed for details, the children said it was an ocean-blue wooden train, the kind you might find in an old nursery, paint chipped and wheels worn smooth.
The neighborhood watch, already on edge, decided to investigate. The group was made up of ordinary townsfolk—store owners, teachers, and parents—but the fear in their eyes was sharp. On a cold evening at dusk, two members patrolling the area heard a faint voice. It was a child’s whisper, carried unnaturally far on the still air:
“Michael says he found a toy by the pool.”
It came from the direction of the chain-link fence. Two children, no more than eight or nine, were standing there, peering through the metal links. They giggled, their faces lit by the dying light of the sun. Then, without hesitation, they slipped through a hole in the fence and ran toward the water.
The watchmen followed, moving quietly. The closer they drew, the more wrong everything felt. The air by the pool was damp and heavy, smelling faintly of brine—as though they stood beside a vast, hidden ocean. And then they saw him. Michael. He stood at the far edge, soaked from head to toe, water glistening in his hair, dripping steadily onto the cracked concrete. In his hands was the blue train, its paint flaking with every movement. He held it out toward the children, his lips curling in what might have been a smile—if not for the emptiness in his eyes.
The children, transfixed by the toy, began to take slow steps forward. They didn’t see the wrongness in Michael’s face. But the adults did. His skin was pale, tinged with a bluish-gray, and his lips were swollen, as though they had been underwater far too long. Tiny streams of water leaked from his nose, his ears, and even the corners of his eyes, flowing in an unbroken trickle. As he tilted his head, the watchmen saw the truth: faint ridges along the sides of his neck, opening and closing in a slow, rhythmic pulse. Gills.
“There are more toys down here,” Michael crooned. His voice was soft, almost melodic, but there was a weight behind it that made the hair on their necks rise. He lifted his free hand and beckoned them closer, his fingers pale and pruned.
The watchmen shouted—sharp, desperate warnings for the children to run. The sound seemed to break the spell, but only for a moment. Before they could flee, Michael’s hand shot out. It moved with impossible speed, closing around the wrist of the nearest boy. His grip was so strong the child cried out in pain. Michael yanked, hard, dragging him toward the water. The surface was black, too black—like an oil slick reflecting nothing at all.
The watchmen lunged. One grabbed the boy’s other arm while the other wrapped his hands around Michael’s wet, freezing fingers, prying them apart with all his strength. For a moment, it felt as though they were wrestling with something not entirely human—the bones felt wrong, the joints bending in ways they shouldn’t.
And then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, Michael let go.
With a sound that was neither human nor animal, he staggered backward and dropped to his knees. The blue train rolled across the concrete, clattering faintly before tumbling into the dark water. Michael followed it, his movements jerky, as though being pulled by invisible strings. Without a splash, without so much as a ripple, he slid into the pool and vanished beneath its surface.
The adults and children stood frozen, staring at the spot where he had disappeared. The water was calm now, utterly still, as if nothing had happened. Only the lingering scent of saltwater and the faint echo of his voice proved otherwise.
The next day, the town acted. A higher, stronger fence was erected around the pool, topped with loops of barbed wire. Large metal signs warned in bold, red letters:
DANGER – DO NOT ENTER – VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED.
But barriers could not keep out what was already inside.
On certain nights, when the moon hung low and silver in the sky, those living nearby claimed they could hear it—faint laughter drifting across the empty streets. The sound of small wheels clattering along concrete. A child’s voice, muffled and distant, calling out,
“There are more toys down here.”
And sometimes, just sometimes, the glint of blue paint could be seen at the pool’s edge, waiting for the next child who couldn’t resist.
