The Duck Pond

Heavy metal night at the Obsidian Cellar in Cinderstone Village was the place to be on a Friday night, unless that night was tonight. I glanced around the neon-lit social club as the bass of Metallica's Creeping Death reverberated through my chest. My fuckin' people, I thought, observing a murder of black leather battle jackets circling the pool table.

After receiving my change for the round, I gave the barman a nod and headed to the terrace. I couldn't help but notice an unusual duo sitting in the corner of the room. They didn't stand out physically speaking, but there was something off about them. One of the two seemed absolutely comatose, staring down at the table without even blinking. The other guy rambled incessantly, words flowing without pause. It might have seemed like a typical bar scene, but there was an undeniable eerie vibe to the comatose man's unbroken gaze.

Shaking off the unease, I made my way to the terrace where Sam awaited his beer. He had just returned from a trip to London, and he seemed ready for a blowout. I reached for my lighter I usually keep in my top pocket, not there. I start patting down my pockets and catch Sam looking up at me. 'Ben!' he said almost abrasively but with kind. Then passed me my lighter, of which I had left on the table. I give him a smile and a wink and lit my cigarette, "You're a nightmare" he joked.

But something was off about him; I could tell. "You alright, mate?" I asked, trying to sound reassuring. After a noticeable pause, he replied, "Yeah, man." I knew Sam better than anyone, and I knew there was something he wasn't telling me. I raised an eyebrow, silently signalling that I could read him like a book and knew for a fact something was up. Finally, he gave in. "To be honest, mate, and don't laugh, I can't stop thinking about this random homeless bloke we bumped into in town this morning. He proper spooked Luce... and me, to be fair."

I didn't know what to expect, but I definitely didn't anticipate him being upset about a run-in with a homeless guy. "No worries, mate. What's up? And why would I laugh?" I encouraged him to share. He explained that after they got off the train this morning after a three-hour journey and headed through town, they were stopped by a homeless man who seemed strangely and obsessively fixated on him. With Luce present, Sam didn't want to make a scene, so he simply said he didn't have any change and apologised. That's when things took a disturbing turn. The homeless man's eyes lit up, and he said, "You're Sam."

At that moment, as I sat across from him, he avoided eye contact with me. I knew whatever he was about to say held weight. He continued, revealing that the homeless man claimed he knew him—or instead knew of him. I tried to dismiss it, assuring him it was probably some loon who had been following them or overheard a conversation. But Sam looked at me and said something that sent chills down my spine.

"Mate, he knew about Carl."

Carl was our friend who went missing three years ago due to very unusual circumstances. "Fuck, man. How did you respond to that?" I asked, my voice filled with a mix of concern and disbelief.

Sam went on, explaining that he questioned the homeless man about how he knew Carl. And then the homeless man said something that froze Sam in his tracks. "I've just met him. Nice chap. Special place we live in, isn't it? Dangerous, though."

Luce, quick to react, had dragged Sam away from the unsettling encounter. She brushed it off as the ramblings of a psychic wannabe with access to police records or something. Luce was a smart one, an outside-the-box thinker, and to be honest, I believed her. But Sam... Sam didn't.

Attempting to move away from the subject, I steered the conversation away from the encounter. The remainder of the night was spent discussing various topics, such as Metallica's decision to self-title their new album and the uncanny experience of noticing something for the first time, only for it to repeatedly appear, like the unusual patch worn by battle jacket wearing metal heads we'd noticed recently.

Laughter, drinks, and cigarettes filled the air until the last call. It was a cool night, one of the best, until it took an unexpected turn. We exited the Obsidian Cellar and embarked on our walk home. Luckily, both of us resided within walking distance, just a short stroll through the village. Sam split off before reaching the duck pond, where we bid our farewells with a warm embrace and the customary "until next time" sentiment.

As I made my way toward the duck pond, I noticed the two individuals from earlier—the guy in a comatose state and the rapid talker—walking ahead of me. Normally, I'd mind my own business, but there was something profoundly strange about these two. The talkative guy continued his monologue without pause, barely audible but seemingly never needing to catch his breath.

Meanwhile, the other man appeared disoriented, stumbling around as if intoxicated. They eventually disappeared around the corner where the duck pond was. Once I reached that point myself, I would try to catch another glimpse of them.

Suddenly, an overwhelming sensation overcame me, as if I might vomit. My mouth grew dry, and a cold sweat started to form. The temperature around me abruptly spiked, as if it were an oppressively hot summer night. The discomfort intensified as I approached the duck pond, now partially visible through the mist.

When I finally turned the corner, disbelief seized me. The duck pond was steaming, resembling a boiling pot of water on a stove. I strained my eyes, slowly moving closer, attempting to detect something I'd noticed near the pond's centrepiece. My God, it was the two men—that talkative man pinning the other beneath the water surface, palm pushed on the back of his head. How were they not scalded to death? The man pulled the other man's face from the water.

It was horrific.

His face was blistered, I couldn't make out any facial features. As his head was pulled from the water his eyes remained submerged, attached by a thread. He was wailing, a condensed scream through gritted teeth.

Amidst the chaos, the most rational thought I could muster was, "What the fuck?" I briefly questioned whether this was all just a figment of my imagination—a disturbingly vivid one at that.

Should I call out? idiot, obviously not.

In that instant, in a horrifying flash, the tormentor turned around, meeting my gaze. I stood frozen, unable to summon the strength to escape. His piercing stare penetrated me, his eyes as black as tar. My thoughts raced, screaming at me to run, run, run, for fuck's sake. Gasping for breath, I slowly turned my head towards the path. If I sprinted, I could reach my apartment in five minutes.

Casting a backward glance, I caught sight of him, now emerged from the water, standing upright. Dread engulfed me. My legs quivered with weakness, but miraculously, I mustered the will to sprint. All I had to do was reach the roundabout, and within two minutes, I'd be home. I ran with the desperation of a man whose upper body vastly outweighed his legs. Where was everyone? I made it across the roundabout, stealing another quick look to check if he was still in pursuit.

He was.

Stationary, at the centre of the roundabout, stood upright, his gaze fixed upon me. Something was amiss—his arms had extended beyond his jacket sleeves, stretching so long that they touched the ground.

Nope.

I continued to sprint, my front door within sight. Why didn't he move when I glanced back? He was following me, yet whenever I looked, he remained motionless. What in god's name was this creature?

Finally, I reached my apartment. After securing the door, I hurried to the kitchen, clutching a knife. Seated on the stairs, my eyes remained fixed on the entrance. Exhaustion hit me, but a surge of adrenaline kept me alert. I could hear him, or perhaps it. As I peered through the keyhole, all I saw were the pale streetlights illuminating the deserted streets. It was ominously peaceful.

I considered myself fortunate to have escaped. But, my head, it refused to turn. I couldn't pull my face away from the keyhole. A palm-like grip seized the back of my skull, pressing me forcefully against the door. I screamed and begged until everything turned black.

***

Wetness surrounded me—I was drowning. I propelled myself onto my feet, gasping for air, my legs submerged.

I was in the duck pond, and It was cold.