The river was not the place I knew.
I stood alone at the top of the stone steps—the same steps I had walked a hundred times beneath the sun. In daylight this place belonged to me—ordinary and comforting. But now it was night. A full moon burned overhead, and the land below had shifted into something sinister.
The river gleamed like polished stone, moonlight sliding faintly across its surface. The water seemed still yet I felt something circling beneath its calm facade. On the far bank, the trees loomed as hulking silhouettes, their branches curled into claws. The air hung thick and damp, heavy with the acrid stench of burnt wood, reminiscent of funeral pyres.
A sound cracked the silence. From far below, at the river’s edge, a splash—intermittent, strained—as though something fought to rise but was dragged under, again and again.
Every part of me screamed to turn back. To leave. To run. But something held me back, an intuition that someone needed my help. My chest felt heavy, my legs heavier, yet they moved.
One step. Then another. Toward the dark water.
The deeper I descended, the more restless I became. I was tethered to the sound below, pulled forward like prey, as if the river itself drew me closer. By the last step, my heart pounded violently, hammering in my temples. I forced myself to lean forward, peering into the water.
Nothing.
No reflection. Not even my own face.
I bent closer, holding my breath.
In a flash, a hand shot up from the water and clamped around my ankle. Cold fingers dug deep, squeezing the flesh desperately. I kicked, twisted, fought with everything I had. I wrenched my foot free—but dragging up a face on the water.
His face.
Raman. My best friend.
But not the way I remembered him. His skin was pale, stiff, and lifeless in the moonlight. Water streamed from his hair and glasses, his mouth gasping as if he had surfaced after hours beneath. His eyes found mine, wide, filled with something worse than fear. A soul-crushing plea.
“Raman!” I reached for him, hands clawing the air, straining to pull him back onto the steps.
But his body jerked backward, yanked by an unseen force. The river swallowed him whole, restoring its calm facade back. Just before he vanished, his lips whispered a word—rushed but clear.
“Goodbye.”
The weight of that word shattered me awake.
I bolted upright in bed, lungs burning, heart battering against my ribs. My body shook, skin clammy, clothes damp. Worse was my right leg—just above the ankle, sore and tender.
I told myself it was only a dream. It had to be.
But in the moonlit silence of my room, I wasn’t sure. Not entirely.
I didn’t always have nightmares. They began after one night—the night that split my life into before and after.
And, it all started with a simple question:
Do you believe in ghosts?
This is prologue from my upcoming horror novella Planchette Crow. Get a complimentary eBook copy here: Google Form.
