leorohit

[leorohit]

deep waters

There’s something about deep water that has always unnerved me. The way it stretches on endlessly, dark and unyielding. Last summer, I discovered just how much that fear was justified.

It started with a message: "You need to see this." A friend of mine, Mike, had attached a grainy photo of a sonar reading. At the bottom of the screen, a jagged mass protruded from the seabed. Beneath it were the words: UNKNOWN OBJECT DETECTED.

Mike was an amateur diver with a taste for mystery. He’d found the coordinates from a forgotten blog about unsolved maritime disappearances. Against my better judgment, I agreed to join him. I wish I hadn’t.

The dive site was miles off the coast, beyond the reach of cell service and common sense. The water was eerily still, and as we descended into the blue, the sunlight faded faster than it should have.

At 150 feet, we found it. A massive structure loomed ahead, encrusted with barnacles and cloaked in seaweed. It looked ancient—impossibly old—and yet untouched by time. My chest tightened as I realized the structure wasn’t natural. It was deliberate. Designed.

Mike swam ahead, his flashlight cutting through the gloom. He gestured for me to follow, pointing to an opening at the base. The shape reminded me of a gaping mouth. Against every instinct, I swam in after him.

Inside, the temperature dropped. The walls were smooth, almost metallic, and the silence was deafening. No sound of bubbles, no hum of marine life. Just an oppressive stillness.

Mike’s light flickered. Then it died. Panic surged through me as I fumbled with my own flashlight. In the brief moments of darkness, I felt it—a vibration, low and guttural, like a growl reverberating through the structure. My light sputtered to life, and I saw Mike frozen in place, his eyes wide with terror.

Something moved behind him.

I grabbed Mike and yanked him back toward the opening, but the entrance was gone. In its place was a seamless wall. The vibrations grew louder, morphing into whispers, unintelligible but filled with malice.

Then, I saw them—figures drifting in the shadows. Human-like, but not human. Their limbs were too long, their eyes too large, and their movements too fluid, like ink dissolving in water. They circled us, their faces contorted into expressions that were almost curious. Almost.

Mike screamed, his voice muffled by his regulator. One of the figures lunged, and he vanished into the darkness.

I don’t remember how I got out. One moment, I was surrounded by those things, and the next, I was clawing my way to the surface, lungs burning, the sunlight blinding me.

The boat was empty. Mike never surfaced.

I reported what happened, but the authorities found nothing—no wreck, no structure, not even a trace of Mike. They said it was probably a diving accident, that the pressure had messed with my head.

But I know the truth. That structure is still out there, waiting. And so are they.

If you’re ever tempted to explore the deep, don’t. Some mysteries are meant to stay buried.