Man In The Water

Northcrest Daily Press

November 4th, 1962 – 9:42 AM

By Marla Keene, Senior Correspondent

They pulled him out just after six. The lake was still black, fog clinging to the surface like skin. A duck drifted by, paying no mind. One of the officers cursed quietly under his breath. Another turned away and retched into the grass.

“No sign of trauma,” a voice said behind them. It was the coroner, buttoning his coat higher against the cold. “No wounds. No bruises. No water in the lungs. He didn’t drown.”

Detective Byron Meritt knelt beside the body, fingers hovering just above the man’s jacket. “So how the hell did he get here?” His voice was low, tight. He wasn’t talking to anyone in particular.

The body was strange. Clean. Too clean. Still dressed for the office—slacks, loafers, corduroy jacket with a stain near the cuff. No wallet, no ID. Just a diner napkin folded in his coat pocket. Blue ink, scrawled in a frantic hand: They’re already here.

Meritt stood and looked out across Lakehurst Park. Sunlight was beginning to bleed through the fog, thin and pale. The playground swing creaked in the breeze.

“We don’t talk to the press,” he muttered. “Not until we know what this is.”

Two hours later, the press knew anyway.

Across town, at the Blue Cow Diner, old men stirred their coffee and shook their heads. “Told you,” Malcolm Stokes said, tapping his spoon hard against the ceramic mug. “It’s starting again. You think this is the first one? Pfft. You think this city doesn’t bury things?” He laughed once, sharp. “They just bury the ones that can’t talk.”

A young waitress hesitated, glancing toward the window. “You mean the W.H.O.?” she whispered.

Stokes didn't answer. Just stared out at the trees across the street, where the fog was still thick. “They’re not the ones you see. They’re the ones who see you.”

Northcrest PD issued their official statement around 9 AM. “An isolated incident,” they called it. “No cause for concern.” But it was already too late. The city had started to whisper.

At the corner of Lakehurst and Jubilee, a woman stood wrapped in a wool shawl, her arms tight around her chest. She’d seen the body when they brought it out. “His eyes were open,” she said quietly. “He wasn’t scared. He looked… aware. Like he was watching something. Like he knew something was coming.” She looked down, voice shaking. “And the cops… they didn’t hide it well. One of them was crying.”

Two blocks away, schoolchildren were let out early. “Maintenance,” the letter said. “Precaution.” But parents weren’t buying it. Not with police tape still fluttering in the park. Not with reporters watching from across the street.

Inside Precinct Five, Meritt sat at his desk, the napkin sealed in a plastic sleeve. He stared at it for a long time. Didn’t touch it. Didn’t move.

His phone rang once. Then stopped.

Ten minutes later, the lights flickered.

At 11:02 AM, the city morgue lost power for exactly thirty-four seconds.

When the backup lights kicked in, the body was gone.

Angela Faye was the only tech on duty. She hadn’t moved from her chair. “I didn’t hear anything,” she said. Her face was pale, eyes unfocused. “But something was in the room.”

She pointed toward the door.

A wet trail smeared the tiles. It led from the autopsy table across the floor, through the exit… and vanished.

No fingerprints. No damage to the lock. The security camera feed? Dead. Wiped.

The coroner called Meritt himself. “It’s gone,” he said, not even trying to hide the shake in his voice. “Jesus, Byron, it’s just gone.”

Meritt didn’t respond. He was already standing in the alley behind the precinct, staring at something small and black lying beside the dumpster.

A coin. Round. Smooth. Metal cold to the touch.

Etched on one side were three words: Observe. Correct. Disappear.

He pocketed it without a word.

Meanwhile, downtown, Marla Keene tapped her notes into her typewriter, listening to the city shift outside her office window. Car horns. Dogs barking. A door slamming far below. But underneath it all, something else. A hum, maybe. A breath.

“I went to the park again,” she murmured aloud, just to hear the sound of her voice. “Something’s wrong there. The grass… it didn’t bend. Where the body was. Like the earth didn’t want to touch him.”

Her editor knocked once before stepping in. “You done with the copy?”

Marla nodded. “Almost.” Her fingers hovered over the keys. “But I want the last line to matter.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he grunted. “They’ll run something soft under it. Weather. A sports column. People forget quick.”

That night, as the city dimmed beneath yellow streetlamps and boarded windows, someone sat alone in a windowless room. A map stretched across the table. A red circle around Lakehurst.

Notes scrawled in shorthand.

Photos arranged.

A flicker of static on an old reel-to-reel recorder.

The voice, distant, warped: “Subject escaped before processing. Protocol failed. Eyes still open.”

The room went silent.

Then, a whisper. Not from the recorder. From the air itself.

“We’ve been seen.”

In the dark of the city, someone closes a folder.

And somewhere nearby, something wet moves across the floor.

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