Dark Waters by Newton Webb

A Supernatural Short Story: On the anniversary of his wife’s death, a grieving man’s solitary dive uncovers deadly peril.

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2022 - Dead Water

2022, Grimsdyke, England

The world felt muted as Greg walked slowly through the early morning mist. The tiny painted houses of Grimsdyke in the background were silent. The town was slumbering softly until the sun had reached a more acceptable height. The beach was empty. It was just Greg walking contemplatively under the swirling mass of gulls with their angry calls as they swept low over the waves. Like him, they were hungry for breakfast. Greg preferred to dive in the morning before the tourists arrived with their inane shouts and shrieks and cries. He preferred a world that contained just him, the ocean, and perhaps later in the day, a pint and a pasty.

He secured his tank, tightening the mask around his face. Every time he pulled on the mask, he remembered her.

Rach.

The one person he’d been happy to share the world with. She’d introduced him to diving. Before Rach, he’d been a homebody, content with walking through the local woods. She had a sense of adventure that had led them to Scapa Flow, the Farne Islands, Lundy Island, Skomer Marine Reserve, and the Plymouth Sound. They’d explored old WWII wrecks, colourful reefs, and underwater rock formations. She’d always joked that she’d never die in her bed. She would either be battling a shark or relaxing with a drink in her hand.

Which was why, when the doctor had diagnosed pancreatic cancer, they’d both been shellshocked.

Her laughter came back to him, a faint echo in his mind, and he clenched his jaw against the sudden ache. She’d loved the south coast; for one reason or another they’d never made it to Grimsdyke. He was here on their wedding anniversary to rectify that. To celebrate their love with a cold, lonely dive.

Greg waded into the water alone with a practised ease. The golden rule of diving is that you never dive alone. Well, cancer—that fucking thief—had robbed him of his dive partner and nobody else would compare. Besides, he’d broken the rule countless times without any trouble. The sea was a second home to him. Diving solo was no big deal. He’d read about survivorship bias, the illusion of invincibility that grew with each risk taken. But is it really a risk if you have nothing to live for?

It was just him and the rushing, hissing sound of his breath in the regulator, his heartbeat steady in his ears.

His plan today was a shallow dive, just to get to know the area. He set off toward the wreck of the Anne, a remnant of the Battle of Beachy Head in the 17th century, partially buried in the sand and mud.

As he drifted down, his eyes adjusted to the darkening green, shapes softening as he sank deeper. Greg was just nearing the hull when he caught a glimpse of something resembling a large conger eel swimming through the wreck—they were not uncommon in these waters. But as he moved closer to investigate, he saw something out of place. The dark shape appeared to be a most unusual diver. It wasn’t wearing any hood, even in the cold temperatures of the sea around southern England. Short black hair swayed in the current, dancing like a net of seaweed around her head.

Greg blinked, fighting back the first stirrings of panic. Something was wrong. It was unusual to see another diver here, especially alone, but not unheard of. Still, something about the way she hovered near the wreck with her face turned away from him, hair brushing her shoulders, felt off. It was like a memory resurfacing.

He swam closer, his strokes cautious. As he neared, her dark drysuit seemed to blend seamlessly into the water’s shadow. When she turned, her face caught the dim sunlight filtering through the waves.

It was Rach.

The breath snagged in his throat, and for a moment, he forgot to inhale. His lungs burned as he held it in the silence. She looked just as she had before—it was even her wetsuit. She looked just as she had before the sickness had ravaged her, before the shadows had sunk into her cheeks, turning her skin sallow and her eyes hollow. She was Rach in her prime, her face alive, unmarked by pain.

And yet she was different.

It took him a few beats to realise what was wrong. She wasn’t producing any bubbles. There was no recognition in her face. Nothing escaped her lips. No air. No life. Just that cold, eerie calm.

Greg’s hands shook, his heart thundering in his chest. He wanted to believe it was a trick of the light, some cruel illusion brought on by his grief. But then she reached for him, her fingers stretching through the water as if to grasp at him.

Instinct took over. He backfinned hard, trying to create distance between them but she moved with him, gliding effortlessly, her eyes locking onto his. A strange, blank hunger radiated from her gaze.

He wanted to scream but all that escaped was a strangled whimper, muffled by his regulator. Rach—or whatever monstrous thing it was—moved closer, her face expressionless, her eyes too dark. She snatched at his ankle as he kicked towards the surface, missing as he tried to escape.

Greg felt it then—an unyielding grip, ice-cold even through the drysuit. Her hands had managed to clamp around his ankle. He glanced back at her, at those eyes that had once been warm. Now, they were hollow, black pits, devoid of humanity.

With a final surge of strength he wrenched free, kicking hard toward the surface. The urge to breathe, to fill his lungs with air, was overwhelming. He tried to force himself to stay calm, breathing out almost constantly to avoid barotrauma, but her pursuit was relentless.

Fuck decompression sickness.

Greg kicked hard, his muscles screaming, each stroke frantic. Every movement was a desperate push toward the light above. He knew he was breaking all the rules of diving, but he also knew that to go any slower would mean death. His muscles screamed at him. Just a few more metres. Kick. Breathe. His chest tightened, heart pounding like a drum. The surface shimmered—almost there—almost.

Fingers brushed his ankle. He kicked again, harder, tearing himself free. His vision blurred, spots dancing. One final, desperate push.

And then—he broke through, his body launching into the blazing sunlight, as the air escaping from the over-pressure valve of his jacket and drysuit autodump valve propelled him. The light was blinding, the heat warm against his face. He gasped, gulping air, ragged breaths tearing through him. He turned, still thrashing, scanning the water around him. Just waves, gentle, indifferent. He dipped his head to look beneath him, but he could see nothing. No sign of the creature. Just the empty sea. He lifted his head from the water, feeling the waves lapping gently against his shoulders, looking at the familiar stretch of coastline in the distance. No sign of her, no trace of the pale, silent figure that had haunted him in the depths.

He swam as fast as he could muster towards the beach, stumbling onto the sand, collapsing to his knees. His lungs burned, his mind racing with the memory of her face, her touch, the cold certainty of her grip.

For a long time, he sat there, staring out at the ocean, trying to make sense of what he’d seen. He knew he’d never be able to explain it, never be able to tell anyone without it sounding like nitrogen narcosis, the rapture of the deep or just plain insanity. But he knew what he’d seen. His last memory of Rach had been in a hospital bed, pale and fading. Now, as tears pricked at his eyes, it was of her outstretched hands trying to pull him back into the watery depths.

As he turned away, he felt a lingering chill in the pit of his stomach. He could still feel her there, just beyond the waves, waiting.

THE END

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Welcome to the complete collected works of Newton Webb. Tales of the Macabre, Vol. 1-3 are intended for mature audiences.