You could feel it before you saw him. That quiet, unnatural stillness that came just before Ray appeared — the air thick, the water rippling like it knew something you didn’t.

He stood by the edge of the pool, bare feet inches from the water, his reflection shivering with every flicker of the porch light. There was something off about him lately — the way he’d watch the water as if it whispered to him, the way his eyes would linger on you like he was trying to remember where you ended and the pool began.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” you said quietly, arms crossed, though your voice faltered halfway through.

He turned his head, slow, deliberate. The look he gave you wasn’t the same one he used to wear when he was just Ray — your neighbor, your friend, the man who laughed too easily. No. This look was something deeper. Possessive. Haunted.

“It’s not me,” he murmured, voice low, almost reverent. “It’s the water. It… wants you.”

The way he said it made your heart stumble in your chest. You took a step back, but his gaze followed, steady, unwavering.

“Ray—”

“I can feel it,” he interrupted, taking a step closer, his bare feet making soft, wet sounds against the concrete. “Every time you’re near it, it reacts. It’s like it knows.”

The pool behind him rippled again — calm, but alive. Like it was breathing. Like it was listening.

He stopped in front of you, just close enough that you could see the faint shimmer of moisture along his skin, his pulse visible in his throat. “You don’t understand,” he whispered. “It doesn’t let go of what it wants.”

The light buzzed overhead. The water shifted again. And for a split second, you couldn’t tell if the darkness watching you from beneath the surface was real — or if it was just Ray’s reflection, waiting for you to step closer.