The River Beneath the Pines

 They never found Jake’s body. Not the first time, not the second.

We weren’t supposed to be there. The old ranger had warned us at the base of the trailhead: “If you reach Blackpine River, you’ve gone too far. Don’t camp near the water. Not there.” He didn’t explain, just stared at us with those pale eyes, like fog was trapped behind them.

But we were seventeen, and warnings sounded like dares.

The hike had been long—six miles through dense forest with backpacks stuffed full of junk food, firewood, and cheap beer. By the time we reached the river, the sky was burning orange. Jake wanted to stop.

“Why not here?” he said, already dropping his bag. “Flat ground, no bugs, and we got the water right there.”

I hesitated. The air around the river felt… weird. Cold, even though it was July. The trees leaned in too close, like they were whispering to each other. But no one else seemed to notice.

So we stayed.

That night, we built a fire and roasted marshmallows over the flames. For a while, it was just normal: dumb jokes, music on a Bluetooth speaker, Jake trying to impress Haley by doing handstands he clearly couldn’t hold.

But around midnight, things started to change.

The river grew louder.

It had been quiet before, barely a trickle, but now it sounded like it was rushing, fast and angry. The fire sputtered, even though there was no wind.

Haley got quiet first. “Do you guys hear that?”

We listened. Underneath the sound of the river… there were whispers.

Soft. Slippery. Like something speaking under the water.

“Probably just frogs or something,” Jake said, though his smile looked tight.

Then we heard the splash.

We all turned.

Nothing.

Jake stood up and grabbed a flashlight. “Probably an animal. I’ll check it out.”

“No, man, don’t—” I started, but he was already walking.

He didn’t scream. He didn’t call for help.

He just vanished.

We searched for two hours, yelling his name, sweeping the shorelines. The river was pitch black, but we waded in anyway, cold water biting our legs.

At 3:07 AM, we called the cops.

When the rangers showed up the next morning, they searched the whole area. Divers went into the river, but they didn’t find a thing. Not a footprint. Not a thread from Jake’s shirt.

Just gone.

They chalked it up to an accident. Said he slipped in, hit his head. Carried downstream. But something didn’t make sense.

I stayed behind after the others left. Something was pulling at me. Not guilt. Not grief. Something worse.

The ranger—the old one—was still there, standing near the trees. I walked up to him.

“You knew something,” I said. “About the river.”

He looked at me for a long time, then finally said, “They call it The River Beneath the Pines. But it’s not just a river. Not really.”

“What is it then?”

“It’s a wound,” he whispered. “A tear between here and somewhere else. Something fell through, long ago. Something hungry.”

I didn’t sleep that night.

One Year Later

We went back.

Haley talked me into it. She hadn’t been the same since that night. She had nightmares, sleepwalked, even tried drowning herself in her own bathtub once. She thought if we went back—faced it—it might stop.

We brought cameras, flashlights, and an old book she found online about cursed land and thin places. She highlighted a passage about rivers being ancient gates.

The river hadn’t changed. Still too loud. Still too cold. Still wrong.

We didn’t set up camp this time. We just stood there, letting the quiet close in.

“I see him sometimes,” Haley said, her voice barely above a whisper. “In the corners of my eyes. When I look in mirrors.”

“Jake?”

She nodded.

Then the river surged.

Not like a normal surge. It rose—swelled upward like something underneath was pushing it. A shape moved beneath the water. Broad shoulders. Pale hands.

Jake’s face broke the surface.

I screamed.

Haley ran toward him. “Jake!” she cried.

He opened his mouth—but what came out wasn’t his voice.

It was the river.

A horrible choking gurgle that sounded like a hundred people drowning at once.

His skin was pale. Eyes completely black. Like the river had hollowed him out and was wearing his body like a mask.

He reached for Haley.

I yanked her back just in time, and we both fell to the ground. But Jake—no, that thing—didn’t follow. He just stared at us with that empty gaze, water pouring from his mouth like he was still sinking.

Then he was gone.

Sucked back under. The river went still.

Haley cried all the way down the trail. We didn’t talk. We didn’t have to.

Three Weeks Later

She’s missing.

Disappeared from her room in the middle of the night. Window open. No note. Just a trail of water leading from her bed to the sill.

The cops said she ran away.

But I know better.

The river took her.

It doesn’t just drown you. It remembers you. And once you’ve seen what’s beneath, it follows.

I see Jake too now.

In puddles.

In bathroom sinks.

In dreams.

And every time I do, I hear the same whisper:

“You left me.”

I don’t sleep anymore. I don’t go near water. I can’t even take a shower without the pipes groaning like they’re trying to speak.

And the river?

It’s waiting.

For me.