Rivermoor was a town built on old stories. Its history was woven with tales of ghosts in the woods, of strange lights flickering in the hills at night, and of the creature that lived in the depths of the river that snaked through its heart. For generations, the people of Rivermoor knew one thing to be true: you never went to the river after dark.
The river was more than just a body of water; it was a line between the living and the dead, a boundary that separated safety from peril. In the daylight, it shimmered like liquid glass, serene and inviting, but when the sun dipped and shadows grew long, it turned black as pitch. The elders whispered that beneath that dark surface lay a creature—a shadow that fed on fear and dragged the curious and the foolish into its watery depths.
Amara had heard these stories all her life. Her grandmother, a woman with eyes like old amber, would tell her the same warning every night before bed: "The river is a hungry thing, Amara. It remembers those who tempt it." Amara would nod, wide-eyed, but secretly she was fascinated. She had never seen anything monstrous in the river. As a child, she’d stand on the banks and toss stones into its dark water, waiting for something to surface, something to prove that the stories were more than just stories.
Years passed, and Amara grew older, but the fascination never left her. At seventeen, she was bold and reckless, her curiosity stronger than her fear. She’d swim in the river on sunny afternoons, feeling the water slip over her skin, cool and refreshing. "If there's a monster, why hasn’t it come for me?" she’d laugh to her friends, who only shook their heads. "You keep tempting fate, Amara," they warned. "One day, it’ll answer."
And it did.
It was a moonless night when the river finally spoke. The air was heavy with humidity, and not a single leaf rustled in the trees. Amara lay awake in bed, her room dark and stifling. A strange unease had settled over her, a restless feeling that wouldn’t let her sleep. She sat up, listening to the silence, when she heard it the distant sound of water, like the river was calling her name. She shook her head, thinking she was imagining it. But the pull became stronger, an insistent tug at the back of her mind.
“Amara…” a voice seemed to whisper from the stillness. Her heart began to pound, a mixture of fear and excitement rising in her chest. She got out of bed, almost as if in a trance, and moved to the window. The fog outside was thick, clinging to the earth like a heavy shroud. She knew she shouldn’t go, but something deep within her urged her forward.
She crept down the stairs and out the front door, the chill of the night air biting into her skin. The town was asleep; every house was dark. Only the river seemed awake, its surface glistening faintly in the fog. She followed the path she knew so well, down to the water’s edge. As she approached, the whisper grew louder, not in her ears but in her mind, a voice layered with a thousand others, old and aching.
The river was calm, unnaturally so. No ripple, no sound, only the slow, steady pull of the current. She knelt at the bank and peered into the depths. Her reflection stared back pale, wide-eyed, and fearful. But there was something else. Behind her reflection, a pair of eyes, glowing a sickly yellow, blinked from beneath the water. She spun around, her breath hitching in her throat, but there was nothing behind her.
When she turned back, the eyes were gone. The water rippled, and from its depths, a shape began to emerge. It was dark and formless at first, like ink swirling beneath the surface, but slowly it began to coalesce, twisting and contorting until it formed a vague, monstrous figure almost human but stretched and distorted. Amara's heart pounded in her chest, and she felt a scream building in her throat, but she couldn't move. She was rooted in place by a force she didn’t understand.
“Who are you?” she managed to whisper, her voice trembling.
The figure’s eyes locked onto hers, and though its mouth never moved, a voice filled her mind—a voice like rustling leaves and grinding stones. “I am the hunger that lies beneath. I am the shadow that devours. You have called to me, Amara. Now I am here.”
Terror gripped her. She hadn’t called it—not with her voice, at least. But she realized her defiance, her years of tempting the river, daring it to show itself, had been a call of their own. She took a shaky step back, but the creature didn’t advance. It only watched her, its form shifting like smoke in the night.
“Why now?” she asked, her voice barely audible over the sound of her own heartbeat.
“Because your fear is ripe,” the creature hissed. “Because you are not afraid… yet.”
Amara swallowed hard. She’d always thought of herself as brave, but now, facing this creature of darkness, she felt small and fragile. She needed to do something, anything. Her hand moved to the small, silver pendant hanging around her neck—a gift from her grandmother, who had claimed it had the power to ward off evil. She yanked it free and held it out toward the creature.
The silver glinted in the dark, and the creature hissed, its form flickering as if caught in a strong wind. “You think trinkets will save you?” it snarled. “Light may drive me back, but it cannot banish me. Not while I am bound to this place.”
Amara’s mind raced. “What do you want?” she demanded, trying to sound braver than she felt.
“I want to be free,” it said. “And to be free, I must feed. The river binds me, but blood will loosen the chains. Bring me what I crave, or one day I will take you.”
It began to sink back into the river, its eyes never leaving hers, even as its body dissolved into the water. “Remember, Amara,” it whispered as it vanished. “I am always waiting.”
The surface stilled, and the night was quiet once more. Amara stood there, shivering and clutching the pendant, her breath coming in shallow gasps. She knew now that the stories were real, that the river was more than it seemed. She had faced the shadow and survived, but it wasn’t over.
Over the following weeks, Amara couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Every time she passed the river, she felt its eyes on her, felt the darkness stirring beneath the surface. She knew she couldn’t keep the creature at bay forever, not with a piece of silver and a few whispered prayers. It was waiting, biding its time, growing hungrier with every passing day.
One evening, she returned to her grandmother’s house and asked about the pendant. The old woman’s face turned grave. “It is a ward,” she said. “But it is not enough to keep the darkness away if it has set its sights on you.”
“What do I do?” Amara asked, her voice trembling. “How do I stop it?”
Her grandmother’s eyes seemed to bore into her soul. “The river has claimed many souls, but it fears those who carry light and courage. You must find its heart, its core of darkness, and banish it. But be warned, child it is a path fraught with peril.”
Amara nodded. She had no choice. She would rather face the shadow on her terms than wait for it to come for her. That night, she armed herself with a lantern, matches, and a knife. She wore her grandmother’s pendant and a belt of salt, another old ward against evil. She made her way back to the river, where the fog lay thick on the ground.
The water was dark and still, reflecting nothing but the emptiness of the sky. She lit the lantern, and the light cut through the darkness, casting long shadows along the bank. She took a deep breath, her heart pounding, and stepped into the water. It was ice-cold, seeping into her bones, but she waded deeper, determined to find the creature’s heart.
As she moved further in, the riverbed dropped away beneath her, and she began to swim. The lantern bobbed beside her, its light flickering with each stroke. The water grew darker, colder, and soon she could see nothing but blackness below her. She felt a sudden pull, like a current grabbing at her legs, and she kicked harder, pushing back against it.
And then she saw it a faint glow beneath her, a deep, pulsing red like a distant, dying star. She knew instinctively that this was the heart of the shadow. She dove, letting the lantern float above her, and swam down toward the light. As she got closer, she could see that it wasn’t a light at all, but an opening a portal that seemed to lead into the very depths of the earth.
A hand reached up from the darkness, clawed and skeletal, and grabbed her ankle. She gasped, bubbles escaping her mouth as she struggled to free herself. The shadow was there, coalescing around her, its eyes burning with fury. “You should not have come,” it hissed, its voice a chorus of agony.
Amara twisted, slashing with the knife, and the hand recoiled. She reached into her belt and threw a handful of salt into the creature’s face. It screeched, its form unraveling, but it wasn’t enough. She could feel herself being pulled down, her lungs burning, her strength fading.
In a last desperate move, she grabbed the lantern and swung it toward the portal. It shattered, the oil spilling out, igniting in a burst of flame. The light blazed bright, illuminating the depths, and the shadow screamed, its body convulsing as the flames licked at its edges.
“No!” it wailed, its voice echoing through the water. “You cannot banish me! I will always return!”
But the fire spread, the light growing brighter, and Amara could feel the grip on her loosening. She kicked away, swimming back up to the surface with everything she had left. Her head broke through, and she gulped in air, dragging herself onto the riverbank.
Behind her, the water roiled and hissed as the flames continued to burn below. Slowly, the light dimmed, and the river returned to its calm, dark self. Amara lay on the bank, gasping, her body trembling with cold and fear.
She knew the shadow wasn’t truly gone. It was bound to the river, after all, and some evils could never be fully destroyed. But she had driven it back, at least for now. And as she lay there under the starless sky, she realized something important: fear wasn’t something to be denied or ignored. It was something to be faced, stared down, and, if necessary, fought against with all the light one could muster.
From that night on, the river still whispered, but it was a quieter whisper, a more distant one. And Amara, now armed with the knowledge of what lay beneath, was no longer afraid to listen.