Still Waters: A Haunting Short Story of Streams, Secrets, and Farewell

Trigger Warning: This story includes dark themes.

In Still Waters, an elderly man makes one final pilgrimage to a place that has always held both solace and quiet desperation. It’s a farewell not to a person, but to a lifetime of lingering in the spaces between belonging and being forgotten.

Still Waters

The stream at the bottom of the garden has no name and appears on no map. The icy waters bubble up from the rocky outcrop that erupts in the middle of the otherwise flat plain. It’s much deeper than such a narrow waterway should be, and in springtime, it can rise until the seething waters drown any plant daring to cling to its steep banks. A myriad of fish and turtles call it home. It draws foxes, raccoons, and birds of prey to its dark and chill waters. Once, when I was just a boy, I startled a great blue heron—its impressive wings flapping like a prehistoric reptile—as it soared away, its earthbound shadow racing along behind it.

I learned to fish there—first still-fishing with the pliable lead weight and bouncing float, then fly-fishing, although I caught the trees and shrubs on the opposite bank more often than I landed a rock bass or a rainbow trout. I should have learned to swim there too, but I never did. Elder siblings, aged parents—always promising, always too busy.

I have nothing but fond memories of that stream. It served as my childhood playground. Once in a while, a cousin or school chum would visit me, but I never showed them my stream.

Mostly I was alone there, being a late addition to a well-to-do family with children already grown. They had their heir and their spare. What did they need another son for? Like most children who spend too much time alone, I developed an imaginary friend. I called them “Juniper,” after the stubby trees that grew along the banks. Or maybe they told me that was their name—who remembers? Neither boy nor girl, Juniper always invented the most creative and entertaining games. We built tiny rafts to sail the stream’s dark waters. We wove elaborate wildflower crowns. You can still see the remnants of the ramshackle fort we constructed in the tallest of the nearby trees. Our fort is quite high off the ground now, but back then it was just a quick scramble to the first fork in the branches.

I’m old now, having lived my promised fourscore-and-ten and then some. I’ve always lived in this big old house—except for the years I went off to fight in the war, from which my brothers never returned. Don’t ask which war—they’re all the same. Trust me on this.

These days, I don’t get down to the stream very often. It’s not a simple journey for an old man with a cane. I meant to ask the social worker to help me order a staff the next time she visited. I’m sure that ethereal store named after a mighty river has an excellent selection. But I never got around to it.

I’m going to visit my stream today. For the very last time. I want to say goodbye. It’s the perfect day for a wander. There are so many interesting rocks here by the creek. I’ll collect some and put them in my pockets. Oh, look. There’s Juniper, come to take me home. They reach for my hand as I wade into the stream, icy waters biting at my pale and wrinkled toes.

It’s deeper than it is wide, my stream, as I sink beneath the icy waters.

The End

Still Waters: A Haunting Short Story of Streams, Secrets, and Farewell