The River That Knows Names

People in my town warn you not to walk near the river after sunset. They say something

old lives there, something that learned how to sound human. I never believed them.

Not until I heard my name drifting up from the water. The voice sounded like my mother’s.

Soft. Familiar. Worried. Calling me closer, telling me I’d be

safe. I stood at the riverbank, staring into the dark current. The water was too

still, like it was listening. Then I saw her face on the surface— smiling,

but wrong. Its eyes were too wide. Its mouth moved a second before

the voice did. I stepped back. The river rippled, and pale, dripping hands reached