I've worked at the old Xinhua District Swimming Pool for seventeen years. Never once have I gone into the water.
Hard to believe, right? A lifeguard who can't swim. During my interview, the manager stared at me for a full ten seconds and asked if I was afraid of water. I said yes. He asked why I'd become a lifeguard then. I told him it's precisely because I'm afraid that I know better than anyone when something's wrong in the water.
The manager was silent for a moment, then tossed me a pair of navy-blue swim trunks and a brass whistle. "Three-month probation," he said.
I got hired not because I could swim, but because I had a knack for spotting trouble.
The first—and only—thing Old Zhou taught me: clear the pool half an hour before closing. Blow three short blasts on the whistle. If someone's still in the water, don't call out again. Don't go in. Just stand by the edge and wait for them to come up on their own. I thought this rule was strange and asked why.
Old Zhou didn't explain. He just said the pool was dug in 1972, older than he was. Some things are older than rules.
I asked what that had to do with anything.
Old Zhou said not to ask. Just remember.
For seventeen years after that, I remembered. Every summer, there'd be someone so lost in their swimming they'd ignore the closing whistle, just keep going lap after lap. I'd stand by the pool and watch—watch them go from energetic strokes to gasping exhaustion, until finally they'd stop.
Ordinary people stop when they're tired. That's instinct. Those aren't the ones to worry about.
Early June this year, Xinhua District got three days of heavy rain. The old pool's roof leaked in seven places. The manager had me hold plastic buckets under the drips while he squatted by the pool smoking, saying he wanted to close the place down. I asked where the neighborhood kids would go in summer.
He said the water park east of town—they had slides and wave pools. Who'd come to this old dump with cold showers?
I didn't reply. He was right. Fewer people came each year. On weekdays, the pool could sit empty all afternoon. But weekends still brought regulars—old neighbors who'd been swimming here for decades. They said the new water park had shallow water and too much chlorine. Not satisfying.
The manager didn't close it in the end. He had someone patch the roof and replace all the anti-slip mats. The old ones were as hard as bark. Old Zhou said those mats were older than his daughter, who's thirty-one and works as a nurse at the city hospital.
The new mats were navy-blue, soft underfoot, with a strong rubber smell—like brand-new rain boots. I walked around the pool twice. Good feel, but the fumes stung my eyes. Old Zhou said they'd air out in a couple days.
June 14th, Saturday. More people than usual—about twenty. Half were regulars, half were parents bringing kids for one last swim before summer break. At 5:30, I counted eleven people still in the water.
First whistle at 5:30.
That's the rule. Closing time is 6:00 PM. First whistle half an hour early, second fifteen minutes early, third at exactly 6:00, then lock up. Ironclad routine. Seventeen years without change.
Six people got out after the first whistle. Four more after the second. One left—Lane 6, near the edge, wearing a navy-blue swim cap, doing breaststroke at a steady, unhurried pace.
I stood by the pool watching. Old Zhou came out of the break room with an enamel mug, tea leaves stuck to the rim. He glanced at the pool. "How many?" he asked. "One," I said. He nodded, pulled over a plastic chair, and sat down to wait.
At exactly 6:00, I blew the third whistle.
The sound bounced around the empty natatorium, making the steel beams hum. The central air conditioner created ripples on the water. The chlorine smell was stronger than during the day—maybe the cooling temperature made it evaporate more.
The person kept swimming.
Breaststroke, Lane 6. Back and forth. The kick created little splash. Flawless form. The navy-blue cap bobbed like a fishing float on the surface.
I picked up the brass whistle and blew again—longer, louder.
No reaction.
"Time to wrap it up," Old Zhou said from behind. "Give him a nudge."
I walked to Lane 6's edge and squatted down. The water was about eight inches below the rim. My hand rested on the anti-slip mat, still warm from the day. The swimmer was coming toward me. I could see the cap, the goggles, the arms stroking beneath the surface.
He reached my feet, turned, kicked off the wall, and swam back the way he came.
"Sir, we're closing!" I called out.
My voice sounded strange in the empty hall—like a stone dropped down a well, disappearing without echo.
He didn't stop.
I stood up and watched him swim to the other end, turn, and come back. This time as he passed, I noticed his cap was pulled low, almost covering his eyebrows. Only a sliver of forehead and the goggle lenses showed above water.
"I'll go talk to him," I said, heading for the pool ladder.
Old Zhou suddenly set down his mug, his voice sharper than usual: "Don't go in."
I turned to look at him. He was sitting on the plastic chair, leaning forward, mug on his knees. Tea sloshed over the edge onto the new anti-slip mat.
I couldn't see his expression clearly. Half the lights were off, leaving only the fluorescent tubes above the pool—pale white light reflecting off the water, everything else in shadow.
"Wait a bit longer," Old Zhou said, his tone softening. "Let him come up on his own."
I stopped. Old Zhou had worked here over twenty years—his word carried weight. I stepped back and stood beside him. Together, we watched the blue cap move rhythmically across the water.
One lap.
From end to end, perfect breaststroke form—kick, stroke, breathe. As he passed beneath us, I could hear the sound of his hands cutting through the water: plop, plop, plop.
Two laps.
Same cap, navy-blue—almost the same color as the new anti-slip mats. I suddenly realized I'd never seen this color cap before. Most were black or white, occasionally red. Navy-blue was rare.
Three laps.
Old Zhou stood up, setting his mug on the chair. He walked to my side, standing about a foot from the edge, staring down at the water. Fluorescent light lit his face—sixty-something, wrinkles like cracks in a dried-up pool bed.
Four laps.
As he passed, something felt wrong. I couldn't put my finger on it, but his form wasn't as crisp. His kicks were smaller, his arm strokes slower. But the rhythm stayed the same—steady, unhurried.
Five laps.
When he turned, I saw it.
Not the cap. What was under it.
The cap was still there—navy-blue, stretched tight. But less of it showed above water now. Before, I could see his forehead and goggles. Now only the top half of the goggles peeked out—two black semicircles stuck to the surface.
The water had reached the goggle line.
Old Zhou's hand suddenly clamped around my arm. His fingers were dry and hard, knuckles prominent, his grip so tight it numbed my forearm.
"Don't speak," he whispered, almost in my ear.
Six laps.
The person—or thing—kept swimming. The breaststroke form was gone. Arms skimmed the surface. Kicks became slow convulsions. The cap was still there, but the goggles were gone. Only the navy-blue cap remained, with something blurry beneath it.
Hair.
Black hair, soaked through, clinging to the cap's edge, spreading and contracting with the water's movement.
It was sinking.
Old Zhou pulled me back a step. His hand shook, but his grip didn't loosen. I could feel his nails digging into my skin.
Seven laps.
Water covered half the cap. From where I stood, it looked like a leaf floating on the surface, trailing black seaweed beneath. Its movements continued—arm strokes almost invisible, only the small blue cap moving slowly from end to end.
"Old Zhou," I said, my voice scraping out dry as sandpaper.
"Don't look," he said. But he was looking too. Neither of us could look away.
Eight laps.
The cap disappeared completely.
The last sliver of navy-blue vanished. Only the spread-out black hair remained, like ink dropped into clear water, spreading strand by strand. Then the hair sank too. The water stilled. Fluorescent light reflected off the surface, pale and cold.
Nothing left.
The pool was as quiet as a coffin. The drip from the ceiling suddenly became loud—drip, drip, drip—water spilling over the plastic bucket's edge, splattering on the tiles.
When I came to my senses, I was rushing toward the pool. I didn't know what I was doing—maybe to jump in, maybe to get a better look. My mind was chaos; my body moved before my brain caught up. Old Zhou tackled me from behind, his strength surprising for a man in his sixties, dragging me backward.
"Go! Now!"
His voice exploded in my ear—hoarse, trembling. He dragged me back several steps. My foot caught the plastic chair. The enamel mug crashed to the floor, tea splattering, leaves sticking to the new anti-slip mat like black bugs.
Old Zhou dragged me out of the pool area, through the locker rooms, and pushed open the main glass door. Night had fallen outside. Streetlights were just coming on, casting orange glow over the parking lot. Old Zhou let go of me, spun around, and locked the door. His hands shook so badly he missed the keyhole several times before finally getting the key in.
Click.
The lock engaged.
He stepped back, gasping for breath. I was gasping too—legs weak, back soaked with sweat, T-shirt clinging cold to my skin. I leaned against the parking lot railing, mind blank, mouth opening and closing without words.
"Just... don't look," Old Zhou said, still trembling. "You didn't see anything. I didn't see anything. Come back to work tomorrow like nothing happened."
I tried to say something, but Old Zhou was already walking away. His silhouette disappeared at the end of the streetlight, footsteps quick—as if something was chasing him.
I stood in the parking lot for ten minutes, smoking two cigarettes. When the wind blew, the sweat on my back turned icy, raising goosebumps. I glanced back at the pool. The lights were still on inside, fluorescent white light shining through the glass—cold, sterile.
I got on my bike and left.
---
I didn't sleep that night.
My apartment is on the second floor of the old Xinhua District housing complex. My bedroom window faces an alley. In summer, I sleep with the window open. At midnight, I can hear Old Zhao's air conditioner humming next door. I tossed and turned, every time I closed my eyes seeing that navy-blue cap bobbing on the water.
I finally fell asleep around 2 AM. I dreamed of a white shadow drifting from the deep end to the shallow end, then back again. I leaned over the pool to see better. The white shadow suddenly flipped over. A face stared up at me.
No eyes, no nose, no mouth—just a mass of black hair, like countless thin tentacles.
I jolted awake, sweat soaking my back again. Old Zhao's air conditioner droned on—buzz, buzz, buzz—exactly like the pool's filter pump.
I stayed up until dawn, then got out of bed. Brushing my teeth, I saw my reflection—pale, dark circles under my eyes. I splashed cold water on my face, grabbed my bike, and headed out.
I reached the pool at 6:20. The sky was fully light. Summer mornings come early. The air smelled of rain from last night, mixed with the aroma of fried dough sticks from the street stall nearby. I parked my bike, walked to the door, and inserted my key.
The door was already cracked open. Inside, it was dark.
I found the light switch on the wall and flipped it. The fluorescent tubes flickered twice before buzzing to life, illuminating the empty front desk and locker room entrance.
Everything was exactly as we'd left it. The plastic chair lay on its side by the pool entrance. The enamel mug was on the floor, tea dried, leaves stuck to the anti-slip mat in brown stains.
I walked past the front desk and pushed open the pool area door.
I froze.
The water was black.
Not just dark from shadows—solid black. The entire pool looked like someone had dumped hundreds of bottles of ink into it. So dark you couldn't see the bottom, couldn't see the black lane markers, couldn't see the drain grate. Fluorescent light hit the surface but couldn't penetrate—only reflected back as a greasy sheen.
The smell had changed too. Not the usual faint chlorine. Something else—a sickly odor, like stagnant pond mud, or something that had been soaking in water for far too long, sweet and rotten.
I stood by the pool, legs going weak again.
Old Zhou appeared behind me without a sound. He didn't speak, just stood beside me, staring at the black water. I glanced at him—same as me, pale, eyes sunken, lips cracked. He clearly hadn't slept either.
"What do we do?" I asked.
Old Zhou was silent for a long time. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, took two puffs. The smoke was gray-blue in the fluorescent light.
"Drain it," he said.
---
Draining started at 7 AM.
The pool had an old submersible pump for water changes and cleaning. Not very powerful—would take at least four or five hours to empty. I lowered the pump into the deep end, plugged it in. It roared to life, black water gushing from the drain pipe into the gutter.
The smell grew stronger.
I retreated to the break room door, watching through the glass. The black water level dropped slowly, leaving streaks on the pool walls—like claw marks.
Old Zhou stayed by the pool the whole time, smoking endlessly, cigarette butts littering the floor. By noon, the water was halfway down. The deep end bottom started to emerge.
That's when I saw it.
At the bottom of the deep end, near the drain, a pair of flip-flops sat perfectly aligned.
I walked closer. Nothing strange—just ordinary navy-blue flip-flops, soles up, straps against the white tiles. They were positioned side by side, about a foot apart, perfectly straight—like someone had taken them off neatly at their front door.
Both pointed directly toward the drain grate—toward that dark metal opening. As if whoever had worn them had walked straight to the drain, taken off their shoes, placed them neatly, and then...
Then disappeared.
Old Zhou and I stood by the pool, staring at the flip-flops. The drain pipe still gushed black water, the pump humming. About an inch of black water remained on the pool floor, soaking the flip-flops. I could see the sole pattern clearly.
"These shoes..." I started, my throat drying up again.
Old Zhou didn't reply. He stared at the flip-flops for a long time, then bent down and picked up a long-handled net used for skimming leaves. He extended it into the pool and hooked the flip-flops.
When the net touched them, the soles flipped over. Plain flip-flops—no logos, no designs. The cheapest kind you'd buy on the street for a few bucks.
Old Zhou lifted them out, turning them over in his hands. The soles showed little wear—hardly broken in. No blood, no hair, nothing unusual. Just flip-flops.
He set them on the anti-slip mat. Water from the soles soaked into the navy-blue material, making a dark patch. The new mat was almost the exact same color as the flip-flops—they blended together.
"Did anyone wear these in yesterday afternoon?" I asked Old Zhou.
Old Zhou thought for a long time, then shook his head. He had a good memory—remembered what regulars wore—but he had no recollection of these navy-blue flip-flops.
The pool was completely drained by 2 PM. Besides the flip-flops, there was nothing else. No body, no clothes, not even a single hair.
The black water flowed into the city sewer system, leaving only a fine black sediment in the gutter—like rust but not quite, slimy when I touched it with my finger.
I put the pump away and hosed down the pool floor. When the water hit the drain area, I noticed the grate was loose—like someone had tampered with it. I pried it up with a screwdriver and shone a flashlight inside.
The pipe was wide—about sixteen inches in diameter. Pitch black inside. The flashlight beam didn't reach far. I lay on the floor and peered in. Dark streaks lined the pipe walls—stains from years of water flow.
Just as I was about to replace the grate, the flashlight beam caught something in the pipe's depths.
Something reflected the light.
Faint, gone in an instant. I aimed the flashlight that way, squinting. In the darkness deep inside, I could make out a round shape—about the size of half a palm—stuck to the pipe wall.
I reached in, but couldn't reach it. I found a piece of wire, bent a hook on the end, and poked it in. The object loosened and slid down the pipe wall. I hooked it and pulled it out bit by bit. When it reached the opening, I grabbed it.
It was a watch.
An old mechanical watch. The face was cracked, hands stopped at 3:17. The metal band was rusted, wrapped with several strands of black thread. I looked closer—not thread. Hair.
Thin, long black hair, tightly wrapped around the band.
I flipped it over. Engraved on the back was a date, rusted but still legible: July 1972. A name followed, half-eroded by rust, only the last character recognizable.
"Sheng."
Old Zhou took the watch from me. When he saw that character, his hand suddenly shook violently. The watch slipped from his fingers, crashing onto the pool tiles with a sharp crack.
He turned and walked out of the pool without a word.
I picked up the watch and put it in my pocket, replaced the grate, and tightened the screws. My back ached when I stood up, knees sore from kneeling on the tiles. I climbed out of the pool and sat on the edge for a while, staring at the empty pool bottom and those navy-blue flip-flops.
My phone rang. It was the manager. He asked why we weren't open. I said the pump broke, we were fixing it. He said that was fine, open tomorrow instead—business was slow anyway.
I hung up and realized it was Sunday.
Old Zhou and I were supposed to take turns today. The pool should have been open. But because of the water issue, no one came. Only Old Zhou and me.
Wait—Old Zhou had left.
Now I was alone.
I glanced at the break room. I'd already picked up the fallen chair and washed the enamel mug, putting it back on the table. Everything looked normal, like nothing had happened. Except for those navy-blue flip-flops on the anti-slip mat, perfectly aligned, pointing toward me.
I picked them up, hesitated, then threw them in the trash. I packed up, locked the door, and left. Before leaving, I checked all the lights were off. The pool area plunged into darkness.
As I locked the door, I stood outside the glass and looked in. Nothing to see—only my own reflection in the glass: tired, pale.
On my way home, I stopped at the police station. A young officer listened to my story and had me leave the watch, saying they'd look into it. I asked how long it would take. He said maybe a week if it went fast.
I went home, took a shower, and lay on the bed. It wasn't dark yet, but the curtains were drawn, leaving the room dim. I stared at the ceiling, replaying the day's events in my mind.
5:30 PM—first whistle. Eleven people in the water. Five minutes later, second whistle—one left. 6:00 PM—third whistle. He kept swimming.
Breaststroke, Lane 6, navy-blue cap.
Old Zhou said don't go in, wait for him to come up. We waited five laps. His cap sank. Ten laps later, nothing.
Wait. There was a detail I missed.
He never stopped in the shallow end. Every lap passed through the shallow area, but he never stood up. The shallow end was only four feet deep—an adult could stand with water at waist level. But he never stood. Not once.
It was like he didn't have legs.
The thought made me jump up from the bed. Night had fallen outside. Old Zhao's air conditioner started humming again. I got up, poured a glass of water, took a sip. The cold water went down my throat, making me shiver.
The phone rang.
It was Old Zhou.
His voice sounded strange—like he had something in his mouth, muffled. He said he'd gone back to his hometown, found something in his mother's old chest. He wanted me to come over right now.
"Now?" I asked. "Now," he said.
I hesitated after hanging up. Old Zhou wasn't usually like this—calm, methodical, never in a hurry. But I got dressed and went anyway.
Old Zhou lived in an old neighborhood east of the city. About a twenty-minute bike ride from my place. I arrived at his building around 9 PM. The motion-sensor lights were broken on two floors. I felt my way up to the fourth floor and knocked.
No answer.
I knocked again, calling his name. Footsteps approached slowly—one step at a time—stopping behind the door. Then the door opened a crack. Old Zhou's face appeared—half-lit by the hallway light. His eyes were red, like he'd been crying or hadn't slept in days.
He let me in, then quickly closed the door.
Old Zhou lived alone. Small apartment, two bedrooms, old furniture but clean. On the coffee table were spread-out old photos and documents, plus a dark red wooden box with faded carvings.
"Sit," Old Zhou said, pointing to the sofa.
I sat down. He pushed the wooden box toward me. It was smaller than a shoebox, the paint cracked, brass latch green with rust. I looked at Old Zhou—he nodded.
I opened it.
Inside was a stack of yellowed papers, topped with a black-and-white photo. It showed a swimming pool opening ceremony. A group stood by the pool holding red silk. Several young men swam in the pool, smiling at the camera.
I recognized that pool instantly—the tile pattern, the steel beams, even the position of the anti-slip mat. Exactly like the pool I worked at.
"Seventy-two," Old Zhou said, his voice thick. "When the pool was first dug."
I turned to the next photo. Same pool, but a cigarette burn hole marred the edge. A tall middle-aged man in a white shirt stood by the pool talking to someone. On the back, written in fountain pen: July 1972, Commemoration.
July.
I pulled the watch from my pocket, flipped it over. July 1972, followed by the character "Sheng."
"Look at this one," Old Zhou said, handing me another photo.
This one showed the pool's spectator stands. A crowd sat on benches. In the front row, center, was a boy—fourteen or fifteen, thin, with the short haircut common back then. He wore a white tank top and navy-blue shorts, navy-blue flip-flops on his feet. He smiled broadly at the camera.
The photo was clear enough to see the sole pattern on those flip-flops.
Identical to the pair I'd pulled from the pool.
I stared at the boy for a long time, then pointed to his face. "Who is this?"
Old Zhou didn't answer. He stood up and walked to the window, back to me, shoulders trembling. Outside, city lights flickered. From the next building, a TV played—a variety show, laughter drifting through the walls.
"That watch," Old Zhou finally said, so soft I had to strain to hear. "The name on the back—does it end with 'Sheng'?"
I said yes.
He was silent for so long I thought he wouldn't speak again. Then he turned around. His eyes were bloodshot, lips trembling.
"That boy's nickname was Shuisheng. He was my older brother."
Wind suddenly rushed through the window, flipping the old photos on the coffee table. The boy's smiling face turned upside down. On the back, faint writing was barely visible.
I leaned closer. The words were scrawled, as if written in a hurry. The ink was dark red—not fountain pen ink.
"The water at the bottom is alive. Don't go down."
"That's blood," Old Zhou said from the window. Wind messed his hair. His face looked like crumpled paper in the light. "My brother wrote it. With his own blood."
I set the photo down, fingers cold. The room was quiet except for the distant variety show laughter—muffled, like it was coming from underwater.
Old Zhou told me his brother Shuisheng died in July 1972. Three days before the pool opened. The pool had just been filled for final water testing. No one knew when Shuisheng snuck in.
When they found him, he was curled at the bottom of the deep end, knees to chest, like a fetus. The water was clear—you could see him perfectly from above. But no one dared go in. His eyes were open, mouth wide, like he was screaming.
In the end, Shuisheng's father—Old Zhou's father—jumped in and pulled him out. He said Shuisheng felt light, like a feather floating on water. That night, Shuisheng's father drained the entire pool. At the drain grate, he found Shuisheng's navy-blue flip-flops—perfectly aligned, toes pointing inward.
No one knew how the shoes got there. Because when Shuisheng was found, he was wearing them.
After that, Shuisheng's father sealed the drain with cement. But the next morning, the cement was shattered. The drain grate was intact, clean as new.
Old Zhou said his father sat by the pool alone all night. The next day, half his hair had turned white. He was thirty-nine. From that day on, the pool had its rule: if someone was still in the water at closing, don't call out. Wait for them to come up on their own.
I asked what the rule meant. Old Zhou said he didn't know. His father never explained, only told him on his deathbed: "Don't let anyone stay in the pool overnight. The water remembers."
---
The next day, I went to work as usual. The pool was open, sounds of people laughing and splashing. Everything seemed normal. But on the front desk, I saw something—the navy-blue flip-flops I'd thrown in the trash. Someone had fished them out and placed them neatly in the center of the counter.
Pointing toward the pool.