The Drowned
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The Drowned
When I was a kid, I spent a night locked inside an old Victorian municipal swimming pool. It was an accident, but that didn’t make it any less terrifying.
The place had been there for over a century—ornate iron railings, peeling turquoise paint, and that ever-present smell of chlorine and damp decay. My friends and I had snuck in after closing hours, daring each other to jump off the high diving board. But when they left, I lingered too long in the changing rooms, and by the time I came out, the heavy doors were bolted shut.
I was trapped.
I banged on the door, shouting, but no one heard me. I ran through the tiled corridors, searching for another exit, but every door was locked. Eventually, I gave up, curled inside one of the wooden changing cubicles, and tried to sleep.
Sometime in the night, I woke up…
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