The Frozen Water
Episode 79 of The
Scene: Canadian wilderness, 1932
Constable Arthur Bell arrived at the river just after dawn, his breath hanging in the brittle air. The ice stretched smooth and pale beneath a sky the colour of old tin. In the centre of the frozen expanse sat Henry Lavoie’s ice‑fishing hut — tilted, half‑submerged, as though the river had tried to swallow it and changed its mind halfway through.
A wooden sign leaned nearby, the paint still fresh:
ICE FISHING — 50% OFF
(Equipment rental slightly used.
Previous owner definitely gone.)
Arthur frowned. Henry wasn’t the joking type.
Beside the hole in the ice lay a pair of gloves and a thermos. The thermos was still warm.
Henry Lavoie was nowhere to be seen.
The Footprints
Arthur crouched to examine the snow. Footprints led away from the hut — clear, crisp, unmistakably Henry’s. The stride was steady. No sign of panic. No sign of a fall.
But fifty metres out, the prints changed.
The toes angled outward, then inward, then sideways, as though Henry had begun walking with his feet turned at impossible angles. The stride lengthened unnaturally. The impressions grew shallower, then deeper, then lighter again.
And then, in the middle of the frozen river, the prints simply stopped.
No return path. No drag marks. No cracks in the ice.
Just an ending.
Arthur felt the cold settle deeper into his bones.
The Warnings
Maggie Wapahk arrived without being summoned. She approached quietly, her snowshoes whispering across the drifts.
“You found his hut,” she said.
Arthur nodded. “And his tracks.”
Maggie’s eyes moved to the place where the prints vanished. “Not tracks,” she corrected softly. “Borrowing.”
Arthur exhaled sharply. “I’m not here for stories.”
Maggie didn’t flinch. “The river takes people sometimes. Only in the deep winter. Only when it needs to see through their eyes.”
Arthur shook his head. “Henry didn’t fall through.”
“No,” Maggie agreed. “He was chosen.”
Arthur opened his mouth to argue, but the words felt thin in the frozen air.
The Night on the River
Arthur stayed to guard the site. Procedure, he told himself. Nothing more.
The temperature dropped with unnatural speed. Frost crept across the inside of his lantern glass. The ice beneath him groaned — not cracking, but resonating, like a drum struck from below.
He heard footsteps circling the hut.
Slow. Measured. Human.
He stepped outside, revolver drawn.
A figure stood on the far bank — Henry’s silhouette, unmistakable in the moonlight. Arthur called out, but the figure didn’t move. Didn’t wave. Didn’t breathe.
Arthur took a step forward.
The figure sank straight down into the ice.
No splash. No break. No ripple.
Just disappearance.
Arthur ran to the spot. The ice was solid beneath his boots.
He felt something shift beneath it — a slow, deliberate movement, like a hand brushing the underside of glass.
He did not sleep.
The Ending
Maggie returned at first light. She found Arthur standing beside the hole, pale and trembling.
“He came back,” Arthur whispered. “Henry. He spoke to me.”
Maggie’s expression didn’t change. “What did he say?”
Arthur swallowed. “He said he needed… one more day.”
Maggie nodded, as though this confirmed something she already knew.
A week later, Henry Lavoie walked into the settlement. Alive. Unharmed. Smiling faintly, as though waking from a long dream.
But his eyes were wrong.
Too calm. Too old. Too knowing.
Arthur filed his report. He omitted the voice beneath the ice. He omitted the figure sinking without a ripple. He omitted Henry’s final words before walking away:
“It wasn’t borrowing,” Henry murmured. “It was choosing.”
The river froze solid that night.
And it did not thaw for a very long time.
What was in the thermos?