The Echoes of Stillwater Creek

Growing up in Stillwater Creek, you'd be hard-pressed not to hear a ghost story or two. But seriously, the place had vibes. I'm talking bone-chilling whispers of wind through the trees, flickering lights, all that kind of thing. But that was just folks being folks, right? Anyway, I moved away years ago. Settled in the city, got a decent job, and life was mostly chill—until I started having those weird dreams. And get this, I could hear voices, like actual whispers, but way too clear. 'Come home,' they'd tell me. Freaky, right? So, I did it. I went back to Stillwater Creek, kinda thinking I'd find Ma cooking fish pie, just like old times. Except, no fish pie. Ma passed two years back, but the house, it was all the same. Even down to that creaky step. First night back, I crashed early. Jet lag, exhaustion, whatever you want to call it. But can't a girl just get some shuteye without her headlights turning into flashlight beams in a fog, or voices pointing her back to the highlight reel of her troubled childhood? The second night, I got curious. Armed with a flashlight, I headed to the shed out back, where Dad kept his old radio gadgets. The shed hadn't seen action since the nineties, but the dang door just opened like brand new. And wouldn't you know it, inside was my dad's ancient radio, humming away. A familiar voice danced through the static. "Emily, you're not doing this alone..." I dropped the flashlight and hightailed it back to the house, heart racing like I was doing my sprints again. Barely got any sleep that night. The next morning, I needed answers. But the shed was silent. No buzzing, no whispers—just the quiet hum of time passing. To distract myself, I went rummaging through old photos. Found one of me and my childhood pal, Tony. He had moved away a year before I did. He'd be the one with insight. Turns out, Tony was manager of the little hardware store by the creek, and he wasn't surprised to see me. "Ah, Emily," he sighed, handing me a Coke. Like we hadn't missed beat. We got to talking—all the stuff folks usually rabbit on about. Eventually, I confessed about the radio. His brows knitted together. "You ain't heard? Your dad was chasin' secrets. Something about voices in the creek. Everybody thought he was loopy." Now, that felt eerie. It started adding up—kind of. Why Dad was all about the radios, why Ma always warned me about the creek. I spent the rest of that week on a ham radio crash course—didn't have TV to distract me. By night three, I was hearing the whispers without the radio. It's like they crept closer, telling me things like 'it was an accident,' or 'Mom had to keep quiet.' Suddenly, the connection made sense. The creek was more than just funny business. It echoed, literally, with truths you'd rather let lie. But who could sleep with that reality peeking through the curtains? I was done playing the scaredy-cat. On that decisive night, flashlight in hand, I walked down to the creek. Waves shimmered under moonlight, and the water felt icy—you know, that kind of goosebumps cold. "What do you want from me?" I called out, voice breaking the stillness. And then a shape materialized over the water, real as life. Dad's face among the mist, eyes wide with warmth, not terror. "It's okay, Em," he murmured, echoing past our world. "You freed me. The truth's no longer shackled by silence." A shiver ran through me, but it was real. Sometimes, knowing eases that heavy load, or it doesn't, but it's better than treading water in the dark. In the weeks that followed, I made peace with it all. The voices? Faded whispers, like the breaths of lost time. Experiencing it—experiencing him—again let me unchain myself. Finally saying goodbye stamped its own kind of clarity on my heart, like that last page of a long-winded book. Only, in my story, the ghosts of Stillwater Creek were never echoes—they were revelations, rippling in the waters long gone.