Come to the Reservoir.
The Reservoir is located in a desirable area. The neighborhood cuts through the hills with narrow zig-zagging streets, postmodern bungalows sheltered by eucalyptus and birds of paradise. Unusually verdant for a desert region, the trees stay green all year round. It’s a beautiful place to jog and hike. Beautiful people exercise here every day.
The Reservoir has many friends. If you look close behind the chain-link fences, you’ll see them camouflaged in the trees and concrete—forms of living water, visible only when they move and leave a chilly stain in the air.
The Reservoir is over 100 years old. Tall, drooping trees surround its edges, leaning in opposition to the mansions across the street. Its wide basin is veined with cracks, black asphalt and little groves of weeds. A grand observation tower juts up from the southmost edge. At the waterline, the concrete turns bone-white. The water reflects the sky, blue and clear. It has the aura of a ritual site, a temple once sacred and revered. Perhaps that is why it is attended by the city’s most beautiful.
The Reservoir welcomes all. It is perfect for an afternoon walk, a late-night jog, a picnic on the greenbelt, a photoshoot against the water’s backdrop. Wealthy and unlucky alike can walk its length and appreciate its beauty. The Reservoir loves all visitors.
The Reservoir is full of curious attractions. Visitors look into the water and see faces staring up at them. Figures draped in mist stand on the surface and beckon.
Don’t listen to those who tell you that, on foggy nights when the streets are deserted, a translucent arm reaches from the water. It wavers, then extends its wispy fingers over the fence and toward the running path. Someone always happens to be passing by. The arm lifts the person from the pavement, back over the fence, and into the water without another sound. Don’t mind those stories; they’re not all true.
The Reservoir even provides its own entertainment. On special nights—never the same night or the same time—the gate to the observation tower will open. You walk the long concrete bridge into the tower’s head, then find yourself in a rusted elevator shaft, which leads to the underbelly of the Reservoir.
You crawl beneath the rock and metal and come to a small theater, where marionettes of white plaster act out a tragedy. The show features several hours of beautiful songs, soliloquies of deep desire, and the most ungodly exultations. Enjoy yourself, but don’t stay too long. At dawn the elevator shaft closes, and might lock you inside.
If you’re very, very lucky, run to the Reservoir at midnight. Stop for breath at the northmost gate. As you rest, the gate will dissolve. You walk down the slope of dry basin and onto the water. The gelid surface supports you like glass. You walk to the center and look up. The sky inverts, bent over itself as if seen through a lens.
Look down. You will no longer be standing on the water. A great eye will bulge beneath you, glistening with endless tears. It trembles unblinking as you fall down its iris, into the water’s perfect embrace.
Most wondrous of all are the Reservoir’s friends. If you stare deep past the blue-sky reflection, into the depths of the basin, you might catch a glimpse. Embedded in the concrete there are hundreds of bodies, cast in pure alabaster and exquisitely detailed, as beautiful as they were in life. They cling to the Reservoir’s belly, always together, always one.
Why did the Reservoir take them? For company, of course.
Come to us.
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Ben Larned (he/they) is a queer horror writer and filmmaker. Their work is featured in Vastarien, Apocalypse Confidential, Creepy Podcast, and Seize the Press, among others. “What Scares a Ghost?”, their story in Coffin Bell, was nominated for the Best Small Fictions 2023. Their short film “Payment” is streaming on ALTER. They hold an MFA from The New School.