Most people never notice.
They hear the South Saskatchewan rushing beneath the bridges, slapping against the riverbank, moving steadily northward through the city. But if you stand beside it after midnight—especially in winter—you can sometimes hear something underneath the current.
A voice.
At least, that's what Daniel Mercer told me.
Daniel was my neighbour. He lived three houses down from me in an older part of Saskatoon, and I had known him for nearly ten years. He wasn't the sort of person who believed in ghosts. He laughed at haunted-house stories and once spent an entire evening explaining why a supposedly supernatural photograph was actually lens flare.
So when he knocked on my door at 2:17 a.m. one January morning, I knew something was wrong.
He was barefoot.
His coat was buttoned incorrectly, and there was frost in his hair.
"Do you hear that?" he whispered.
I stepped onto the porch.
The neighbourhood was silent.
Snow covered everything. Streetlights glowed through the falling flakes, and somewhere in the distance a snowplough groaned along the road.
"Hear what?"
Daniel looked toward the river.
"It's calling my name."
I almost laughed.
Then I heard it.
Very faintly.
From somewhere beyond the houses.
"Daniel..."
I stopped breathing.
The voice sounded like someone speaking from very far away.
Daniel grabbed my arm.
"You heard it."
Again.
"Daniel..."
This time it sounded closer.
We stood there for several seconds.
Then Daniel whispered:
"It started three nights ago."
He told me he'd been walking along the Meewasin Trail near the river after work. It was late, around midnight, when he'd heard someone calling from below the riverbank.
He assumed somebody had fallen onto the ice.
He went down to investigate.
There was nobody there.
But when he stood beside the river, he heard a voice coming from underneath the ice.
His own voice.
It said:
"Daniel, don't go home."
Naturally, he went home.
The following night, the voice returned.
This time it said:
"You forgot something."
The third night it said:
"You left me here."
Daniel had barely slept since.
I told him he should call someone.
The police, perhaps.
He shook his head.
"They won't believe me."
Then he looked at me.
"I recorded it."
He pulled his phone from his pocket.
The recording was only thirty seconds long.
At first, there was nothing but wind.
Then the river.
Then Daniel's voice.
Except Daniel wasn't speaking.
The recording said:
"Daniel..."
A pause.
"Daniel..."
Then something whispered beneath it.
Something that sounded like hundreds of voices speaking simultaneously.
I couldn't understand the words.
Daniel could.
His face went pale.
"What does it say?" I asked.
He stared at me.
"It says, 'We're underneath Saskatoon.'"
The next evening, Daniel disappeared.
His car was still parked outside his house.
His wallet was on the kitchen counter.
His boots were beside the door.
His phone was gone.
The police searched the riverbank but found nothing.
Three days later, they stopped searching.
I tried to convince myself that Daniel had simply left.
But on the fourth night, I heard the voice again.
It came from my basement.
"Daniel..."
I froze.
The basement door was open.
I hadn't left it open.
I walked downstairs.
The furnace hummed.
The washing machine sat motionless.
Everything looked normal.
Then I heard tapping.
Three knocks.
From beneath the concrete floor.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
I backed away.
Another three knocks.
Then a voice whispered:
"Let me out."
It was Daniel.
I called the police.
Before they arrived, the tapping stopped.
When they searched the basement, they found nothing.
But one officer noticed something strange.
There was frost on the concrete.
Not around the walls.
Not near the door.
Directly in the middle of the floor.
A perfect circle.
About six feet across.
The officer crouched down.
"Do you have a sump pit underneath here?"
"No."
He touched the frost.
His expression changed.
"There's something underneath."
They brought in equipment the following morning.
They drilled through the concrete.
Three feet down, they hit something solid.
The drill broke.
They tried again.
Another drill broke.
Eventually they brought in a small excavation machine.
The hole became deeper.
Six feet.
Eight.
Ten.
Then the machine stopped.
The operator climbed down and stared into the hole.
"What the hell is that?"
I looked.
There was a tunnel.
Not a natural cavity.
A tunnel.
Its walls were smooth and black, stretching horizontally beneath my house.
And scratched into the concrete beside the opening were hundreds of names.
Some were old.
Some were recent.
I recognized several.
People from Saskatoon.
Missing persons.
People whose names I had seen on posters.
Then I saw one that made my stomach turn.
Daniel Mercer.
Below his name was mine.
And beneath mine was another name.
A name I didn't recognize.
The police ordered everyone out.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
At 3:03 a.m., my phone rang.
The caller ID said:
DANIEL MERCER.
I answered.
For several seconds, there was silence.
Then Daniel whispered:
"Don't look under the river."
I sat upright.
"Daniel? Where are you?"
A long pause.
Then:
"Under Saskatoon."
The line went dead.
The following morning, I left the city.
I drove north.
I didn't tell anyone where I was going.
As I crossed the river, I looked down.
The South Saskatchewan was frozen in places, black water visible between slabs of ice.
And beneath the bridge, I saw something.
A hand.
Pressed against the underside of the ice.
Then another.
Then another.
Hundreds of them.
All reaching upward.
I slammed on the brakes.
The car behind me honked.
When I looked again, the ice was empty.
I kept driving.
I haven't returned to Saskatoon since.
But yesterday I received a package.
There was no return address.
Inside was Daniel's phone.
The battery was completely dead.
Yet when I opened it, the recording began playing by itself.
Wind.
Water.
Static.
Then Daniel's voice.
"He's listening."
A pause.
Then my own voice said:
"I know."
I hadn't said it.
Not yet.
The recording continued.
"He's coming up."
Then came a sound I will never forget.
Thousands of voices whispering together.
Not from the phone.
From beneath my floor.
"Daniel..."
Then my name.
Then the name of someone else.
Someone who hasn't disappeared yet.
Someone who lives in Saskatoon.
And tonight, at exactly 3:03 a.m., I heard three knocks beneath my bedroom.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
I haven't moved.
I don't dare.
Because something just whispered from underneath the floor:
"Don't worry."
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