(A story you’ll never forget)

It was a warm, quiet afternoon. The river shimmered like glass, the air smelled of summer and pine, and children laughed on the sandy bank. They skipped stones, raced twigs downstream, and shouted so loudly that the forest echoed back their joy.

But then Ilya — the smallest and most curious of them all — noticed something strange.
Lying on the shore, half-buried in wet sand, was a thick, soaked rope. One end disappeared into the murky river, the other curled lazily on the ground.

“Hey! Look!” he called out. “Maybe there’s treasure at the end!”

His friends hesitated.
“Don’t touch it,” one said. “It’s probably garbage.”
“Or worse… a trap,” muttered another.

But Ilya didn’t listen. Curiosity was stronger than fear.
He bent down and grabbed the rope. It was slimy, cold — almost alive. He pulled gently, then harder. The rope resisted.
Something heavy was on the other end.

“Help me!” he shouted, but the others were already backing away, fear written on their faces.
A heartbeat later, he was alone.

The air grew quiet. Even the birds seemed to stop singing.
Ilya’s heart pounded as he pulled again — harder this time. The river stirred, bubbles rising to the surface, and from the depths began to emerge something dark.

At first, it looked like a log wrapped in weeds. Then… hair. Long, tangled, dripping hair.
And beneath it — a face.

A human face.
Pale. Swollen. Eyes half-closed, lips slightly parted, as if trying to breathe one last time.

Ilya froze. The world around him blurred. But somehow, he didn’t let go. He couldn’t.
He pulled again — and the water broke with a sickening splash. Rising from the river was a woman’s body, the rope wound tightly around her waist.

The air filled with a heavy, rotting smell. The water darkened, rippling with quiet malice.
Ilya stumbled backward, fell into the sand, trembling. The rope slipped from his hands, slithered back into the river, and vanished beneath the surface.

When his friends finally returned, the water was calm again.
“What was it?” one whispered.
Ilya’s voice shook.
“Someone was there…”

That evening, adults came — police, rescuers, divers. They searched the river for hours, but found nothing.
“No body, no rope, no trace,” one officer said, shaking his head. “The boy must’ve imagined it.”

But Ilya knew what he saw.
For a brief moment, before the woman sank, her eyes opened — and she looked straight at him.

After that day, the river changed. Its color deepened, its silence grew heavy. Locals whispered about strange sounds at night — the sound of water lapping, quiet sobs, something dragging along the shore.

Ilya never went back to the river.
But one stormy night, he woke to a faint wet rustling under his window.

He peered outside — and froze.
Lying on the muddy ground was a rope. The same rope.
Its end trailed off into the darkness, toward the river.

Ilya screamed.

And in the morning, his parents found only small barefoot prints, leading away from the house…
and ending at the edge of the water.