At first, I thought it was simply playing, letting the current carry it along. But as I got closer, I froze. The little body wasn’t moving at all.
“It must have drowned,” I muttered, reaching out to pull it from the water.

I lifted it gently into my hands. I shook it softly, hoping it would react, hoping for any sign of life… but nothing happened. It looked completely lifeless.

And then something happened that I will never forget.

In the absolute stillness, a faint sound reached my ears — a weak, barely audible whimper, like someone trying to scream from underwater. I stiffened. The cub’s tiny body twitched, and its eyes opened for the briefest second. And in that second, I saw something in its gaze that chilled me to the core.

It wasn’t an animal’s look. It held pain, fear, and a strange, disturbingly human kind of terror. I instinctively stepped back, though I was still holding it. The river behind me seemed to ripple unnaturally, as if something beneath the surface was waking up. The branches above us trembled even though there wasn’t the slightest breeze.

And that sound… it was no longer a simple whimper. It felt like the creature was trying to speak — or beg. The noise slipped directly into my mind, filling it with panic, confusion, and a sense that something was terribly wrong.

Not knowing what else to do, I carried the cub home. But as soon as I crossed the threshold, I heard it again. This time clearly: “Help… let me go…”

Every muscle in my body froze. I couldn’t comprehend how such a tiny creature could make a sound that resembled human speech. Then it screamed — a sharp, piercing shriek so loud it echoed through the entire room. I dropped it onto the floor.

And that was when the real nightmare began.

Its body started to change. The fur darkened, its eyes grew unnaturally large, and its small muzzle split open, revealing something that looked more like claws than teeth. A coldness swept through me — the kind of cold that feels alive, purposeful.

I turned to flee, but the door wouldn’t budge. It was as if the house itself refused to let me go. The walls creaked, wood splintered, and the lights flickered violently. And that thing — no longer a bear cub — stared at me with a disturbing, curious intensity.

Its whimper turned into a monstrous howl, a sound filled with demand, with intent. In that moment, I understood: I hadn’t found it by accident. I had been chosen.

Something in the river — something ancient, hidden, and malevolent — had drawn me in. The cub was only the beginning.

In the morning, the creature was gone. All that remained was a small wet pawprint on the floor and a drop of dark water that looked black even in sunlight.

But the fear stayed. It settled inside me, breathing with me, reminding me that even the most innocent-looking creatures can be the mask of something far more terrifying. Something that isn’t finished with you yet.