That day turned out to be unusually warm and serene — one of those rare, golden afternoons that makes the whole world feel drowsy and safe. The air shimmered faintly over the fields, and dragonflies glided lazily above the tall reeds. A group of village boys had gathered by the riverbank, as they often did when the weather was kind.
The river flowed quietly that day, winding between the birch trees like a dark ribbon. The boys — Ilya, Kirill, Misha, and Anton — were playing near the shallows, their laughter bouncing off the water and echoing through the forest. They built little boats out of bark and twigs, launched them into the current, and cheered as the makeshift vessels sailed away.
For a while, life was simple. They skipped stones, splashed each other, and argued about whose boat had gone the farthest. Even the crows perched on nearby branches seemed to watch them with a kind of sleepy approval.
Then, without warning, something strange caught Ilya’s eye.
“Hey,” he called out, stepping closer to the edge. “What’s that?”
Half-buried in the sand was a thick, moss-stained rope. It stretched across the wet shoreline, one end vanishing into the muddy river, the other coiled loosely beside a patch of reeds. It looked out of place — too deliberate, too heavy to be random.
Ilya crouched and touched it. It was damp and cold, as if it had been in the water for a long time. He looked back at his friends, curiosity shining in his eyes.
“Maybe there’s treasure!” he said with a grin.
But instead of excitement, a quiet unease spread among the boys.
Kirill frowned. “Better not touch it. Could be trash from the fishermen.”
“Or a trap,” Anton added. “My grandpa said poachers set up ropes like that to catch fish. You don’t know what’s down there.”
Ilya hesitated. His heart beat faster — not from fear, but from that irresistible pull of the unknown. He had always been the curious one, the first to explore old barns, climb forbidden trees, or peek into dark caves.
He looked at the rope again. It didn’t seem dangerous — just strange.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s at least see what it’s tied to.”
But the others shook their heads.
“Leave it, Ilya. Seriously,” Misha said. “You don’t know what kind of stuff’s in this river. My dad said weird things wash up here all the time.”
Ilya didn’t listen. Something in him needed to know. Maybe it was the lure of adventure or the stubbornness of youth, but he couldn’t walk away.
He wrapped his hands around the rope. The coarse fibers scratched his palms. He gave a firm tug. The rope didn’t move. Then he pulled again — harder. This time, he felt something on the other end shift beneath the surface.
“There’s something down there,” he said, breathless.
The others took a few steps back.
“You’re crazy,” Kirill muttered. “Let’s get out of here.”
But Ilya only tightened his grip. “I just want to see—”
Before he could finish, the rope jerked violently, startling him. The water rippled, dark circles spreading outward like smoke. Ilya’s pulse quickened. He pulled again, slowly, cautiously, and felt resistance — something heavy dragging along the bottom.
That was enough for his friends. One of them shouted, “Forget it! Let’s go!” and turned to run. Within moments, all three were gone, their footsteps fading among the trees, leaving Ilya alone on the riverbank.
The silence that followed felt heavy. Even the birds had stopped singing.
He looked at the rope, trembling slightly now. His instincts told him to let go — but curiosity, that reckless fire that burned in all children, urged him forward.
He took a deep breath and pulled again. This time, whatever was beneath the water began to rise. Muddy bubbles surfaced. The rope creaked, the tension tightening against his palms.
And then, suddenly, the river seemed to breathe — a slow, ominous movement beneath the water.
Something was coming up.
The current swirled, the surface broke — and a pale, lifeless face emerged.
Ilya screamed and stumbled backward, his body trembling. Floating before him was the body of a man. His eyes were closed, his lips bluish, his hair plastered to his forehead. His shirt clung to his chest like a second skin. Around his waist, the same rope was tied in a thick knot, trailing into the depths.
For a heartbeat, Ilya couldn’t move. His brain refused to accept what he was seeing. Then, panic took over. He dropped the rope as if it had burned him, spun around, and ran — faster than he had ever run in his life.
Branches whipped against his face, roots snagged at his feet, but he didn’t stop. He burst into the village screaming for help, his words tumbling over each other in confusion.
Within minutes, a group of adults grabbed lanterns, ropes, and poles and followed him back to the river. Ilya trailed behind them, gasping for breath, tears streaking his dusty cheeks.
When they arrived, the man’s body had drifted closer to shore. The adults waded into the water and pulled it in carefully. The villagers stood in stunned silence as the truth settled over them.
It was the missing man — someone they had been searching for all week. He had disappeared after a stormy night, leaving behind only a few personal belongings and questions that no one could answer. Until now.
The authorities were called. They took the body away and examined the scene. But no one could say for certain what had happened — whether it was an accident, a crime, or something else entirely.
The next day, Ilya’s friends returned to the river, standing quietly at the spot where everything had happened. The rope still lay there, half-buried in the sand, trailing into the water like a shadow that refused to fade. None of them dared to touch it.
Over the following weeks, the story spread through the village. Some said the man had tied himself to the rope on purpose. Others whispered darker things — that someone else had done it and left the rope as a warning.
Whatever the truth, one thing remained certain: that riverbank was never the same again.
The laughter of the boys no longer echoed there. The sound of splashing water now carried a strange weight, and the villagers avoided the place after dusk. Even Ilya, once fearless, found it hard to sleep at night. In his dreams, he still saw the man’s face rising from the depths, pale and silent.
And yet, despite it all, the rope remained.
Years later, people would still point it out to travelers passing through. “That’s where the boy found the man,” they’d say quietly. “And that rope… it’s been there ever since.”
No one ever dared to cut it. Maybe out of superstition, or respect, or fear of what might happen if they did.
Because some things, once uncovered, are better left where they belong — hidden beneath the surface, in the deep silence of the river.
