The Dr. called this morning — urgent reports of the Frogman just north of here, something about strange sounds in an abandoned quarry. I told him I’d be packing up tonight and moving at first light. But part of me knows I’m not leaving alone.
The rain returned at dusk, heavier than before, turning the flood channel into a dark artery of rushing water. I worked fast, sealing the crates for the team to collect, double-checking the recorder that caught the croaks two nights ago. The air felt close, thick, like the atmosphere before a lightning strike.
By the time I’d zipped the tent, the night was alive with the river’s voice — a deep, constant roar undercut by the steady hiss of rainfall. Then came another sound, woven into the storm so subtly at first I thought it was the wInd: a slow, deliberate slap… slap… slap of something moving through shallow water.
I grabbed the flashlight and stepped toward the bank. The beam caught the reeds bending in sequence, as if something was gliding between them, moving against the current. Then a shape rose — just enough to break the surface. A head. Wide. Featureless except for those eyes.
They caught the light and threw it back at me in two perfect, glassy orbs — not blinking, not shifting. I couldn’t breathe.
The croak that followed was so close I felt it in my chest, vibrating through the rain. A second, fainter one answered from somewhere behind me, upstream.
I backed toward the tent, but every step I took seemed to be matched by movement in the reeds. The splashes quickened, circling.
Lightning tore across the sky, and for the briefest moment I saw it — the pale, slick body rising from the water, hands spread wide, webbing black against the electric light.
The thunder hit, and it was gone. The river’s surface smoothed, the reeds went still. Only the rain remained.
I’m leaving at first light. And I’m not camping near a river again.
The Hidden Ones 
Drop Your Cryptid Clues