The Drowned Cathedral
The cathedral did not always lie beneath the water. Old fishermen whispered that it had once crowned the cliffs above the lake, its bells calling across the valley, until a storm—no, a curse—dragged it down into the depths. But every twenty years, when the lake grew strangely still and the moon hung red as iron, the cathedral rose again, shimmering like a mirage beneath the surface, visible only to those who dared descend.
Adrian had waited his whole life for this night. His grandfather had told him of the apparition when he was a boy, filling his head with stories of forgotten saints, drowned choirs, and treasures sealed in watery stone. Now, tethered to the world above by a single rope, he descended into the lake, his lamp cutting swathes of gold through the silted dark.
The spires came first. Blackened, barnacle-encrusted, but unmistakable, they pierced the gloom like the ribs of a leviathan. The cathedral doors were half open, as if waiting for him. He pushed inside.
The silence was total—except for the slow creak of water shifting against stone.
Then he saw them.
Statues lined the nave: saints, angels, martyrs, their faces pale and luminous beneath centuries of algae. Yet they did not seem dead. Their chests swelled faintly, as though drawing impossible breaths. Their eyes followed him with soft, deliberate blinks. Adrian’s heart hammered, but he could not look away.
At the far end, in the reflection of the altar pool, he froze.
The mirrored surface showed a figure kneeling in prayer. Not a saint, not an angel—himself. Only the reflection was not still. It raised its head. It smiled. And then it stretched out a hand toward him from beneath the water’s surface.
The real water did not ripple. The reflection did not break.
Adrian staggered back. His air supply hissed in his ears, too loud. He should leave—yet the reflection’s hand beckoned, patient, certain.
He stepped closer.
The hand in the reflection gripped his wrist. His flesh burned cold. He tried to pull away, but the mirrored water swallowed his arm, then his shoulder, then his entire body, dragging him through.
Darkness.
When he gasped for breath, he was kneeling before the altar. No helmet, no suit, no rope to the world above. The air was dry, heavy with incense. The cathedral was not drowned but alive, its candles flickering, its windows radiant with shifting blue light.
And the statues—no longer stone—turned their heads to watch him. They were not saints at all, but men and women who looked weary, hollow-eyed, waiting.
A voice behind him whispered, “Another has come.”
Adrian turned. His reflection stood there, dressed like a monk, his features calm, eyes fathomless.
“You breathe here now,” it said. “And you will remain, as we all do.”
Adrian looked back at the statues, at their silent pleas in human eyes.
They were not statues at all.
They were the divers who had come before him.
And then he understood: the cathedral did not rise every twenty years. It reached.
The bells tolled overhead, though no one moved to strike them. And one by one, the statues stepped forward, their lips parting in unison to whisper—
“Welcome home.”
The drowned cathedral doesn’t wait to be found—it reaches for you.
Note:
Thank you for reading “The Drowned Cathedral”! This is a story in a series created for avid readers and English learners who want to enjoy captivating tales while practicing their language skills. Stay tuned for more stories and language tips to enhance your journey!
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Short Stories / Cuentos Cortos
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