I never liked that stretch of road.
It dips just enough that the rain never leaves.
At night it looks like the world forgot to drain itself.
Hana said a woman sometimes walks there at low tide—barefoot, hair dripping, comb in hand.
People hear her humming until the water covers her again.
Most drivers speed through, eyes straight ahead.
We went on purpose.
We parked near the bridge. The canal smelled of mud and old diesel.
Somewhere upstream a dog barked twice, then stopped for good.
I set the recorder on the guardrail. The red light blinked weakly, catching mosquitoes in its pulse.
"Let it run ten minutes," Hana said.
Her voice already sounded far away, eaten by the open air.
I nodded, wiped sweat from my neck.
Even the breeze felt thick.
When the tape started rolling, I noticed the frogs had gone silent again.
Just the sound of trickling water and the distant hum from the tower miles away.
Then, footsteps.
Not ours—too close, too slow.
Wet soles on concrete, one after another, pacing behind us.
I turned. Nothing.
"Hear that?" I whispered.
Hana pointed at the canal. "There."
The reflection moved before the surface did—a ripple shaped like a person.
Long hair, pale outline, face bent toward the water.
No splash, no sound, just the shimmer of movement like film burned frame by frame.
Hana lifted her phone to shine light.
"Don't," I said, without knowing why.
The light hit the canal anyway.
No one there. Only my own reflection looking back.
We played the tape on the spot.
First: rain, soft static, wind.
Then the footsteps again—three, four, pause—followed by a low humming.
Female.
Close enough that the mic clipped.
I turned the volume down.
Hana leaned in, whispering, "She's still singing."
But I didn't hear a woman.
I heard a man, slow, dragging the same note like breathing underwater.
When the humming stopped, something whispered my name.
"Koy…"
Not a call. A statement. Like someone confirming it.
The rest of the tape hissed empty.
We should have left it there.
Instead, we followed the canal downstream.
Streetlights grew fewer, replaced by the silver of the moon on wet asphalt.
Every time we passed under a lamp, Hana's shadow stayed a little longer on the road than her body did.
Mine didn't show at all.
I told myself it was the angle.
The humming came again, this time without the tape.
Right behind us, just at the edge of hearing.
We stopped.
Hana looked past me, eyes wide.
"What is that on your back?" she said.
I reached over my shoulder. Nothing but damp fabric.
She shook her head, stepping away.
"Let's go," she said. "Now."
We didn't speak the entire ride home.
The night wind felt colder than it should have.
By the time we reached the post office, dawn had already smeared the sky gray.
Hana went inside first.
I sat on the curb, still holding the recorder.
The battery light was dead, but the reel kept turning.
When I pressed stop, it refused.
Playback.
My own voice came through the static, quieter than a breath:
"You shouldn't have followed me."
I dropped it.
The tape wound out across the pavement like a long, wet hair.
I walked home as the city woke—vendors setting up stalls, roosters starting their arguments, everything sounding too normal.
The canal glimmered in the corner of my eye wherever I looked, like a reflection that hadn't learned when to stop.
I told myself ghosts don't survive daylight.
But when I closed my door, the sound followed—water dripping steady onto the tiles.
I checked the ceiling, the sink, every pipe.
Dry.
The drip kept going.
And underneath it, a voice humming the same broken tune,
right behind the walls.
(End of Chapter 5 — "The Girl in the Canal")