Then one of the figures, a man in the front row, slowly stood up. He rose smoothly, without effort. His hands remained folded.
His face was turned directly toward Vance. His eyes stayed open, and his mouth remained shut. But the many-voiced singing continued anyway.
“Coming up,” Vance said, and yanked the signal line. He turned and moved quickly, but without panic, toward the exit. He stayed professional.
He kept the lamp in front of him, one hand on the line. His steps were heavy and measured. Behind him came a faint but distinct rustling sound.
It sounded like someone walking after him. He made it out of the church. The door remained open.
Vance glanced back. In the doorway stood three, maybe four, maybe more figures. They did not move. They only watched.
Vance moved away quickly. The pull on the signal line increased. They had already started hauling him up.
He rose off the bottom and began ascending. The darkness slowly lightened. Gray murk, then a bluish haze, then light.
Strong hands grabbed him and hauled him into the launch. They removed the heavy helmet. Vance took a deep, hard breath.
He looked at Somers, at Mullen, and at the sailor holding the signal line. “There should not be anybody alive down there,” he said.
They took Vance into the cabin and handed him hot tea. He drank in silence, holding the mug with both hands. His fingers did not shake.
His face was remarkably calm. But his eyes stayed fixed on one point. The water outside the boat.
Engineer Somers sat across from him, writing down the statement. He did not interrupt. He listened closely. When Vance finished, Somers set down his pencil.
“They’re drowning victims,” he said evenly. “The cold water preserved them. That’s all. Their condition makes sense.”
“And the movement was postmortem muscle contraction, or just visual distortion. Underwater vision can play tricks on you.” Vance looked at him for a long moment.
“I’ve worked with drowning victims many times,” he said. “I’ve brought them up from 130 feet after six months in the water. I know what they look like.”
“This was not that.” “What exactly was different?” the engineer asked. “They weren’t floating. They were sitting in rows with folded hands and calm faces.”
“And the eyes,” Vance added. “What about the eyes?” “They were open. And watching.”
“A normal drowning victim has closed eyes or clouded eyes. These were looking straight at me.” Somers said nothing.
Then he asked quietly, “And the candles?” “Burning.” “Flame underwater is physically impossible. I know that.”
“So do I. But they were burning.” The silence stretched. Mullen, standing by the rail, cleared his throat.
“Chief, maybe it was some kind of chemical reaction? Phosphorus glows underwater.” “Phosphorus glows green,” Vance said.
“This was warm yellow light. Real flame.” Carter, who had been silent until then, stepped a little closer.
“And you’re sure about the singing?” “I’m sure.” “Could’ve been acoustics. Water carries sound in odd ways.”
“It was church singing. An old chant. I could hear the phrasing clearly.” Carter exchanged a look with Mullen.
Somers reviewed his notes again. Then he looked up. “We need a second dive with another diver for confirmation.”
Vance nodded once. “Fair enough.” “Carter, suit up,” Somers ordered.
Eli Carter was not a man given to imagination. He had spent 12 years as a working diver. He had gone down into sunken tanks, torn-open barges, and collapsed tunnel shafts.
Darkness did not scare him. Tight spaces did not scare him either. He had seen enough dead bodies not to react emotionally anymore…
