Imagine you're sitting 260 feet below the surface of Lake Superior.

The water around you is pitch black and hovering just above freezing.

The only light comes from the heavy-duty dive torch gripped in your thick neoprene glove.

You kick your fins, gliding slowly through the rusted jagged tear in the hull of the massive sunken freighter.

You're inside the belly of the SS camloops, a ship that vanished in a blizzard decades ago.

Your breathing is echoing loudly in your ears, a rhythmic mechanical hiss from your scuba regulator.

You sweep your flashlight across the boiler room.

The beam cuts through the suspended silt and catches on the twisted metal staircase and decaying pipes.

Then the light catches something else.

Tucked between a collapsed stairway, something is growing. It's stark white,

standing out violently against the dark, oxidized iron of the ship. You swim a few feet closer,

your heart beginning to hammer against your ribs. It's a person, or at least it used to be.

The figure is perfectly preserved.

Its skin is luminescent, waxy white.

It's suspended in the water floating just inches above the grated floor.

You try to steady your breathing.

You know this is a grave site.

You slowly begin backing away, kicking

your fins to reverse out of the tight corridor. But as you move, the white figure moves too.

It drifts out from beneath the stairs. As you backpedaled toward the exit, the glowing

corpse turns, reorienting itself in the water.

And then, it begins to follow you.

...