Everyone in Youngstown, everyone who had lived near its banks for more than a season, knew the Mahoning River flowed north out of Columbiana County, then took a sharp eastward turn through the heart of the city, before bending south again towards the Beaver River in Pennsylvania. It was a geographical fact, immutable, as certain as gravity pulling steel mill slag down an embankment, as inevitable as the property taxes that funded the city"s slow decay and occasional resurgence. Sure, spring thaws and heavy rains made it rage, transforming it into a brown, churning beast that gnawed at its banks; summer droughts made it sluggish and shallow, revealing the bones of its industrial past in the exposed mudflats; and the series of dams along its length chopped its once-wild journey into segmented, controlled pools. But the fundamental direction of its flow? That was constant. Or so Sarah Jenkins, an amateur photographer with a penchant for capturing the melancholic beauty of the valley"s post-industrial landscape, firmly believed. Until the day she witnessed the river casually, terrifyingly break the fundamental laws of nature.
She was drawn to the stark contrasts of the Mahoning Valley – the resilient green pushing through cracked concrete, the rusting skeletons of once-mighty factories silhouetted against dramatic sunsets, and the often-overlooked, tenacious life clinging to the riverbanks despite decades of pollution. On this particular crisp, late autumn afternoon, the air held the sharp scent of decaying leaves and distant woodsmoke. Sarah had set up her tripod on the pedestrian walkway of the aging Market Street Bridge, a structure that spanned the river with a certain weary grandeur, connecting downtown Youngstown to the south side. She was aiming her telephoto lens downstream, towards the east, trying to capture the specific way the low, golden afternoon sun glinted off the rippling surface of the water as it flowed between the skeletal remains of old factories and warehouses that lined the banks like forgotten tombstones.
Through her viewfinder, she meticulously tracked a small, drifting flotilla of fallen leaves – bright yellows, deep reds, and mottled browns – swirling gently on the surface. They moved steadily downstream, carried by the gentle, almost imperceptible current typical of this time of year. Then, abruptly, inexplicably, they stopped. For a suspended second, maybe two, they hung motionless in the water, as if the river itself had suddenly held its breath, pausing its eternal journey. And then, impossibly, horrifyingly, they began to move backward. Upstream. Against the established, undeniable flow of the Mahoning River.
Sarah lowered her camera slowly, blinking, convinced her eyes were deceiving her. It had to be an optical illusion, a trick of the low-angle light reflecting off the water, perhaps a sudden, localized gust of wind pushing against the surface. But there was no discernible wind; the air was remarkably still, the flags on the bridge hanging limp. And no mere surface wind could exert such a coordinated force against the river"s underlying current, strong enough to reverse the movement of submerged debris as well. She squinted, focusing intently, her photographer"s eye searching for a rational explanation. It wasn"t just the cluster of leaves she had been tracking. Other pieces of floating debris – a discarded plastic bottle bobbing low in the water, a small, waterlogged branch – were also moving slowly but undeniably upstream, westward, back towards the heart of the city.
The phenomenon wasn"t just affecting the debris; the surface of the water itself seemed different in that specific section, a wide band running down the main channel directly under the bridge. The usual downstream pattern of ripples seemed subtly reversed, disturbed, flowing against the grain. The backward flow appeared confined primarily to this central channel; further towards the banks, where the current was naturally slower, the water still trickled sluggishly downstream in its accustomed direction. This created bizarre, swirling shear lines, miniature whirlpools, and areas of confused turbulence where the opposing currents met and battled for dominance. The sight was deeply unsettling, fundamentally wrong.
It lasted perhaps two minutes, maybe slightly longer, though time seemed to stretch and distort as Sarah watched, mesmerized and increasingly disturbed. Then, as gradually and mysteriously as it began, the upstream movement slowed, hesitated, and finally stopped. The river seemed to sigh, and then resumed its normal, placid downstream course, carrying the leaves, the bottle, and the branch onward towards Pennsylvania as if nothing extraordinary, nothing impossible, had just occurred.
Sarah stood frozen on the bridge walkway, the heavy camera forgotten in her suddenly cold hands, her heart pounding against her ribs. Had she imagined it? Hallucinated the entire event? She quickly raised her camera and snapped a few frantic photos of the now-normally flowing river, but she knew instinctively they wouldn"t capture the motion, the sheer, physics-defying wrongness of what she had just witnessed. A deep, primal unease settled over her, a sense that the familiar, predictable world had momentarily tilted on its axis, revealing a glimpse of something hidden and potentially dangerous beneath the surface of reality.
Over the next few days, she couldn"t shake the image from her mind. She started asking around, tentatively, cautiously mentioning what she thought she saw from the Market Street Bridge. Most people she spoke to – colleagues at her part-time library job, acquaintances, even other local photographers – laughed it off or offered perfectly mundane, dismissive explanations. "Must have been the wind catching the surface just right." "Probably just a strong eddy caused by the bridge piers." "Reflections can play funny tricks on your eyes, especially with water." But one afternoon, while lingering near the bridge again, hoping yet dreading to see a repeat performance, she struck up a conversation with an old man fishing patiently from the bank below. When she hesitantly described the backward flow, he didn"t laugh. He just spat thoughtfully into the river, squinted at the water, and nodded slowly, his weathered face impassive. "Aye," he said, his voice raspy with age and perhaps too many cigarettes. "The river does that sometimes. Gets contrary. Like it changes its mind. Best not to be out on it when it takes a mood like that." He went on to speak, in vague but unsettling terms, of sudden, powerful whirlpools appearing out of nowhere near the derelict Republic Steel site further upstream, whirlpools strong enough, he claimed, to suck down a full-sized log or capsize a small boat in seconds. He also mentioned patches of "dead water" he"d encountered occasionally, areas where the current just inexplicably stopped, trapping unwary boaters until the river decided to let them go.
Intrigued and deeply disturbed by the old fisherman"s corroboration, Sarah began digging into local history and folklore with renewed determination. She spent hours scrolling through digitized archives of the Youngstown Vindicator, searching for keywords like "freak current," "boating accident," and "whirlpool." She found several old newspaper clippings detailing tragic boating accidents over the years, often blamed vaguely on "unexpectedly strong currents" or "dangerous undertows," particularly near certain bridges and industrial sites. She unearthed accounts from canal boat operators navigating the Pennsylvania and Ohio Canal in the 19th century, complaining in their logs about unpredictable hazards and "backward eddies" near specific bends in the Mahoning. Going further back, she even found fragmented mentions in obscure local histories and anthropological texts of Native American legends from the Lenape people who once inhabited the valley, legends that spoke of the river spirit sometimes "turning back on itself" in anger or sorrow, demanding sacrifices or respect.
It wasn"t just her imagination. The river had a long, documented, albeit often dismissed, history of behaving unnaturally, unpredictably, dangerously.
What could possibly cause such phenomena? Her rational mind demanded an explanation. She researched potential geological and hydrological causes. Hidden underwater springs suddenly increasing their outflow? Sinkholes collapsing on the riverbed, altering the channel"s dynamics? Malfunctioning or collapsing discharge tunnels from the numerous defunct factories lining the banks, suddenly releasing or siphoning large volumes of water? Sudden, massive releases of methane gas trapped in the thick layers of polluted sediment at the river bottom, creating buoyancy changes or localized upwellings? The scientific theories were many, plausible up to a point, but none seemed to fully explain the coordinated, sustained, large-scale backward flow she had witnessed across the entire main channel, nor the sheer power of the whirlpools described by the old fisherman and hinted at in the accident reports.
Driven by a mix of intellectual curiosity and a growing sense of dread, Sarah started spending more time by the river, her camera always ready, tripod often set up, monitoring specific spots mentioned in the old accounts and her research – the sharp bend near Lowellville where the sphere was found (Story 5.5), the deep pool by the Center Street Bridge, the heavily industrialized stretch past the abandoned steel mills. She observed and documented minor anomalies: strange, persistent eddies that spun counter to the main flow, brief patches of unnaturally still, glassy water that seemed to resist the current, sudden upwellings of bubbles smelling faintly of sulfur or methane. But the dramatic, large-scale backward flow didn"t repeat itself for weeks.
Then came the incident with the kayaker. It was a warm, deceptively beautiful spring day, the kind that drew people outdoors after a long winter. A young man, athletic and confident, was paddling his brightly colored kayak near the Market Street Bridge, clearly enjoying the sunshine and the exercise. Sarah was positioned on the riverbank not far downstream, attempting to photograph a great blue heron perched stoically on a half-submerged piece of concrete debris. Suddenly, without any warning, without any change in the weather or noticeable upstream activity, a violent whirlpool erupted in the middle of the channel, almost exactly where Sarah had previously witnessed the water flowing backward. This wasn"t a simple eddy caused by a bridge pier; it was a powerful, terrifying vortex, easily thirty feet across, spinning with unnatural, frightening speed, sucking water downward into a deep, gurgling hole in the river"s surface.
The kayaker was caught completely off guard, positioned almost directly over the spot as the vortex formed beneath him. His small, lightweight craft was immediately pulled towards the center, spinning violently like a leaf caught in a drain. He paddled frantically, his initial surprise turning to visible panic, shouting for help, trying desperately to break free from the vortex"s inexorable pull, but the current was far too strong. Sarah watched in helpless horror from the bank as the kayak was drawn inexorably into the swirling maw, tilted sharply upward at the stern, and then vanished beneath the surface, pulled down into the churning, muddy water. The whirlpool continued to churn violently for another minute, debris from the river – branches, plastic, unidentifiable muck – swirling into its hungry center, then it subsided as quickly and mysteriously as it had appeared, leaving only turbulent, muddy water and an eerie silence in its wake.
Sarah, shaking, fumbled for her phone and called 911, screaming incoherently into the receiver about the whirlpool and the kayaker. Emergency services responded quickly – police cars, fire trucks, an ambulance, river rescue boats were launched, divers were deployed. They searched for hours, then days. But the young man and his kayak were never found. Not a trace. The official report eventually cited accidental drowning due to "unexpectedly strong currents and possible undertow near the bridge structure." A tragic accident. But Sarah knew what she had seen. It was more than just strong currents. It was the river itself, its hidden, unnatural forces actively, violently claiming a victim.
The kayaker"s disappearance solidified Sarah"s resolve, transforming her curiosity into a near-obsessive need to understand. She had to know what was happening in that river. Gathering her photographs, historical research, and detailed eyewitness accounts (including her own and the old fisherman"s), she managed to schedule a meeting with a geologist at Youngstown State University, a Dr. Aris Thorne, known for his research on regional hydrology and environmental impacts. Dr. Thorne was initially skeptical, polite but dismissive, attributing her observations to misinterpretation or exaggeration. However, as Sarah laid out her meticulous documentation – the historical accounts, the pattern of incidents near specific locations, her own clear-eyed description of the backward flow and the fatal whirlpool – his skepticism slowly gave way to cautious intrigue.
Together, pooling their resources and expertise, they attempted a more systematic study of the phenomenon. They managed to secure funding for several high-sensitivity current meters and deployed them strategically near the Market Street Bridge and other suspected anomaly hotspots, hoping to catch an event in progress. They pored over detailed geological surveys of the riverbed, old industrial blueprints showing forgotten underwater structures and discharge tunnels, and historical flood plain maps, looking for any physical clues. The current meters did record occasional bizarre fluctuations – sharp, inexplicable spikes and drops in flow rate that didn"t correlate with known dam releases, rainfall, or wind patterns – but they failed to capture a full-scale flow reversal or a major whirlpool event during the months they were deployed.
Dr. Thorne began to theorize about a complex, perhaps unique interplay of factors: the riverbed"s highly irregular limestone karst geology, prone to sinkholes and hidden conduits; the potential for sudden, large-scale releases of biogenic methane gas trapped within the thick layers of heavily polluted bottom sediment; and the chaotic hydrodynamic legacy of submerged industrial structures, collapsed tunnels, and dumped debris creating pockets of extreme turbulence or Venturi effects under specific, rare flow conditions. But even he admitted, with a growing unease that mirrored Sarah"s, that these conventional explanations didn"t seem to fully account for the reported scale, duration, and coordinated nature of the major events, especially the sustained backward flow across the entire channel.
Sarah, meanwhile, started wondering about connections, about a larger, more terrifying picture. Were the river"s unpredictable currents somehow linked to the other strange anomalies reported along the Mahoning? Did the periods of backward flow, for instance, serve to bring strange objects (like the black sphere Dave Kowalski had hooked in Story 5.5) up from deposition sites further downstream? Did the violent whirlpools stir up monstrous creatures (like the eyeless eel) or disturbed remains (like the hair and bone) from the river"s deepest, most contaminated depths? Did the eerie singing heard from the storm drains (Story 5.4) change pitch or intensity when the river "turned back on itself"?
One cool evening, driven by a morbid curiosity she couldn"t suppress, Sarah found herself back on the Market Street Bridge as dusk bled into night, the city lights beginning to glitter across the water. The river flowed normally below, dark and placid in the fading light. Suddenly, she felt an intense, localized cold spot envelop her, despite the mildness of the air. A shiver traced its way down her spine. Looking down, her eyes drawn to the water directly below the bridge, she saw a large patch of the river"s surface stop moving. Utterly still. Dead water, just as the old fisherman had described. Then, slowly, almost deliberately, ripples began to move outward from the center of the becalmed patch, spreading, moving against the main downstream current. The backward flow was starting again.
As she watched, rooted to the spot, mesmerized and terrified, a faint, pearlescent mist began to rise from the area of reversed flow, thicker and colder than normal river fog, clinging low to the water"s surface. It swirled sluggishly, coalescing, reminding her with sickening clarity of the local legends of the "hungry fog," the "white dissolve" (Story 5.3) that supposedly consumed things near the river. Was this its genesis? Was the river"s unnatural current somehow generating this anomalous fog, or were they both distinct manifestations of the same underlying, unknown force operating within the Mahoning?
Then, from within the swirling mist and the strangely backward-flowing water, something large and dark surfaced briefly – a smooth, black, featureless shape, chillingly reminiscent of the sphere Dave Kowalski had described – before sinking silently back beneath the surface. A moment later, a long, pale, serpentine form, disturbingly like the eyeless eel from Dave"s other encounter, whipped through the water near the surface before vanishing abruptly back into the depths.
Sarah stumbled back from the bridge railing, gasping, her heart pounding against her ribs so hard she felt dizzy. It was all connected. The impossible currents, the consuming fog, the alien objects, the monstrous creatures – the river was a single, complex, horrifying system, and its unnatural behavior, its periodic reversals and eruptions, was the key, the engine driving it all. It wasn"t just a river, scarred and polluted. It was an entity, or a habitat for entities, operating under alien laws, possessing a dark, unpredictable power.
She fled the bridge, not looking back, the image of the backward flow, the chilling mist, and the surfacing anomalies seared permanently into her mind. She had seen too much, understood too much. The river, she felt with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, knew she was watching. It had shown her a glimpse of its true nature.
Sarah never went back to the Market Street Bridge. She packed her bags and moved away from Youngstown shortly after that night, unable to shake the haunting images, the feeling of being watched by the river itself. Sometimes, even now, years later, living far away, when looking at any body of flowing water – a stream, a canal, even water swirling down a drain – she feels a sudden moment of intense vertigo, a sickening lurch in her stomach, half-expecting the flow to stop, to hesitate, to turn back. She knows the Mahoning holds a terrible power, a hidden, perhaps sentient or alien engine driving its unnatural whims. The river flows, carrying its dark secrets silently within its current, until, for reasons unknown and unknowable, it decides to change its mind, to reverse its course, and perhaps, to claim whatever drifts within its reach.