Darker Places

The Lake

There's a lake out back. It sits somewhere between a pond and an ocean, veering towards the pond side without being small enough to fit in a garden. Nor is it large enough to sink a battleship in or for a Kraken to swim the depths of.

It's always been, simply, 'the lake'. Nothing fancy, nothing mighty enough to deserve capitalisation. Nothing more than 'the lake'. A body of water that often didn't seem to bother to even ripple.

I used to sit by the lake on cool summer evenings. The sun would dip down below the horizon in its relay race with the moon and the resultant exchange of lighting would give the surface an eerie glow as if ectoplasm was rising to dance with the stars. I enjoyed the other-worldly feeling. I could imagine ghosts waltzing across the water to a symphony carried on the breeze, one you only heard if you held your breath and tilted your head just so.

It has been a number of years since I'd visited its shores. Life, with its innumerable twists and turns, had steered me away from whimsy and directed me through the doors of reason and responsibility. I had no time for relaxation on the evenings of any season. I had work, with little rest and no play. As such, I'd almost forgotten the lake was even there.

I pondered such, this very evening. Autumn had turned quickly to winter and had caught the temperature unawares, making it dive into the nether regions of the thermometer for safety. My breath served to remind me of the mist that had danced for me so long ago. How could such a large expanse fade from my mind like the setting of the sun, the memory turning to a darkness lit by no orbiting satellite? Perhaps it was because the lake did nothing. It was as if it had taken a photograph of itself - a still moment in time - and had used that to disguise the fact it had actually flown off to a beach somewhere and was enjoying the heat and cheap sangrias. It remained, unchanged, since the last time I stood on this spot.

No, not unchanged. Not entirely.

On the far side was a small boat. A dinghy. It appeared old. Deflated, though this was a strange look for something which was, in fact, inflated. I walked around the water's edge until I was close and then stopped. The boat gently bumped the shore as if it was knocking to be allowed in. Its colour was a faded orange verging, now, on brown and parts where clinging together by sheer hope and whisper.

Frost on the rotted dinghy, its oars heavy like the mud that welcomes ducks on the first day of hunting, gave it a haunted appearance, as if it was a shade revisiting this plane to send a message to a dear relative. The will has fallen behind the bottom shelf of the chest in the lounge. Don't get on the number five bus on Friday.

At first, I thought the person laying inside was sleeping. It would be so easy, floating on the water, to doze off, slipping beneath the covers of consciousness with the motion of the ocean - or the wake of the lake - lulling you into a slumber.

I realised my mistake when I saw the patches of hair missing and the socket where the eye should have been. I further realised my mistake when I saw parts of the fingers of the hand hanging over the side were also missing. Eaten, I assumed, buy whatever fish swam in the lake.

I saw the coat. Leather with a tattered fabric hood which might have once been grey. I had one like that. The t-shirt underneath looked familiar too.

And the watch.

The chain around the neck, too.

I looked into the eyeless socket. Something moved, crawled. I looked at the other as it stared, lifeless back at me.

The mist on the lake drifted up to mix with the chill air. I raised my hands and saw a similar vapour waft from the fingertips. It floated forwards to mingle with that from the water.

I felt a sliding sensation from the depths of my stomach as I saw my body fade and turn to a steam that flowed... like ectoplasm.

I looked, once more, into the empty socket and wondered how long ago I had died.