I wake up tired the next morning.
My eyelids are crusted shut with sleep and my whole face is hot and swollen, and when I stretch my arms above my head to get the blood pumping, all my joints snap, crackle, pop like Rice Krispies Treats. It feels like I haven't left this cot in a decade. Usually, I wake up tired for one reason or another, but this is a different level of exhaustion. It's a suffocating ache that weighs down heavy on my bones; an ominous threat that I'll never feel fully awake again.
"Ronan, are you up?"
Groaning, I push my stiff body into an upright position. "Barely. Are you?"
Finn scowls at me like I'm being purposefully difficult, which is irritating because I'm not trying to be difficult, but now I'm tempted. "Yeah, of course. Don't you remember our plans for this morning?"
"Ugh, please don't try to get me to go running with you. I'd rather die."
"What— that's not what I was going to say!" He directs an impatient puff of air at one of his fly-away ginger curls, then shoves his hands down on his hip. I notice that his freckled forehead is already slick with sweat. "I just got back from a run with Becca. We're supposed to meet Wolseley by the lake soon."
"The lake... oh, shit, the lake!"
"Yes, the lake. There's only one. Do I need to remind you that this was your idea?"
"No, no, I'm just—" My tongue trips over its next words, and I find myself stammering, "Tired. I'm just tired."
"Tired," he repeats. "For Christ's sake, Ronan, you're always tired. That's what happens when you have insomnia. Why is today any different?"
"It's not. I'm just... tired. Of everything."
He responds to this in a cartoonishly chipper voice: "Hi, 'Just tired of everything', I'm Finn!" When he sees I'm not amused, he adds in a more normal tone, "Look, I know you've been going through some shit lately, but you got me into this mess and I'm not talking to Wolseley without you. So, put on some regular clothes, plaster a smile on your face, and let's fucking do this thing."
I throw my head back and release a string of expletives so outrageous the tips of Finn's ears turn bright red.
"Feeling better?" he demands.
"Much."
"Do you think you're ready to interrogate a counselor?"
"Only one way to find out."
***
Our walk to the lake brings back a surge of unbearable memories from last night. No matter how hard I try, I can't get James out of my mind— and the more I obsess over him, the more I'm really thinking about Jesse. It's the worst kind of déjà vu. Every step I take reminds me of things I'd prefer to forget— like the anger on James' face as he flung the army jacket into my arms, or the way Jesse called my eyes blue moments before he kissed me. Seeing Finn and Becca thread their fingers together like high-school sweethearts brings back the touch of James' mouth on my neck, or Jesse throwing his arms across my shoulder; of a thousand tiny touches that have become inextricably linked, a spider's web of memories I'll never be free from.
I used to think I was the only person on Earth who never dreamed, but now I know better. The only reason I can't find dreams in my sleep is because I'm living them out during the day. Nothing ever changes— I'll always be the same Ronan Lockwood, the one that steals cars and tells lies and acts like Sabrina's perfect clone, because I'm stuck in this dream and I don't know how to wake up. I'll always be tired, and I'll always be angry, and I'll always be afraid of myself because this is a nightmare that never ends.
Maybe reality is my Kryptonite.
"Ronan?" Becca says. "You're about to walk into a tree."
I blink, and realize I'm face to face with a tree trunk. If Becca hadn't stopped me, I would've just kept walking and given myself the third facial injury this summer.
"Leave your glasses back at camp?" she asks.
"Don't test me. I've got twenty-twenty vision."
She holds her hands up in mock surrender, but since her fingers are still linked with Finn's, his get yanked into the air too. "There's no need to bite my head off. I was just expressing concern for the trees."
"What are you, the Lorax?"
Finn cracks a grin. "Someone's got to speak for the trees."
I'm about to tell him what 'someone' can go do (hint: it's not very polite) when a shadow breaks away from the gloomy forest and solidifies on the trail in front of us, making my gut lurch like it always does after a jump scare in a horror movie. Then, before I even have time to process the sudden appearance of this shadow monster, it raises a very human-like hand at us and says to us in a sorrowful voice, "Good morning, campers."
Which makes Finn shriek like a little kid.
Becca is the first one to recover her wits. "Damn, Wolseley, you can't scare us like that!" Her breathy laugh tells me that the groundskeeper's creepy entrance startled her just as much as it startled me. "What were you doing lurking in the wood?"
"Making my rounds," he says drearily. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to jump out at you all. Sometimes I move a lot quieter than I realize."
"No shit," Finn mutters under his breath. He looks embarrassed about the shrieking.
"Well, we're here," Wolseley drones. His voice is so somber that he might as well be listing off obituaries in the newspaper. "I'll show you the rest of the way.
"Time to get some answers," Becca says grimly.
"Or go on a wild goose chase," I grumble.
We follow Wolseley to the end of the trail, where the treeline scrambles to a halt and makes way for the dark, smoothed-down pebble beach. I shiver when my sneakers make contact with the dark stones— I've never felt comfortable around the lake, and my experience last night only reaffirmed this hesitance. The water looks even blacker today, similar to the aftermath of a catastrophic oil spill. Even the fog is thicker— at first glance, you'd think a cloud had descended from the sky, or that someone wrapped a heavy, grey blanket around the Earth. The air feels more, too, like we're standing on a live wire, ready to snap.
You know. Comforting stuff.
"This is the place," announces Wolseley. His voice is softer now. Almost... reverent. Like he's trying to show his respect for the lake, or something else.
Wordlessly, he shuffles to the edge of the water. I look at Finn. He looks at Becca.
Becca shrugs.
"You're the ones that dragged me out of bed to do this," I snap. "So, let's fucking do it." Without waiting to see if they'll follow, I stomp angrily after the groundskeeper.
Wolseley doesn't look surprised to find me standing next to him. In fact, he doesn't seem to notice my presence at all. "This didn't use to be a lake, you know," he says. He's not facing me, so it looks like he's speaking with the air. An alarm bell goes off in my head. I always figured the groundskeeper was a little emotionally unstable, but I never wanted to figure out how much. He finishes, "It used to be a bay that connected to the ocean."
Someone nudges my shoulder. I glance over and meet Finn's gaze, which is sending me a message that isn't too hard to decipher— is this guy nuts? I get it, I really do. Giving history lessons to the void isn't usually on your list of "Sane Things To Do". It's starting to make me wonder if asking Wolseley for help was the best idea after all...
"In 1850, a miner found gold in that mountain over there. The seam went deep into the rock, so he and a few other miners decided to blow a tunnel into the mountain. But then things went wrong. Disastrously wrong." At this, Wolseley whips around so quickly that Finn actually jumps. Even my own pulse speeds up. "The explosion destabilized the mountain and triggered a massive rock slide, filling the water with debris and cutting off the channel to the ocean. In other words, the miners turned the bay into a lake."
"Cool," Finn says.
"I'm not done yet!" Wolseley snaps, making Finn jump yet again. "The misguided explosion claimed thirteen lives that day. It buried the miners alive in the rocks. The mountains were rumored to be haunted after that, so other miners began to avoid the area— they named the water ′Lightlake', after the blinding light that followed the fateful explosion. When the Director bought the land in 1962, it hadn't been touched in almost a hundred years. Local legend turned the place taboo."
"So... good for her?" I offer, not exactly sure what Wolseley is trying to teach us through his irreverent narrative. "That's kind of risky, deciding to build a camp on—"
"One hundred years," Wolseley continues, and I realize he didn't hear a single word I just said. "Complete solitude— complete banishment— for one hundred years."
Becca stands up straighter. "What do you mean, banishment?"
"I think what you meant to say," Wolseley tells her, "Is who."
The way he says the last word— like he's speaking about something very specific— sends shivers running down my spine.
But Finn is having none of it. "This is just a stupid ghost story," he groans. "Everyone at camp knows this place is supposed to be haunted— and I mean everyone. You promised to tell us what happened in ′69— how does this have anything to do with it?"
"Everything. It has everything to do with it."
I have a bad feeling about this now. A tell-tale itch, in the middle of my forehead. I always knew that something about this lake was off, and now I'm sure of it. But I can't put a finger on what exactly it is...
"In the fall of ′63, I was caught shoplifting from Radio Shack," Wolseley narrates. A flash of sadness flickers across his long face— not exactly regret, just... sadness. "A few days later, I was caught again. And again. Finally, my parents got fed up with my behavior and sent me here, to Lightlake. I was eighteen at the time."
"How is this relevant?" I demand.
"Please, just listen! You see, during that summer, I discovered something about this camp that nobody else knew— nobody except for the Director, of course. It was so powerful that when I returned home, I knew in my heart that I had to go back to camp. So I wrote the Director a letter and she gave me the job as a groundskeeper."
"And?"
"Listen. I also worked as a lifeguard for several years. This was before the Director forbade people from swimming in the lake— I'm sure you can guess why."
"Somebody drowned?" Becca queries.
Wolseley shakes his head. "No. Worse."
Well, fuck. What could be worse than drowning?
"One night— you should know that night swimming was very popular— I saw a kid get dragged down under the water. When he didn't come back up, I knew something was wrong. So I dove in after him." Biting down hard on his lower lip, Wolseley gazes out across the dark water of the lake as if he can still see the camper's disappearing form. "That was in the summer of ′69."
I exchange a worried look with Finn. He's getting better at keeping a poker face, but I'm good at seeing through poker faces, so I can tell he's alarmed. This an equation that doesn't add up to a pretty sum. It wasn't a coincidence that the camp closed the year a kid had an accident in the lake.
"I ordered all of the campers out of the lake and swam out to save him. But when I found him... it was too late. There was blood everywhere. His arm... they couldn't save it."
Wolseley stops speaking. Just stops. I understand why— some memories are too painful to put into words. It takes him a moment to collect himself. "We told his parents that it was undercurrents. Dangerous rapids, caused by the chaotic formation of the lake." He lets out a short, bitter laugh. "We said that he dashed his arm against the rocks trying to save himself. Lies, of course. Fortunately, there was no lawsuit, but the Director decided to close things down anyway. A ′temporary hiatus'— that's what she called it. She said that she needed time to figure things out.
"But I thought I already had everything figured out. I confronted her with my knowledge about the... lake, and threatened to tell others if she didn't agree to take action. And then... I'll never forget what she told me, then. ′You're only angry because you're scared,′ she said. ′I can teach you not to be scared.′"
"I don't understand—" Finn begins, but Wolseley silences him with a raised hand.
"Listen. That night, we went down to the lake together. She walked up to the water and knelt down, and... waited there. Just waited. When I demanded to know what she was doing, she asked me if I'd ever heard the tale about the maiden and the unicorn. You know, the one where only the young, innocent girl summons a unicorn out of the forest? I had no idea what she was talking about, but I pretended I understood."
"Sharing fairy tales with the Director sounds like a lot of fun," I say acridly, "But how does this relate back to the accident in ′69?"
Wolseley glares at me. Actually glares at me! I didn't know the poor man had it in him. "How many times do I have to ask you all to listen before you actually listen? Ten times? Twenty? Just be quiet!"
It takes a lot to shut me up, but Wolseley's outburst does the trick. I'm stunned speechless.
"Now, where was I?" he muses, as if our altercation never happened. I can tell he has bigger things on his mind. "Oh, yes. The lake. The summoning. I can see it so clearly— the Director kneeling there, waiting, and then... the water shifted. Something emerged from it— something long and black and moving. It lifted out of the water and she raised her hand and— they met. It looked like a recreation of that Michelangelo painting— you know, the one where God touches Adam? It was like that one. And it was... the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
"But what was it?" Finn demands. He's staring at Wolseley with eyes so wide, I can practically count his eyelashes. "What did she touch?"
"I didn't realize until later," Wolseley answers slowly. "Many nights I would walk to the lake and try to call it myself, but it never showed. It was like the Director said. Not everyone can summon a unicorn."
"But what was it?" Finn repeats, more persistently this time.
"Why, Finn," Wolseley says, staring down at him with confusion in his pale blue eyes, "I thought you already knew. It was a tentacle."
"What the fuck," I ask, "Was a tentacle doing in the lake?"
Wolseley looks positively nonplussed by the sound of my swearing— he doesn't even give me a mark. "It lives there, of course."
"A single fucking tentacle? Living in a fucking lake?"
"It's not a tentacle," Becca says, and all three of us turn to stare at her. Wolseley looks bemused, Finn still looks stunned, and I'm personally ready to fight the water itself. She just shrugs at us. The answer seems so obvious when she says it: "It's part of an animal."
"Not just an animal," Wolseley corrects. "A Kraken."
"Fuck no," I say, almost instantly.
"Excuse me?"
"Krakens are myths. They're not real. They don't live in lakes and tear people's arms off, because they don't fucking exist."
"Actually, I believe her," says Finn.
My eyes knife sideways. "You fucking hypocrite! You said you were done with secrets and mysteries! But now that your girlfriend thinks there's a Kraken in the lake, that all goes out the window, huh?"
"I believe her," repeats Finn. His face has gone all square, like it always does when he's picked a side for good. Stubborn. So fucking stubborn. "And aren't you the one that was so dead-set on finding a monster in the lake? Don't call me a hypocrite if you're going to act like one, too."
"The Kraken isn't a monster," Wolseley interjects. "It's just scared."
"Shut up, psycho," I say fiercely. "I thought we were looking for something explainable, like an over-sized fish, or maybe even a freaking Alaskan crocodile. Some shit like that." Not a myth that doesn't exist, and that you'd have to be crazy to believe!"
"I'm not crazy!" Finn exclaims. His cheeks are flushed, and I can feel the passion in his voice. It's so strong. He wants us to believe him, badly, but— a Kraken? In the lake? Seriously? "Don't you feel it too? That— presence? Like something else is here— in the lake, waiting?"
Both Becca and I shake our heads.
But Wolseley looks eager for the first time. "You sense it too," he says, almost excitedly. "I knew you were like her!"
"Like who?"
"The Director! You feel it, too— you can summon the Kraken!"
This makes Finn turn as pale as a sheet. It's like someone flicked a switch off inside of him— all the resolve drains from his face, and he backs away from Wolseley so quickly he nearly trips over his own feet. "Woah, hold up. I'm not summoning anything. And I'm definitely not like the Director."
Wolseley is undeterred by Finn's hesitance. "At least try. It's been years since I saw the Kraken. I need to know if it's still there."
"Why do you care so much?" I demand. I'm not surprised to find that my hands have balled into fists. The idea of a mythological creature inhabiting the lake goes against everything I've ever stood for. It's not predictable or controllable, and it just doesn't make sense. Nothing was supposed to change, but this— this changes everything. "Personally, I don't think it exists at all, but if it's there, it's there. Why does it matter to you?"
"The Kraken is the last of its kind," Wolseley replies. "Would you rather us let it go extinct?"
"That's bullshit. There are no such things as Krakens— they're just a story made up by sailors who had too much drink."
"Say what you want, but the Kraken exists. You can try to deny it, but you can't escape the truth. I know your type, Ronan Lockwood. You're angry, just like I was. You're angry because you're scared. You don't want to believe in the Kraken, because that would change what you believe in forever. I can teach you not to be scared, Ronan. I can teach you—"
"Fuck. That." My teeth are gritted together so tightly it's bordering on painful. "And you. Guys, let's go. I'm done dealing with this— this shit!"
"I want to stay," Finn says. But he looks unsure, now. Like a tree bending, about to snap, in a hurricane gale-force wind. "I want to—"
"Stay and do what? Be the fucking maiden that summons the unicorn? This isn't a fairy tale, Finn, so get your head out of the clouds. The Director and Wolseley must have been high as kites when they made up this story— this lie! Finn? Where are you going?"
But Finn is walking down to the water now with his shoulder set in a firm line, and there's no way in hell I'm going to stop him. "If you don't believe in me, then why don't you leave? You got your answers now. We finally know what's in the lake."
"What? Finn! What the hell do you think you're doing?"
He kneels down at the very edge of the lake and ducks his head like he's praying. "Quit shouting at me, asshole, I'm trying to concentrate."
"Don't tell me what to do. And don't tell me you actually believe this bullshit, either—"
"Shut up, Ronan! Just shut up!"
"Don't tell me what to fucking do—"
Becca puts her hand on my shoulder. "Just let him try, for God's sake!"
"Get your hand off me, Becca."
"No. You need to let him try."
"Try what? Try to look like a fucking idiot? Because he's definitely succeeding at that—"
"I said, shut up!" Finn shouts.
Fuming, I tear away from Becca's grip and stumble backward. "I'm done with all this shit. Clancey must have hallucinating when he talked about a monster in the lake. The only monsters at this camp are the people in it."
"Ronan," Becca says softly. "You know that's not true."
I'm about to fire back a snarky retort, but before the words even reach the tip of my tongue, the water... moves.
Wolseley is the first one to notice. His chin jolts up, pure joy filling his eyes. His mouth falls open in silent rapture.
I react next, recoiling from the water like it's bearing a repulsive disease. My heart starts beating a million miles a minute. "Fuck," I gasp.
Becca grabs my hand, more for comfort than anything else. "Looks like Clancey might not have been hallucinating after all," she whispers.
The only person who doesn't move at all is Finn. He just keeps glaring doggedly at the water, like he's trying to win a staring contest. And then he raises his hand—but why? What the hell is he doing?
The water is moving. Towards him. Like a snake, almost. Or a very peculiar wave—
And then...
Something inside the water moves, too.
"Wolseley was right," Becca breathes.
The tentacle is black. And thin. And almost iridescent— but maybe that's just the way the sunlight is hitting it. The slender limb looks exactly how I imagined it, and then some. It looks like a condensed version of the night sky.
Becca's grip tightens on my hand.
And speaking of hands, Finn is raising his. Lifting it up like he wants to give the air a high-five. The tentacle mimics his motions, breaking through the surface of the water and gliding upwards, smoothly, more fluid than anything I've ever seen— lifting, to meet Finn's hand—
The itch in my forehead is gone. I had been rereading the signs— because this isn't wrong. This is meant to be.
There are five inches of space between Finn's outstretched palm and the tentacle. Four. Three. Two...
"Hey!"
The moment shatters, and the tentacle vanishes even faster, slicing down into the water with frightening speed and disappearing without a single ripple.
"What's going on here? Wolseley? What are you four doing?"
I squint at the treeline. There's a figure standing there— a man with sandy blonde hair. I do a double-take as I realize it's Owen. What is he doing here?
Finn scrambles away from the water as if it burned him, hastily stuffing his hands in his pockets before Owen can see they're trembling. I can see the fear written plainly across Finn's freckled cheeks, and I feel the same fear in my rapidly beating heart. Immediately, I realize that Krakens are in the same category as psychics. Both break the laws of science and society with reckless abandon, and both damn the consequences. They're self-directing, and they're strange; and most importantly, they are secrets waiting to be uncovered. Secrets are meant to be shared. But a secret like this— it's best to keep secluded to a select few.
Krakens and counselors don't mix. They're like oil and water, except instead of separating on impact— conflict.
Owen shouldn't be here. It's not right.
"Nothing's going on," Wolseley calls, but he's also startled by Owen's sudden appearance and doesn't sound very convincing. Finn stares at him pleadingly, as if mentally begging him to come up with a better excuse. This groundskeeper is our last hope. What he says right now could determine whether Owen finds out about the Kraken, or continues to live on in ignorant bliss. "These three campers wanted to learn more about... the types of algae in the lake, so I decided to bring them down here to show them."
Becca slaps a hand against her forehead. Even Wolseley seems to recognize how stupid he sounds and blushes like he just got caught breaking the rules.
Owen strides casually down the beach towards us. "Algae, huh? That's not very interesting."
"Actually, it is," Finn blurts out. "You might not think so yourself, but I love algae. I'm probably going to be an algae specialist when I grow up. Because I'm just so, er, obsessed with it."
"Me too," Becca says. "Algae's my favorite plant. Or... thing."
Owen squints his eyes at them both. Not suspiciously. Just... searching. For what, I don't know. "Sounds like we've got some proper algae enthusiasts here. And you know me— I'm all for education."
"Er, Owen, I don't mean to be rude, but...." Wolseley trails off awkwardly. "What are you doing here?"
"I saw you four walk down to the lake a few minutes ago, and when you didn't come back, I got curious. So I decided to check things out. I hope I'm not interrupting important algae research!" Owen flashes a smile, but it fades away when he realizes that none of us are going to return it. "Well," he says, somewhat uncomfortably now, "breakfast ends soon, so you guys should probably head back to your cabins. You don't want to be late for your afternoon activities."
"Of course," Wolseley replies. "I'll supervise them on their way back."
"Awesome! You've always been a good help. Catch you later, Wols." Then, miraculously, the counselor turns his back on the lake and ambles away to the trail.
Once he's gone, I go to check on Finn. He's shaking all over now— definitely panicking. His face is a sickly shade of green. "You don't think he saw me, do you?" he asks sharply.
"No. I don't think so."
"Even if he did, what's he going to do about it?" asks Becca. "Tell the Director that he saw a fucking tentacle in the lake? Right now, he's probably thinking that he needs to invest in a pair of contact lenses, or stop staring so hard at Karen's ass every day. There's no way he'd jump straight to Kraken."
Finn nods his head vigorously. It looks less like he's agreeing with Becca and more like he's trying to convince himself that Becca is correct. "Yeah— that sounds about right."
Wolseley's biting down on his lip again, and I can tell he's unsure. After a long pause, he says, "I trust Owen. He's a kind man. I don't think he'd do anything to hurt the Kraken."
"And what about us?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "Of course not. That's not like Owen. He'd never do anything to hurt the camp or the campers."
"Well, we're better off safe than sorry," Becca says. "From now on, we shouldn't mention the Kraken. We'll just pretend like we never saw it and everything will be fine. Owen will forget this ever happened, and the Kraken will just— keep existing, I guess."
"Yeah," Finn says, somewhat shakily. "Everything will be fine."
I stare down long and hard at the sand as if all of the answers we're seeking are hidden there, lodged between the grainy rocks. (Funny. Even though Wolseley told us everything about the summer of ′69, I still have questions— more questions, if that's even possible.) "We should make a pact. To never bring up the Kraken again."
"Never again?" Finn asks wistfully.
"Never. And that applies directly to you, Kraken-whisperer."
He looks both offended and proud of this new title. "So what, we just put our hands in a circle and pinky promise not to snitch?"
"No, because we're all adults and we can stick to our word. Wolseley, Becca, Finn— are you in? Do you swear not to bring up the Kraken again?"
The groundskeeper nods, which I guess is the closest thing to a promise I'm going to get.
"I swear," Becca says. Then, even though it's obviously painful for him, Finn follows with, "Yeah, I swear too."
"Good. Now, we shake on it."