Why does the lake reflect stars that aren't in the sky above? What whispers can be heard in the fog that rolls in at midnight, and why do they sound like voices from the deep? Why do the ripples on the water move in patterns that form symbols when viewed from the right angle? What do the locals mean when they say the lake "remembers" those who have drowned in its depths? Why are there footprints leading into the water, but none coming back out?
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“Yeah! Bring it on lake!”
― Rick Riordan
Elena had come to the lake to forget. The breakup, the job loss, the way her life had unraveled like a thread pulled from a sweater. She’d rented a cabin by the water, thinking the solitude would help her think. Clear her head. Find some direction.
The locals had warned her. “Don’t go near the water after dark,” the old man at the general store had said, his eyes avoiding hers. “The lake… it remembers things. Things that happened. Things that will happen.”
She’d dismissed it as small-town superstition. But on her first night, she’d seen something that made her question everything. Standing on the lake at midnight, she’d looked down at the water and seen stars reflected in its surface—constellations she didn’t recognize, patterns that didn’t match the sky above. When she looked up, the real stars were different. Dimmer. Wrong.
The fog came in on the second night, rolling across the water like a living thing. And with it, voices. Whispers that seemed to come from the depths themselves. She couldn’t make out the words, but they sounded like her own voice, calling from somewhere far away. From somewhere deep.
By the third day, she’d started noticing the ripples. They moved in patterns that shouldn’t be possible—geometric shapes forming on the surface, symbols that made her head ache when she tried to focus on them. She’d taken photos, but when she looked at them later, the patterns were gone. Just ordinary water.
She found the footprints on the fourth morning. They led from the edge of the woods straight into the water, disappearing where the lake began. But there were no footprints coming back out. She followed them, her own boots leaving marks in the mud, until she stood at the water’s edge. The prints were fresh. Recent. And they were barefoot.
That night, she couldn’t sleep. The whispers were louder now, and she could almost understand them. They were telling her things. Things about herself that she’d never told anyone. Secrets she’d buried. Regrets she’d tried to forget.
She went down to the shore, flashlight in hand, though she didn’t need it. The lake was glowing faintly, the water itself giving off a pale light. She could see shapes moving beneath the surface—not fish, but something else. Something that moved like people, but wasn’t.
The ripples began again, and this time she watched them carefully. They formed a pattern, a symbol that looked almost like an eye, or maybe a spiral. And as she watched, she realized the pattern was moving. Growing. Coming toward her.
She backed away, but her feet wouldn’t move. The mud had become soft, too soft, and she was sinking. Not into mud, but into something else. Something that felt like water, but wasn’t. Something that felt like hands, pulling her down.
The whispers were clear now. They were her own voice, but from different times. Her voice as a child, promising to be good. Her voice as a teenager, swearing she’d never make the same mistakes. Her voice from last week, telling herself she’d be fine. All of them, speaking at once, telling her the lake remembered. That it remembered everything.
She looked down at her feet and saw they were already in the water, though she was still on the dock. The water was rising, or the dock was sinking, or both. She couldn’t tell anymore. The boundaries between things were blurring, becoming wrong.
She saw her reflection in the water, but it wasn’t her. It was her, but older. Wiser. With eyes that had seen too much. And behind her reflection, she could see others. Dozens of faces, all looking up from the depths. People who had come to the lake. People who had stayed.
The whispers were inside her head now, and she realized they weren’t just memories. They were promises. Promises the lake had made. Promises it was keeping.
When the fog finally cleared the next morning, Elena was gone. Her cabin was empty, her things untouched. But down by the water, there were new footprints. Fresh ones. Leading from the edge of the woods straight into the lake. And none coming back out.
The lake remembered. And it was waiting for the next one.
