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Count to Ten

And sometimes once more

By FloraPublished 2 years ago 8 min read
1
Count to Ten
Photo by Lucas Henrique on Unsplash

Maybe it was the desperation for college money, or maybe it was to prove to her father that she wasn't afraid of water anymore, but in the fall of Sarah's senior year, she took that job renting paddle boats and canoes at Stanfield Ponds. The job was easy enough, even boring. Couples and families would come in with romantic glazed-over eyes in hopes of crisp auburn Hallmark moments filled with steamed hot chocolate and matching scarves. They'd come in twos and fours, never wanting the weight of their uneven party to allow the boat to sink more to one side. Sarah would sit on the edge of the dock with her shaking hands gripped tightly to the wooden frame, watching each pair of legs step into the tottering boat before pushing them off into the ripple. She'd ignore the violent lapping against the skeleton of the boat and count to ten–and sometimes once more.

Counting to ten was something her mother taught her. Close your eyes, focus on the numbers, focus on the stillness. One number and a time, and then before you know it, darling, it will all be better. Sarah never knew why people thought the water was romantic. Skipping stones and sunsets off glass never took her breath away. To her, water was a black abyss filled with all-you-can-not-see–a wet sludge that pulls the vulnerable under the surface–maddening waves that swallow upon a sudden turn of wind.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. One. Two....

Summer wasn't as distant as it seemed but the fall evenings became longer–leaving only ten shifts before the boat house would close to allow the pond to freeze over for skating season. As October waned and the air got colder, the nights became slow and the staff became thin. Most pond-side evenings consisted of cleaning unused bathrooms alone and studying calculus in the dim light of the concession stand. The red and yellow trails circling the pond became vacant until all that was left was Sarah waiting for the clock to turn ten o'clock so she could switch off the flickering open sign and set off to her car with keys between knuckles. Her father would start to worry about her once the sun disappeared–alone in the muted evening with a register full of money and no soul in sight. Yet, he started to worry even more when Sarah told him about the woman across the pond.

Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

The woman would simply stare at Sarah, blending in with the bare trees tracing the pond and swaying to the whistling of the wind. She had a frail frame, skin and bones, with wet dark hair that slicked back in a tangled mess. Although water doesn't show well on black, Sarah could see the woman's dress was drenched in water, dripping off her pale skin as if she crawled to shore from the belly of the pond. Sarah wasn't one for attention. She was the last to raise her hand and the first to deny a party invitation. She had no reason to lie, but every reason to doubt herself when it all started happening.

It was simple at first–wet footsteps would follow her walk, the echo of water gushing from soaked soles. A trick of sound maybe, just enough to make Sarah hold her breath and listen with intent until disbelief rolled over her. She'd look across the pond to find the woman still there, her distance soothing the tricks in her head. She'd distract herself by wiping another counter or cleaning another dirtied paddle, wiping her shoes on the mat a few extra times every time she went back inside.

Nine. Ten. One. Two. Three. Four.

Then the puddles started to appear–water pooling on the ground as if someone walked in from the rain and stood so close to Sarah that they could hear her quickening breath. Sarah would look out over the mist off the pond and see the woman in her growing shadow–the same as she was moments before. Sarah would reason with herself. It could be a pipe burst from under the tile, a drip from the unpatched roof, a leak from the aging freezer. The woman would still be across the pond, far from the circle of water that grew as Sarah stared. Sarah would grab the mop, spilling the bucket a few times, maybe on purpose, leaving a slick ground for her to attend to, for the puddles to have reason. Counting down the days left before she'd be rid of her seasonal job.

Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. One.

It became impossible to explain away. No accident or coincidence could rationalize the events in Sarah's last few days Stanfield Ponds. When Sarah would go to lock up the boats at the end of the night, the chains would be nowhere in sight, only to reappear the next day hanging from trees with weeds tangled around small woodland bones–as if the chains were dragged from the bottom of the decaying pond before being hung. And then her last Friday stroke with the sickest of circumstances–ducks were left within the seats of the boats, headless and slaughtered. She counted them through the blood and her tremor–one shy of eleven. No one but the woman could have done it, yet still, the woman would stand there. No evidence that she was ever close enough to Sarah to cause such misery. Staring. Blinking. Haunting.

Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.

Every sane person questions their sanity at one point in their life. For Sarah, it was slow and wavering, until, all at once, she broke like the twigs under her feet as she ran from the concession to the bare dock. All the boats had disappeared when the clock stroke ten. All but one. A small canoe with a single paddle, swaying in the gentle waves, banging against the dock as if aggressively inviting her in. Sarah screamed over the pond to the woman, "what do you want from me?" The woman never responded, but for the first time, the woman across the pond moved. She spread her cheeks until her lips were tight, revealing a deep grin without teeth, her eyes widened in sadistic awe as she watched Sarah's panic rise. The woman lifted her bones to motion Sarah to her. Almost in a raging trance, Sarah ignored all that kept her out of the water for ten years and got into the canoe. She paddled hysterically through the reeds and the mist while yelling through shaking tears. "Leave me alone! What do you want from me?"

Eight. Nine. Ten. One. Two. Three.

The woman across the pond shook her head up and down as if she approved of Sarah coming closer. Sarah's vision blurred with fear as she got closer to the middle of the pond, because, in an instance, the woman started to walk into the water, step by step, until her head sunk under the surface. The woman didn't blink or take one last breath before the water enveloped her. Sarah began to frantically paddle away while the sound of water crashed against hollow wood, echoing in her mind. Her breath quickened, making her head dizzy. She was hyperventilating and searched the black surface for any movement under the waves she created.

And then she saw the woman. Smiling under the surface, feet on the bottom of the pond–staring deeply into Sarah's eyes. She had never seen the woman closely. The blur from a distance now had details and focus. No longer a dream, although the woman's eyes were almost familiar as if from one. And although her stare was unnerving, Sarah felt at peace for a small moment until the woman pushed off the ground–as if the woman gave permission for the pond floor to let her go and allow the water to let her float. The woman's head cut through the water's surface as violently and unsettling as she went into it and Sarah froze in her body. The woman reached forward to grab Sarah's hand in one swift movement. Although everything in Sarah wanted to scream, somehow, she momentarily felt calm in the woman's eyes as if she understood her all this time. She leaned forward, offering her hand to the woman, and in that moment, she chose to trust her.

Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

It went black as they both tumbled under the cold October water, Sarah gasping for breath and violently reaching for the sky. The woman gripped her ten fingers through Sarah's hair and held her head a few inches from Sarah's face and screamed with an unearthly timbre. Sarah screamed too, air bubbles racing from her mouth to the surface she reached for. Then the woman spoke, muffled in the water, but also somehow as clear and soothing as if they were friends talking over afternoon tea. "Just count to ten. And then everything will be better." Sarah screamed, thrashing and kicking to get away. The woman put a water-wrinkled finger over Sarah's lips, pulling her further into the deep. "Count to ten. Everything will be better, darling." Sarah squinted into the woman's eyes, searching, as her heart began to slow and her limbs got colder. "Count to ten. Do it again. And then it will all be better. Count with me, darling." Sarah shook in exhausted bursts. "Be still. Close your eyes, darling. One. Two. Three." Sarah closed her eyes and opened her mouth to speak with wet lungs.

"Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten."

"Very good. Do it again. Once more, darling. Just once more."

Horror
1

About the Creator

Flora

𝒯𝑜𝓇𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑜-𝒷𝒶𝓈𝑒𝒹 W𝓇𝒾𝓉𝑒𝓇

𝕗𝕚𝕔𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟, 𝕡𝕠𝕖𝕥𝕣𝕪, 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕙𝕦𝕞𝕠𝕦𝕣

@ꜰʟᴏʀᴀꜱ.ᴀᴜʀᴀ

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