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Denholm Lake

A battle for the soul of the waters

By Lloyd FarleyPublished 2 years ago 9 min read
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“I’m so glad you’re here, Father,” the mayor said as she greeted the priest at the door. “Please, call me Graham,” he warmly corrected the mayor. Father Graham detested the nomenclature of the Catholic priesthood, particularly in his role as exorcist for the diocese. People who needed exorcists, he reasoned, had more to worry about than stammering over titles. “Certainly, Graham, certainly,” the mayor smiled as she led Father Graham to the nearby conference room, “please, this way. Our police chief is here as well.”

Father Graham entered the room and extended his hand towards the police chief. “The name’s Graham,” he offered politely, “and you are?” “Chief Lucas,” the police chief replied, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, reverend.” He took a seat across the table from his hosts and looked into their eyes, taking note of the haunted helplessness that the two shared. “Now,” Father Graham stated as he leaned forward, placing his forearms gently upon the table, “how can I help you?”

A few moments passed, each unsure of how to even begin to explain the events that had been ravaging their town. Finally, Mayor Quint began. “If you look out the window here, you can see Denholm Lake,” she said, directing his gaze outward. “Beautiful,” Graham casually observed. “It is, or at least it was until recently,” Mayor Quint confessed. “About a month ago,” Chief Lucas chimed in, “some of the fishermen in the area started hearing things when they were out on the water. Whispers, really – they couldn’t even make out any words. But the whispers got louder by the day, and clearer…” “What did they hear?” Graham asked. “Get off the water,” the mayor said vacantly, “get off the water, get off the water or die, you WILL die...” Chief Lucas picked up the explanation again. “And then, just vulgar, awful things I won’t repeat.”

“Okay,” Graham said comfortingly, “so what happened then?” “Then about two weeks ago the water became scalding hot,” the chief recounted, “dozens of our folk here, just swimming in the lake – burned, just like that. Most made it out before they were hurt too bad, but others…” Tears welled in the chief’s eyes. Mayor Quint placed her arm around him. “The chief’s boy,” she explained, “third degree burns from his chest down.” Father Graham extended his hand to the shaken police chief, holding it firmly. “My God,” he whispered, “I am so sorry.” “Thank you,” the chief whispered, “he’s strong, the doctors say he’ll be alright, over time.”

Father Graham pulled back slightly. He took out a notepad from his satchel, opened it up, and asked, “Then, according to my notes here, there was an incident with a girl?” “Barb Jensen,” the mayor responded, “a wonderful young lady. Always polite, helpful. Deep faith. She and some friends were out on the pier two days ago when a… I don’t even know what you’d call it, like a black fog… shot out of the lake, grabbed Barb and pulled her under.” “She hasn’t been seen since,” Chief Lucas added.

Father Graham sat back in his chair and looked over his notes. “You believe the lake is possessed, don’t you?” he asked pointedly. “I don’t know what else you’d call it,” Mayor Quint replied. Graham leaned forward again towards the two, his eyes brimming with compassion. “Listen, I believe you,” he comforted, “All of the things you’ve described could have an explanation, but together like this? No, there is something wrong here. I’ve seen a lot of strange things. People, objects, houses – evil can grasp hold of anything.” He stood up, gathered his belongings and demanded, “Let’s go.”

The three went together in the chief’s vehicle, parking just off the beach. Graham looked around. The beach was pristine, quiet. Not a soul could be seen or heard. The waters were calm as well, but one could sense the malevolence lurking beneath the surface. They got out of the truck, and Graham made his way to a nearby picnic table. “Leave me a moment,” he instructed the others. As they turned to give him space, Father Graham unpacked his satchel, laying the contents out on the table. All of his tools were here: a bottle of holy water, a crucifix, rosary beads, and his old, worn Bible, bequeathed to him by his grandfather. He picked up the Bible and held it to his chest. It was comforting, empowering. He then closed his eyes and began to pray. “Lord, you know what is to come,” Graham whispered, “and I stand here, your servant, and ask for the strength to battle, to fight our enemy by the power of your name.” He was about to end when he felt the need to add, “and keep me from all harm. Amen.” Graham opened his eyes. It was curious – he had never felt the need to ask for safety before, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was necessary today. He took a deep breath, placed his tools back in his bag and turned.

His foe was waiting.

“Which way is the pier?” Father Graham asked the mayor. “There, to the right,” she pointed. He started walking towards the pier, his hosts following his steps. When they arrived at the pier Graham turned to address his company. “I’ll be out on the edge,” he informed them, “do not come out with me. But if you believe, pray.” He turned back towards the pier and walked across it, the saturated, antique boards creaking with every step, until he had reached the end.

Graham looked out. The steam from the boiling water limited his vision, but he could see well enough. “Why are you here?” a chorus of raspy voices demanded. The reverend smiled ever so slightly – game on. “You know why,” he called out, “you do not belong here. You have defiled something good and pure, and by the power of Christ I will restore it.” The sound of cackling surrounded him. “We like it here,” the voices hissed, “the girl certainly did.” The water surrounding the pier began bubbling, spewing searing hot drops of water at Graham’s feet. He cringed, but defiantly held his tongue from crying out in pain. “Silence!” he commanded, having taken the crucifix out of his bag and holding it aloft. The waters backed away from the pier, mere inches but enough to keep the droplets from him. A scream of pain erupted, followed by a moment of silence.

It didn’t last long. Eerie laughter pierced Father Graham’s ears. “Pathetic,” the voices mocked, “like playing with toys.” A brief moment of doubt crossed Graham’s mind. The crucifix almost always brought the enemy to subservience. He shook his head. Not today. He of all people knew the dangers of allowing any sort of doubt to linger, so he fumbled for his Bible and cradled it, allowing its memories to flow through him, giving him the will to soldier on. “How dare you,” Graham shouted, “name yourself. By the power of Christ, I command you to name yourself.”

“We are many,” the voices jeered, “the Invited.”

Father Graham recoiled at the name. “The Invited” implied that the forces were asked to come, asked to stay in the waters of the lake. He couldn’t focus on that now. “The Invited,” he mocked in return, “how unoriginal. A whole group of you weren’t able to come up with something better?” The voices hissed. Graham knew that demons were full of pride and did not take goading well. They cried out in anger, “You can NOT…” “No, YOU can not,” Father Graham interrupted, “YOU can not be here. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, I command you to leave!”

The silence was unsettling. Then, one by one, the haunting laughter began again. “Our hosts would say otherwise,” they rasped. Just then, a searing pain from his right calf caused him to fall. Graham looked down his leg. Blood shot out from where he had been cut, each drop welcomed into the water. He turned to see two ashen-faced teens coming up the ladder, one holding the knife that was now colored red in Graham’s blood. Graham’s mind raced. They must have arrived while he was diverted, he thought to himself, and the fear raced through his entire body. Fighting the unholy on the spiritual plane was one thing but being in physical danger was without precedent. “Who are you?” Father Graham screamed out, crawling away from the boys, trying desperately to be heard over the din of evil cackling. The one holding the knife answered, “I guess you’d call us the party organizers.” He had barely finished speaking when the cackling grew louder, clearly amused by the response.

Graham grew frantic, his strength fading with the blood loss. “We’ve been promised great things, Father,” the other boy taunted, “by giving them a home and now the blood of a holy man.” Graham had crawled as far away from them as he could, but there was nowhere to go now. “Lord,” he whispered, “keep me from harm.” Suddenly a breeze roared up the pier and cleared away the steam. From the beach came two sharp pops, and the boys dropped to the ground. Chief Lucas put his firearm away. “It’s all yours, Father,” he shouted as he raced towards the pier.

The save emboldened Graham with a renewed sense of purpose. He staggered to his feet, and despite the ravaging pain he stood tall. “The power of Christ commands you back to hell,” Graham asserted, “and by the power of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost – you will obey!” As the words left his lips he opened the bottle of holy water and threw it out into the lake. Cacophonous wailing filled the area, fading away as the dark waters receded into the depths. In a final act of defiance, a large black fog enveloped the bodies of the two boys, pulling them into the water and into damnation.

Graham collapsed into the arms of Chief Quint, who laid him down to wrap bandages around the wound. “It’s done,” Graham managed to eke out. The chief smiled broadly. “You did well, Fath… Graham,” he corrected himself as he lifted Graham into his arms. As they walked back to the beach, Father Graham said breathlessly, “someone else needs your help.” Chief Quint looked puzzled and was about to ask when he saw the mayor pull her hands to her face, sobbing and racing out into the water. There, drenched and tired, Barb Jensen staggered from the waters into the mayor’s arms.

“I invited her home,” Graham laughed weakly.

FIN

Horror
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About the Creator

Lloyd Farley

Dashing, splendid, genius, awesome, and extremely humble - I am a 52 year old born and raised Calgarian, with a passion for bringing joy and writing humour, particularly puns.

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