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Lady of the lake

by Clare Smith about a year ago in fantasy
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The lady of the lake

She smiled and stretched out below the surface, the waving weeds caressed her body as they lapped in time with the water movement. The lakes legend, old Scarface the pike swam past her face the predators gaze arrogant. She laughed as she tickled him beneath his gills and the fish opened its mouth; showing razor sharp teeth as it wriggled in ecstacy. She glanced at the dark lines of his war wounds, he was a brave one; this one was a fighter.

She felt the rays of the moon stroking the surface of the water, it enhanced the appearance of the watery ceiling. It turned it into a stained glass pattern of greens, blues and diamonds. Her hand broke the surface first touching the silken soft light, it illuminated her hand into a ghostly white.

‘Crack’, the sensation of a foreign object breaking the surface, polluting her body drew her attention. She gasped, doubling over in nausea as she felt the thick black oil sliming the surface like an evil slug. Old Scarface flicked his tale and disappeared into the depths panicked by her reaction ….

“For fuck sake Doug, careful with that thing. These boots cost a bomb, unless of course you fancy buying me a new pair”

“In your dreams, Greg. If you are stupid enough to wear them on this job then it’s your fault if they get damaged”, Doug rolled the old oil barrel to the edge of the pick up, its contents sloshed and leaked a few drops. “£2000 for these barrels, who the hell is paying you for these? They aren’t even that full”. Greg grabbed the barrel, spilling a few drops down his jeans and new boots.

“Goddammit!”, he cursed as he threw it towards the lake, then giving it a final kick so it entered the water with a splash. “You are a clumsy bastard!” he laughed good naturedly. Why the hell his employer had paid £5000 to dump this crap in the lake . It had to be the lake with the reputation of being haunted. The only thing that haunted Greg was the spectre of being broke.

The moon suddenly brightened the area, like being in a natural spotlight it painted the surface of the lake with luminous white. Both men paused for a second with the brighter light and laughed a little at their anxiety. Greg moved back to the pick up, but Doug was transfixed at the sight of the lake churning where the barrel had disappeared. Slowly emerging from the water was the figure of a woman, shining white; her long hair waving as still beneath the water, she showed no signs of embarrassment . Doug’s jaw dropped and his eyes grew wider and she continued to rise, his arm lifted to point. Greg turned at the gesture “Oh my god” he gasped as he came face to face with her. She looked angry and in pain. He tried to retreat but she kept pace, “Please…please don’t hurt me, I really didn’t…”. There was no chance for him to finish his sentence as she grasped his face with both hands and kissed him deeply, Doug terrified attempted to back off in the back of the truck and fell heavily, crying out with pain and shock.

As the kiss continued Doug’s eyes began to bulge and he struggled frantically but was held tight. He then stiffened, black oil splurted from his nostrils, his eyes and ears as well as from the seal of his mouth. Greg screamed as the woman’s attention turned to him. She pulled him from the truck by one foot, her hair also wrapping itself around his leg and up to his torso. His scream became more frantic as the inky blackness, leaked from her hand and began to coat his limb and continue upwards. As the oil climbed it hardened to a solid, slowly turning Greg to a statue. His screams became higher pitched as the oil reached his face and poured down his throat, quietening them to a gurgle and then to silence. She released him and glared at the two men; pathetic creatures. Sneering she walked closer to the lake and allowed herself to dissapate into the water in a flurry of water droplets.


About the author

Clare Smith

I have always written and read a lot since an early age. I was a member of a writers workshop at school and wrote loads of poetry. Now I concentrate more on short stories and my novel in progress.

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