Lady of Weeping Lake

He stared at the void of the blank document screen, infuriated by its plain, dreadfully white background. “ Why can’t I think of anything!”, he thought to himself. It had been this way for months now since the publishing of his bestseller. A story that had brought him the recognition he had so long desired from his work since boyhood. He had always dreamed of being mentioned among the likes of Koonst, Christie, and King as one of the great literary minds of suspense and horror. When his first story was published, he had seen it as the first of his rise to the ranks of those great authors, but as time passed the blank page that once held such promise, now turned into an ever-goading reminder of his inadequacy. What was worse than that, the money which had at one point been his ticket out of the desperate circumstance he was once so akin to, was nearly all dried up.

Hoping a little exercise would bring the creative flow back to his stressed and doubt-filled mind, he chose to make his way to the mailbox. As he stepped out of his third-story apartment, he was startled by the elderly woman from down the hall in room 303, Mrs. Taylor.

“ Oh, I’m so sorry Allen, dear! I was just making my way to you. A package addressed to you was placed in my mailbox, it seems whoever mailed it got the wrong address.” She held out the rather large package wrapped in its parcel paper and tied it with a thin piece of twine. Not wanting to be rude to the sweet old thing that had become like a surrogate mother to the aspiring author. He gently took the package from the smiling, blue-eyed Mrs. Taylor.

“Thank you Jannette, I’m sorry if I started you. Being shut up in there is starting to make me a little jumpy. Do you need help getting your groceries into your home?” Allen asked, noticing she held crochet that from the looks of it, should be too heavy for her delicate arms.

“Oh no! Thank you, love. It’s no trouble at all! A young gal like me ‘s got to keep her exercise up. Would you like to join me for tea? You could use the company, and I never mind the conversation.”, She asked, giving her signature sly smile. This garnered a wholesome chuckle from the writer, having remembered their last discussion at tea. In which Mrs.Taylor admonished him for not living life, by which she implied not having any female interaction outside herself.

“Thank you Jannette, I would love to come by later this evening. Until then, I'm going to see if I can’t make a dent in this novel of mine! I have only until the end of next month before I must have it finished”, he explained to her with a genuine smile.

Mrs. Taylor, more comfortably known as Jannette, agreed to their afternoon tea time with the grace and understanding of beloved matron before making her way to her apartment door. The writer, who was referred to as Allen by his lovable neighbor, inspected the queer package with his right hand. It seemed like something that one would expect to see on the set of a turn-of-the-century British drama. Something not found in these modern times of FedEx and Amazon. The item had a familiar heft to it, giving the writer the impression that it must be a collection of some literary origin. While entering back through the door of his modestly sized apartment, he noticed that no return address was posted on the stamp. The section read-only “Weeping Lake Estate Post”, a name-bearing no more than a phantom of a memory.

He made his way to his writing desk, taking an elegant letter opener engraved with the words Of Poets and Men along the smooth belly of the blade, he took to the work of skillfully cutting the twine and unraveling the wrapping paper. Unveiled now, was a leather-bound book, about as thick as a medieval tome. On the cover, beautifully emblazoned in bold, black and green lettering was the title: THE LADY OF WEEPING LAKE, A history of the Collum Family of Weeping Lake. The writer, being a lover of classic leather-bound manuscripts, found himself doubly astounded, for now, the name Weeping Lake came back to him across the endless sea of memories. Hanging firm to the tail of his mother's maiden name, Collum.

He ran the tips of his fingers along with the sleek, sensual, dark red cover. Only allowing his skin to just barely make contact with the arousing material. It transfixed him, as did the ominous illustration just below the lettering. The scenery was the misty specter of trees overlooking a greyish-white and blue lake. In front of it stood the outline of a slender woman. Her hair gentle vines of black, covering the top of a gown of sorrowful grey.

As he studied the picture, his mind, so he thought, using its divine property of imagination, gave life to the breeze stirring the waters. The fog in which enveloped the trees began to thicken, completely shrouding one tree then another. The lamentations of the woman carried by the wind, growing ever more in clarity. The scent of moss and damp wood mingled with that of dread and despair.

Pulling himself from the gripping holds of his imagery, he opened the cover on the volume to find a message inscribed on the title page: “ To my beloved nephew, may the Lady’s tale inspire your future endeavors. For she has long held a special place within our family, and will no doubt live on long after the last of us is gone. Take care to learn from the deeds of your forefathers. Although it was not a choice of your own making, the penance could extend unto generations to come. She shall be your burden from now on.” - Aunt Lyssa.

The writer was taken aback by the peculiar way in which his aunt had ended the message. On top of that, It had been well over 23 years since he had last seen his aunt Lyssa! Not since he was a young boy, who with his mother, resided at the family property with Lyssa and her two sons, Roger and Caleb.

“ Caleb…”, the name hung off the writer’s lips as a spider hung from the beams of an attic. The tragic memory began to shadow all of those of a more radiant and cheerful nature. The floating, lifeless body of the then thirteen-year-old boy, whose skin, once a vibrant peach, was diluted to a sickly pale blue. His chestnut hair darkened by the cold press of his murky grave.

“That’s enough of that”, he proclaimed, taking a cigarette from the worn, dented packaging and resting the end gently between his lips. Repeating the hollow ritual of mentally ordering that this one be his last just before lighting, with no sincere intention of keeping to it, he began the tale of the Lady of Weeping Lake.

At the turn of the 17th century, a young nobleman by the name of Lord Charles Collum took to wife the daughter of a very wealthy fabrics merchant. With her father suffering from an unknown disease, and with no male heir to inherit the growing family business, Lord Collum saw an opportunity to greatly increase his family holdings. On the day of the wedding, at the Lord’s estate, the two were joined as man and wife in the eyes of God and king by the calm misty bank of the Weeping Lake. A name that is rumored to date back to the time of the Celtic people who originally settled the land.

The new Lady of the Collum Estates was not an exceptional beauty, and truly some might even consider her plain. Her complexion was pale even when not adorned with makeup. She was slender, yet in a manner that was still pleasing to the eye. Her hair was akin to the coat of a raven, a characteristic shared with her eyes. Features that gave compliments to her near the feline face. These aspects alone would make her no great treasure to any man of noble birth, however, it is noted that she had an air of mystery about her, coupled with a sharpness that was often hidden by her obedient and demure demeanor. At the hour at which the Lord and Lady were to consummate their union, Lord Collum had dismissed their retinue with these very words, “I pray you to leave us now, for I wish to spend a night in which only the moon and myself are privy to the secrets of such a lady.” And alone they were.

The newlywed bliss endured, made all the sweeter by the Lord Collum’s inviting of his sister-in-law to join her beloved older sister at their Estate. The merchant’s business, having been the dowry bestowed on his daughter, afforded the newly wedded couple a time of comfort, revelry, and intimacy. However, this flitting period of bliss, was, like all things, not to last.

The writer, so encapsulated by the tale, was unable to notice the sound of the drip, whose faintness composed a hypnotic tone, which hid the growing entity behind him. He was beginning to fall into the world of his family’s founding. The words of the history transported him to the grounds in which his childhood was forever scarred. The voices of the dead, summoning him across the vast oceans of time!

After years of financial success, the fabric business began to dry up. In hopes of procuring more business, Lord Collum had set to leave at dawn for the period of a year. That night, the couple had not shared their marriage bed. Due to his bride's inability to produce a child, the Lord of the Weeping Lake had found it difficult of late to enjoy the carnal company of his wife. Preferring to spend his late nights in his study overlooking the family's ventures and holdings. And, more so recently, the enticing visits of his sister-in-law!

The nights since the stillbirth of their child had been difficult for Lady Collum’s ability to sleep. Most nights she would wake. She would roam the halls of the Estate till she reached the observatory, where she could gaze at the various stars that glittered the sky. That night, as she made her way back to the empty bed-chamber, she chose to indulge in her guilty pleasure of observing her husband at work. Charles was a fine businessman, often preferring to oversee every factor of the family’s industry personally. The stoic reflection, by which he bore on his countenance, gave her the notion of an emperor of antiquity. Often filling her with immeasurable pride and adoration.

As she neared the door to his study, she heard curious giggling emanating from the sliver of light made from the room. Quite confident it was simply a product of her exhausted mind, she crept up to the intricately engraved door. Again, hearing a queer sound akin to the purring of a cat, she leaned closer to observe the nature of the phenomena. To her horror, she uncovered the source of the strange cries, and then moments of which she believed of no significance, seemed to bellow a realization, she, for a time, persuaded herself was a meer fiction. Unable to comprehend the scene in which she partook, the Lady, almost as if in a dream, made her way down the steps, through the great hall, through the hedgerows, to the lake in which the estates acquired its namesake.

She did not feel the arctic chill of the dark waters. Nor did she even notice when the last globe of air escaped her lungs. Even after she was found by the groundskeeper the following morning, even after they had laid her to rest at the cemetery of the estates Parrish. She remained bound to the grounds she once called home. She would be seen by the lake, the one where she once had been wed, she would be in a gown of pure white. Her raven black hair dripped down the length of her back. She would often visit the eldest of the family’s boys. The generations provided by her sister, who after a time that was deemed proper, became the new Lady of Weeping Lake. And it was during these visits she would entice them to follow her to her murky home. To the waters that claimed her life. The waters were as black as her eyes. The same eyes that now stared back into the writer's own.