Paradise Lost

Robert Lealand sat on the porch of his modest cottage, sipping his coffee and turning his face to the mid-morning sun. It was warm enough to blanket him in a comfortable glow but not yet strong enough to be bothersome. He sighed as its rays danced along the surface of Crystal Lake.

He smiled as he looked out over his personal slice of paradise. Crystal Lake had to be the most beautiful spot in the world! Pristine, unspoiled, unsullied by the throngs of tourists and weekend holiday types that stole the tranquility from lakeside living.

After 35 long years of working as a civil engineer, Robert was delighted to retire and finally make his cosy cabin his full-time home. "Nothing but peace and quiet from here on out", he thought to himself, looking around as the few neighbours he did have began surfacing from their slumbers to greet the day.

He stood, waving to Al Jenkins, and called out, "can't fault this weather!" his green eyes twinkling.

Al shifted quickly, giving him a sharp look from the corner of his eye and stumbled awkwardly into his cottage, slamming the screen door behind him.

Robert shook his head, taken aback by his neighbour's abrupt rebuff. He pushed his greying blonde hair from his face and chuckled. He was taken aback, but not surprised exactly. Al and his husband, Terry were as known for their legendary arguments as they were for their backyard barbeques.

They were both passionate, opinionated sorts. Al, a mechanic with a penchant for Russian literature and Terry, an Optometrist with the soul of a poet and a soft spot for all creatures great and small, were the unlikeliest of couples. But somehow, the pairing worked, aside from their usual disagreements.

Their latest standoff, Robert knew, was about adopting a dog. Terry had been upping the pressure in his campaign to bring a furry friend into the family while Al wanted no part of a four-legged lodger.

"Morning, Bobby," a cheerful voice rang out, passing by on her way to the lake, "lovely day for a dip."

He nodded at Ella Willoghby in agreement, casually admiring her slender athletic frame. At 61, she took better care of herself than most 20 years olds he knew.

"I see there's a couple new places going up," she sang to him, pointing toward the west side of the lake, "over there, and another just further down."

Robert nodded, walking toward her. "Yup, I saw," his voice flat but friendly, "as long as that's the last of 'em, should be okay."

Ella nodded, her dark ponytail swaying with the movement of her head, "I hope so too. Edgar tells me people are buying up lakeside and country properties all over. Wanting to get away from the cities. You know, after the Pandemic and all..." She trailed off and quietly looked toward the water.

"I suppose they would," he agreed and turned to go back to his porch. "Have a nice swim."

Robert and his neighbours watched for weeks as new cottages went up. Their distaste grew as more and more construction was popping up all around the lake. Their frustrations spilled over into frantic discussions at Al and Terry's annual 4th of July barbeque.

"I can feel myself being squeezed," Al noted, "it's not as peaceful."

Edgar, Ella's husband agreed, wiping beer foam from his reddish-grey beard, "we need to put a stop to this. Perhaps an association, something so we can set rules about how many cottages can be out here."

Robert nodded. "I think the best thing to do is approach the county," he suggested calmly, "see first if there are any regulations in place. Then go from there."

Their chatter was interrupted by a male voice standing near the gate. "Hey, neighbours," he said warmly. He opened the gate and strode through the yard, his long arm outstretched as he approached Terry, "Ross Miller," he offered, "I'm in the little green place just over there." He pointed to a newly-built, painted clapboard cabin near the east end of the lake.

Terry welcomed him warmly and offered him a drink as he made the rounds introducing himself.

He looked at Robert, "say, you wouldn't have seen a dog 'round your place, would you?" he asked. Border collie, black with some white, she's been running off from me after her afternoon swims. She normally comes back after a bit, but this time she hasn't. Last I saw, she was headed down your way."

Robert shook his head, "haven't seen her, but I'll certainy keep an eye out." He put his hand on Ross's shoulder, "come sit down, tell us about yourself.'

Ross grinned, "sure, but first, did any of you notice the dead fish coming up on the shore?" He scratched his head, "I didn't notice them when we were first building, but today, they seem to be all over the beach."

"Not again!" Al gasped. "Someone's probably been dumping their shit and garbage in there! This always happens when there's construction."

The smile quickly left Ross's face, "I, I, ..." he stammered, struggling to find the words he wanted, " I can promise you, it wasn't me." He pointed to his cottage, you see there, I have 2 dumpers and a portapottie that we're using..."

Robert interrupted, his expression soft and warm. "we're not accusing you," he cooed, "we can see you're a responsible sort. But others may not be. We've seen this before, when there's more than one building project on the go, there's always someone that cuts corners because they think they won't be found out."

Ross nodded, exhaling loudly. He was relieved to be excluded from suspicion. "Good, I'm glad you can see that," he sighed, "I'm not out here to cause problems. I'm just like you, just want some beautiful scenery and a quiet life, Robert."

"You've come to the right place," he replied, "and please, call me Bob, that's what my friends call me."

Al shot a sharp look at his guests, zeroing in on Robert, mumbled something, and went inside.

Robert shook his head. He wasn't sure what had gotten into Al lately. He could think of no faux pas he'd commtted toward him. But he seemed to almost hate him. Al and Terry's arguments were one thing, but to be so abrupt toward him seemed beyond the pale. He lifted his arm in the air, as if to summon the rest of the guests, and waved toward the gate, "time to wrap it up, I'd say." And he started the 2 minute walk home.

The night air had an odd chill for July and the sky was unusually dark. It felt and looked like rain. When he reached his place, he went inside, grabbed a sweater and started for his porch, beer in hand. He was stopped suddenly by a blood curdling howl. He dropped his can, swinging around to find the sound as his heart jumped into his throat.

He called out, "hello?" Nothing. The air fell silent again. He stood, motionless, aside from his trembling, willing himself back to some sense of calm. It was only an animal, off in the distance, he reasoned. He bent down, picked up his beer, took it to the fridge, exchanged it for another, and proceeded to the porch.

He took his seat and looked out over the lake. It was barely visible, a sheet of darkness in the midst of a dark evening. The night was quiet, aside from a few crickets and frogs. He sighed, becoming satisfied and comfortable in his solitude. He sipped his beer, interrupted again by the same noise, a high, deep howl. His blood ran cold. It sounded something like an animal, but with a sentience, a knowing of an impending doom that exceeded any beast he knew of.

He stiffened, cocking his head to decipher the direction from which the noise was coming. Nothing. He waited a few seconds, then a few minutes. Still nothing. Then another howl, but this time, more discernable, and coming from just beyond his woodshed. It didn't quite sound like a dog. It wasn't a coyote. But it seemed almost familiar.

Robert got up slowly and headed in the direction of the sound, calling out, "here pup, here pup." Nothing. He tried again. Nothing. Maybe it had run off, he thought just as he was knocked to the damp ground by a force coming out of nowhere. Something so strong it took his wind.

He couldn't see his assailant. He covered his face with one arm, protecting it and waved the other wildly, in an attempt to fight off who or whatever it was as terror filled his every fibre of his being. He could hear low grows, and a knashing, and then he could see the teeth, a huge dripping mouth full of pointed jagged chompers, all white and gleaming menacingly against the blackness of the night. He thrashed violently, screaming, begging, "please, please, get off me!"

As suddenly as the attack began, it stopped. It just stopped. Whatever had overtaken him had just given up with a slight wimper and disappeared into thin air. Roger lay still on the grass for a while, not sure whether he should move or not. And not sure that if he should, he'd be able to. He smelled the stench of urine nearby and then, reaching his hand toward his pants, realized it was him.

He waited and heard nothing. Eventually, he gained enough composure to get up and limp quickly to the safely of his tiny lake house. He locked the door behind him, then the windows, still shaking from his ordeal. He stripped of his wet, dirty clothes, and crawled into bed, hiding under the covers.

Robert didn't sleep a wink. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw those teeth, dripping with saliva, threatening to delight in devouring him. As the sun came up, he decided to take advantage of the light of day to investigate. He got up, grabbed his rifle and headed out toward the woodshed. The morning was quiet and fog covered the lake. He looked around, on the ground, around the woodshed and inside. Nothing.

He started back toward the house. Something caught the corner of his left eye. Nothing in particular, it was more like a disturbance, as if something had flattened the grass just beyond his property line. He walked over and immediately felt his heart sink. There, in the grass lay a black dog, still, peaceful, as if it were sleeping, except that it wasn't breathing. He backed away slowly. Poor pup, he was pretty sure it was the one Ross was looking for and he was certain whatever it was that attacked him went for it instead.

He waited until a decent hour to approach Ross' door with the bad news, explaining his theory of events and retelling his horrific attack. His neighbour smiled weakly, thanking him for his courtesy, "probably a wolf or something."

Robert nodded. He was pleased he had taken the news as well as he did, but there was someting troubling he noted in the man's demeanor. He couldn't put his finger on it, but there was a certain nastiness, a non- chalant air that didn't match the occasion.

"I'll fuckin' get you for this," Ross muttered, barely audible, his eyes narrowed and fixed on Robert.

"Say again?"

I said, I best be getting back in," Ross smiled.

Robert faked a grin and turned to leave, stumbling over his feet. They had fallen asleep and his legs felt like rubber. He gently stomped and shook his limbs and then, when satisfied he was okay to walk, went on his way. The stress of the night before had gotten to him more than he'd thought.

As the days wore into weeks, Robert found himself feeling increasingly uneasy. Something was terribly wrong and he couldn't quite put his finger on it. It was as if everything had changed. And it changed the second Ross moved in. There was a sinister energy around the lake now. His friends and neighbours, people he'd known for years seemed to dislike him. Not outwardly, not in any way he could pinpoint. It was subtle, an unspoken, but very real shift. Whispers here and there, odd looks, exclusion from activities he'd normally have been invited to.

As night fell in mid-July, he could hear a group chatting loudly and laughing at Al's place. He was sure he heard his name uttered a few times, but he couldn't be sure. His hearing wasn't what it used to be and seemed to be getting even worse lately. He sat, rocking on the veranda, enjoying the warm, clear night, admiring the stars until the ruckus began to quiet.

The air smelled clean and full of life. The lake was almost still, shifing just slightly in time with the soft breeze when the wind shifted from out of nowhere. The stars disappeared as clouds swarmed the sky and the air became clammy. But no rain. Robert looked around and saw nothing, then slowly something coming toward him. He stood up and backed toward his door.

"I've got a gun," he warned, trying his best to disguise his fear. His eyes darted back and forth out into the black void. There was nothing out there but several pairs of eyes. He could barely make them out, but he was sure they were eyes, seemingly suspended in mid air by the small grove of trees that separated his property from Al and Terry's. They danced up and down, coming closer, then retreating as Robert continued to scream.

He slid inside the cottage, locking the door. Panic choked him as he peered out the window, gasping for air. The eyes seemed to follow him, closer than they had been, but still not close enough to make out anything other than the eyes themselves. They were a mix of shades of white and yellow. Not quite round, but not not round either. He could hear slight murmuring, mixed with menacing howls, but couldn't make out anything specific.

He must have passed out from the fright because he woke up to the sun streaming into his livingroom and onto the floor he was laying on.

Robert sat up slowly, wiping the hair from his face and looking around tentatively. His legs and feet tingled, a byproduct of the terror that was renewing itself within him. He stood up carefully and walked toward the door. Seeing nobody outside, he opened it and was immediately hit by a vile, rotting smell. It was the smell of death, hanging in the air. He looked down to see a single dead fish on his welcome mat.

He picked it up angrily and tossed it toward the grove of trees. This had to stop, he thought. Enough is enough, he was not going to be terroized in his own home! He marched toward Ella and Edgar's neat chalet, determined to get some straight answers. They were sensible people. He rehearsed what he'd say in his mind and then tripped on something. Another fish. He sat helpless, hearing the laughter as everything got dark around him. He must have slept longer than he thought. It wasn't morning after all, it must have been evening. He remained there until the laughter stopped. He'd call the police as soon as he got back inside, that's what he'd do.

Officer Jones stood by Crystal Lake with a Fish and Game Warden, Ross and Al nodding as they spoke. The young policeman pointed to the clear water, "he was dropping Dimethylmercury into the lake, poisoning it. We can only assume he wanted to scare people out of the area."

Al's eyes widened, he clutched his new terrier, "is that what killed the fish?"

The Warden nodded, "Yes, and if he'd been able to continue, it could have been dangerous, even letha,l to pets and humans."

Ross shook his head, "I just don't understand..."

Officer Jones removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his brow, "You say he didn't like newcomers. That was the motive, poison them, get them out either by fear or ..." he didn't need to complete the sentence.

"None of us got sick," Al said, still confused.

"No," The Warden chimed in, " as best we can tell, he was the only one handling the chemical directly. It doesn't take much, just a drop or 2 on the skin or a simple whiff. Attacks the nervous system and the mind. You say he was acting strangely, stumbling, accusatory, paranoid. Classic symptoms."

Ross nodded, "yeah, he became a completely different guy almost over night. I knew something was off when he came and told me my dog was dead." He tugged on the Border Collie's leash for emphasis. "But I'd never have dreamed of this! That anyone, especially someone as friendly as he had been would go to such great lengths to have the lake to himself."

Al sighed, pondering the irony. Robert didn't want anyone else to enjoy Crystal Lake and in his selfish greed, he wound up not being able to enjoy it or anything else ever again. "It's always the last one you suspect."