The Evil of Lake Love

You don’t walk along the shores of Lake Love at night. At least not alone, or if you want to make it to the morning.

People laugh off the stories of those who have vanished beneath its surface, suddenly gone to the depths. Swimming accidents, silly teens messing about at night near the water, they say, and pretend it is not something else. Except, every now and then the person who goes missing is not a silly teen, nor someone who would be foolish around water.

The night Deputy Sheriff Wallace vanished, he was taking part in the search for a missing girl, who had disappeared from a party. No one expected him to walk down by the lake, all the locals knew not to even bother seeking a trace of the girl there in the dark, but Wallace was not local. He had been in the town just over six weeks, not long enough to learn the stories, or appreciate their warning.

So, he went searching down by the lake and he never came back.

That shook people a while and it made them increasingly wary of going near the lake even in late afternoon. Of course, it was only going to last for so long, this remembrance, this caution, then someone would get cocky again.

If I could create a sign that would deter people from going near the lake, sure as hell I would, but signs only make people more curious, and the people of the twenty-first century are so cynical about the supernatural that circulating the good old myths no longer keeps them away.

All I can do is wait out the reckless and the gung-ho and try to keep the lake calm. I have been doing this for more centuries than I care to remember, but it never has been so hard.

You want to know what the lake is and why it does this thing? I am sorry to disappoint, but I have no real answers for you. I sometimes wonder if I once knew, a long while ago, before the detritus of the years clouded up my mind. All I know are the bare bones of things.

One night, so long ago I am not even sure there was a dating system you would recognise, I was brought to the shores of the lake. I was a youth of seventeen, a keen warrior sometimes too quick with bow and spear. I was told to guard the lake.

Guard a lake? Yes, I was not sure either how to do this thing or from whom I should guard it. I was told I must keep living things from its shores at night. The wild animals had learned through their own sixth sense to avoid it, but sometimes a straggler would wander near, or even people from another tribe who did not know our legends and our traditions. They could not be allowed to approach the lake at night. It was a sacred place.

I was told a half-story. It is not a sacred place, but it is a place of evil. Whatever is down in that lake – and I do not know, for I have never seen it and never intend to – it is hungry, always hungry. It feasts on souls and each one makes it hungrier for more. It becomes restless, dangerous. I have no idea what would occur if it had enough souls in one feast, but I don’t think anyone would like the answer. It is best to keep it in a starved state. It seems to make it comatose, or at least quieter.

Maybe I was not meant to guard this lake forever. Maybe, at some point, another suitable youth would have been brought to fill my place. But no one ever came and now I am the eternal guardian of this lake.

No, I do not know why they chose me.

And, no, I do not know why I have lived this long and whether I am immortal. But it would be best for everyone if I was.

Things have become a lot harder in the last couple of decades. Stories of the strange lake have spread and draw visitors from far and wide. I have a hard time keeping them away from the lake’s shores. I lose one maybe every six months. You would think that would be enough to keep people away, but it just seems to increase interest in the place.

Now there is this new thing coming. A film crew and my understanding, from the little I have garnered from listening to folks, is they will try to use cameras to record things.

That is a curious thing about the lake. You cannot capture an image of it, not in pencil, pen, paint or in any of the modern mediums people use. In the old days, artists would set up their easel and try to draw the lake, but they could not. Somehow what they looked upon would not translate down through the pencil or brush.

The cameras people have been carrying around for over a century have a similar difficulty. No matter how many times they point them at the lake and click a button, they never get an image. There is always just blank nothing.

Sadly, this has clearly made things more enticing to the film crew than less.

I have no idea what I can do about the film crew. I usually try and scare people away these days, which is easy enough with lone teens or even small groups of them. They want to be scared and they are willing to be chased off. It makes for a good story, after all – being pursued by the Wildman in the woods.

But a whole film crew?

I heard someone say they will be bringing their own security, so no one can interfere with the filming. I am guessing that trying to act the boogie man towards them will just end up with me being arrested – and that is a scenario I cannot allow.

All my usual ideas seem to have failed me, but I must do something. The lake has been restless lately, too many deaths near its shores stirring it up. I cannot allow more.

If you were to ask me how the lake kills, I must respond I do not know. There is a lot, as you have seen, that I do not know. Why did it not kill me the first night I slept near its shores? Why has it never harmed me in all the centuries since?

I have never seen it kill a person. It always waits until they are out of my sight. When they are alone and now one will see.

Now, there is a thought…

What if I was to merely keep watch on everyone? Make sure that the film crew kept together and if anyone did go off alone, follow them and keep them in sight?

It is a vast lake and in the past, it has been too easy to miss a person, but a film crew is hard to miss. I just need to be the watchful eyes to keep everyone in sight.

The trucks for the film crew are parked up on the road above the lake. I have been hearing their commotion for a while. I decide to wander up and make my presence known, play the ‘native wisdom’ card and see if they will heed a little advice. If nothing else, perhaps I shall be able to ingratiate myself with them and be able to stalk their every move.

The film crew consists of five people and two burly security guards. When I introduce myself to the man who seems in charge, he seems to look at me as if I am an apparition. I am dressed in my oldest clothes, the ones I hand stitched myself in the traditional style. I know my face is darkened by the outdoors and my features are of an ancient lineage, one almost lost. I stand out and I must seem a curious figure. I hoped for that.

Before he can speak, I tell him very calmly that Lake Love is a dangerous place.

“Dangerous? Oh, the legend.”

“The legend is true. My ancestors knew of it.”

“Yeah, yeah. That is why we are here with the camera. They say you cannot film the lake; it never shows up.”

I look solemnly at the camera he refers to.

“No, you cannot take its image. I do not know why.”

“What do you know?” the man is laughing at me.

“That any who stand on the shores of the lake alone at night disappear. That great evil lurks beneath the surface and should not be stirred up.”

“Are you warning us away? Is this sacred land, or something?”

I hear his defiance. He wants me to tell him to go. He would like the challenge.

“No,” I reply. “No warning. I have watched over this lake all my life. I only ask that I can continue to watch as you film, to ensure no one comes to harm.”

“So no one goes paddling in the lake and stirs the monster,” the man grins at me. “Sure, if you want to watch, watch. Hey, maybe we shall film you too, talking about your ancestors’ stories.”

I could sigh at his reckless disregard, but by now I am used to this. At least I can keep my eyes on them.

They begin filming in the late afternoon. There is a woman presenting the piece, talking to the camera with the lake behind her. The camera seems to be having no problems filming the water, though I hardly know how they work to comment. I stay at a distance, sitting on a tree trunk, keeping in sight the seven people.

Once or twice the security guards go to warn off some youngsters who are coming to see what is happening. I am glad for that. I don’t need more people down here. As long as they remain in a group, I tell myself, as long as they stay together.

They take a pause in the early evening. Stopping for food and refreshments. One of the crew brings me over a warm drink. I sniff. I know of coffee, though I cannot say I care for it. I say thanks, nonetheless.

It is in that moment, as my coffee-bearer moves away I realise the group has shrunk from seven, to six. I jump up to my feet and start marking off the faces I have grown accustomed to. There is a security guard missing. I go over to his companion, needing to find out where he has gone, hoping he went back to the lorries, away from the lake. It might not be dark enough yet to warrant alarm. Most disappearances happen in the dead of night.

“Where did your friend go?” I ask the security guard. “It is best we remain together near the lake.”

The security guard has a look of amusement on his face.

“Don’t worry Tonto. He just went for a whizz.”

I frown, not sure about the word. My eyes are stalking the trees.

“Did he go back to the trucks?”

“He went that way,” the security guard waves vaguely in a direction that would mean the other man was skirting the lake. My heart is sinking fast. I am torn between abandoning the film crew and trying to find the missing man or sticking my ground.

Looking at the lake, I sense it is disturbed, that the water at the banks is lapping more and there are ripples upon its surface. You could suppose they were caused by the wind, but I know better. The wind cannot move this lake – whatever this thing is, it does not conform to normal physics.

I make up my mind and go looking for the security guard. I hope to find him walking back towards us. I know I will not. Half an hour of walking reveals no sign of the man, and I cannot afford to be gone any longer. Others could vanish too.

I return to the filming area in time to hear a heated conversation between the remaining security guard and the man I spoke to earlier. I have since learned he is the director of this disaster. They are arguing about the missing man and when I appear I am looped into the conversation.

“Did you see him?”

“No. I saw no one.”

“He has vanished! I can’t believe this!”

I know what will come next.

“We need to search for him,” says the security guard.

The director is not impressed.

“I am on a tight schedule,” he scowls. “Go look for him if you must.”

“It is this place! This legend!” the security guard cries.

“Don’t be stupid,” the director sneers.

The conversation is over, but I cannot let someone else venture out alone. I say I shall help the security guard look for his friend. He is scared, nervous. He is right to be. No one believes until the worst occurs.

We hunt for ages, but there is no sign of the man. Then a scream from behind has us rushing to the filming area again.

It is the woman presenting the piece who is screaming. I am alarmed to note there are now only four film crew.

“He went into the bushes to get a different angle and now he is just gone!” she screams at me. “His camera is just lying there!”

She and the director had gone into the bushes to find the lost cameraman and had discovered his strange disappearance.

“This place is cursed!” the woman cries, and she starts to run, back in the direction of the trucks, thankfully.

The film crew is thrown into disarray. I start to mumble about them sticking together, but already I can see my plan failing. The director is rushing off after the woman. One of the other crew members is talking about having a smoke.

When I turn, I discover the security guard has disappeared.

I stand still, looking for him, scanning the trees. He was just behind me. Did he go off into the woods again, looking for his friend, or were we all distracted long enough to take our eyes off him and so the lake consumed him?

I am learning something new about the lake, about how quick and cunning it is. I am starting to fear I have been outwitted. I turn back and now there is no one along the lake shore. I could have sworn I heard them talking just moments ago, but now…

I start to walk along the shore, seeking the two crew members that had been left behind just a moment ago. But they are gone and when I lift my eyes to the lake, I see it is roiling and writhing. Out in the middle, huge bubbles are bursting to the surface, cracking open like massive eggs.

It has eaten so much, it is sated, and the evil is blooming, rising, pawing upwards.

No one ever told me what to do if this happened.

Running back to the film site, I see the director is returning to collect his crew. I run towards him, wanting to tell him to leave, but he is looking behind me, towards the water. I can hear the noise behind me. I can see the terror in his eyes. Still, I spin around slowly and cannot believe what I see as a great wave rises up and comes crashing down upon us…

***

I am not sure how long it is after the flood that I open my eyes again.

I am on the forest floor, alive, but drenched. Coughing up water, feeling as if I have had the life pounded out of me and only just survived.

There is no sign of the director.

The lake is eerie calm. Utterly still. There is not a sound. Not a rustle, nor the cry of an owl, nor the distant hum of the motorway. I fear something awful has occurred.

I stumble up to the road where the film crew trucks remain. They are empty. I walk on and towards the motorway. I see cars rammed into other cars. Lorries overturned. I hurry closer, but nowhere I search do I find any survivors. There is no one. They are all gone.

The town is the same. I search it for hours, but every home, every shop, ever bar and nightclub is abandoned and empty.

All I can do is return to the shores of the lake.

Why did I survive the deluge? How far did it spread? How many have died?

I should feel guilt. Instead, I feel – relief. When the worst has occurred, then what more can be done? What is left to fear?

I look at the still lake, unmoving, as if frozen. What did it do? Will it ever do it again?

Am I still the guardian of this lake?

As has always been the case, I have no answers for myself. Instead, I sit down on the shore, and I watch the water. I close my eyes and try to feel something, some regret, some despair.

Instead, all I feel is exhaustion.

At last, I lie down by the shore and close my eyes. What else is there to do, but sleep?