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Upon the Writhing Lake

a Lovecraftian tale of hubris and madness

By boshmiPublished 3 years ago Updated 2 years ago 14 min read
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Caspar Friedrich - Tageszeitenzyklus, der Morgen (Day Cycles, the Morning), 1822

(transcript issued September 2006, excerpt from the pages reclaimed in St. Evelyn's manor)

The cove which lay beyond my own abode was a peculiar place in its own right; one shrouded in a tryst between the rumination of townsfolk and the tales of salty mariners, those whom remained cognitive enough to tell them. Regardless, the place had been deserted for some years now and in lieu of any proper occupation I took it upon myself to purchase the land. The man who sold it to me was a peculiar chap to say the least; eyes like dark pearls and a mouth like a gash; unsmiling, unmoving, lest a trickle of gore fall from those lips. His hat was polished to perfection, mustache a charcoal smear on his lip, and throughout the entire affair he never once seemed to take his gaze from my face. He said nought as I signed the deed, though upon reflection, I admit to a change in the air. A shimmer, as though something beyond time and space had nudged itself and thus affected the thread of all reality. Needless to say I am a businessman by trade, and as a fellow lacking in the more… scrupulous of religious virtues, I was disinclined to acknowledge such a shift as anything more than the wind. The encounter ended as it began. He was silent as he exited my quarters, stealing not so much as a backwards glance.

Weeks after I finally settled into the home, it started. First, a creak in floorboards, a whisper in the night air, then the screams, the echoes, and finally; the nightmares. Otherworldly creatures reaching into my dreams to pluck me from my sleep as a child would flowers. Plunged into the depths of hell and tormented ceaselessly til the morning wrest me from my fever’d slumber. It was the fourth month of this tribulation when I finally came to terms with the nature of the call. Such undying shrieks, such troublesome whispers! They echoed through the mansion, their screams the screams of fallen souls; crying with the fury of demons that plagued this wretched home to its very foundations. Amid a vista of agony, in a dream beyond time, I saw the cove, the only classifiable thing within my strained perception. When I next awoke I knew I would find my answers there, in that far reach of my estate where yet I had not set foot.

It did not occur to me directly that I should simply depart, and find lodging elsewhere. After all, I had not achieved my present state of opulence in lieu of frugality. I had signed a deed. I had intended to live out the rest of my days in luxury and peace, here on the edge of civilisation, and any deviance from said intent would have rendered me ignorant of my own ethic.

There is no boatman that tolls the waters of St. Evelyn’s Lake, though there is indeed a ferry; one lacking a ferry master for three of the four yearly seasons. It being the former, I was nigh acquiesce to pilot her myself, though such a task was far beyond the disposition of my stature, and at this stage in time I still reckoned myself an author of fates. To the inland village I walked, clad in heavy coat and wide hat; tinctures against the ghastly rain and thunder which so relentlessly assailed the lake’s environs.

It was late evening when I arrived at the innkeeper’s door, and set about inuring myself against the weather with a homely pint of ale, though judging by the regular clientele there was little to be desired by way of rusticity. Coin clutched in filthy fingers, yellowed teeth grinning behind grimy faces, the locals seemed unperturbed by a newcomer among them, and I was all the more gracious for their ignorance. I asked the barkeep if he could recommend any young mariner types, and he pointed several out. I offered him a shilling in recompense and he took it grimly.

“A word of advice.” He murmured solemnly. “If you find yourself near the westward cove, do not tarry long. Those waters run with the blood of many men, and have claimed just as many vessels.”

Should I have heeded his warning? No, of course not! Regardless of how relevant his advice may have been, the rumours of a country village innkeeper were hardly proof of any danger. Besides, the drink had instilled in me a sense of bravado which was only amplified by my proximity to men of rough and tumble disposition. My dreams were merely dreams, after all, and my personal curiosity was reason enough for indulgence herein.

A boy was procured for the task of captaining my vessel. A fisherman by trade, he was particularly keen to steer clear of the wretched cove.

“The fish what come out of there ain’t right sir.” He protested. “Marks in em’ like they’s been bitten at.”

Of course he was silenced by my generous offer of payment. Remarkable how coin can instill such courage into even the most feeble of fellows. With no more business to conduct, I left the inn with my captain in tow and returned to my abode, where we sheltered from the ever-furious storm. I provided my guest with ample bedding (“thank you kindly, sir, ain’t never had a bed quite like this sir”) and retired to my chambers. Soon this whole escapade would be behind me.

It was a still morning. The sun had yet to rise and the fog lay low over the surface of St. Evelyn’s lake, coating the landscape in an ambiance of foreboding; an accolade to the townsfolk’s premonitions of impending suffering. The darkness was welcoming. I could not explain it, even now, but that mask of blackness served as a comfort to my frayed mind, as though I could surprise whatever it was which haunted my dreams, should I sneak up on it unseen.

I promptly marched down to the shore, the enlisted captain in tow. Enveloped in the folds of my cloak was a pistol, not for personal defence, rather to ensure that the captain indeed went along with my instructions. I am not, after all, a man convinced of humanity’s inate obedience. Often a firm hand is required to coerce those more rebellious members of the working class.

Regardless of my misgivings, we cast away without mishap, silently slinking off into the fog. Our rowboat quickly departed St. Evelyn’s shallows, and solid land slipped out of sight. Though I may have imagined it, I believe I saw something in that retreating fog, something beyond description waving to me from the shore, though when I brought my attention fully to the article it had vanished from perception as quickly as the bank upon which it had stood; swallowed up in the unyielding mist.

An hour passed. The captain rowed, each stroke bringing us closer and closer to my absolution. I was determined. I would triumph in this battle of resolve. No man had yet to best me, and I would be damned if I allowed my own mind to capitulate here. As we reached the western banks and the mouth of the ocean, my companion slowed, setting down the oars.

“Cove’s up ahead sir. Not too long now.” He told me sheepishly.

I reprimanded him for his cowardice, reminded him of my promised payment, and he reluctantly picked those oars up once more, though now he moved sluggishly, as though his arms weighed significantly more than they had just moments ago. Wordlessly, the vessel was piloted towards those craggy caves that formed the coastline along the western shore, where tide broke to the bend of the bay and all those men had supposedly met their doom. I could sense in the water an immediate change; there began what could only be described as a persistent humming vibration, uninterpretable by any fortification of the mind or natural explanation.

“We should turn back now sir. It isn’t safe here.”

From within my cloak I drew the pistol, though I did not yet flaunt it as an instrument of coercion.

“Don’t be daft, man.” I chided. “Choppy water is no reason to forsake one’s dignity.”

It was left unspoken as to what I intended to do with my firearm. Perhaps he assumed it was some form of protection? I knew, even then, blinded by my hubris, that the foe I faced could not be killed with mere tools of iron.

We rowed on to the mouth of those caverns, and set about departing from the boat. The water was frigid, as the sun had yet to make its way over the horizon, but a dull westerly glow had begun to appear in the fog, and I was determined to make headway. Taking with me a lantern and my pistol, I hopped over the side, water coming up to my chest. With some coaxing and promise of extra payment, the captain was persuaded overboard as well, even if he had no real purpose here. In truth I was wary of his premature departure, for to find myself without transport at the end of this escapade would be most inconvenient.

Into the caves we ventured, that faint glow of sunrise quickly swallowed up by salt-soaked rocks and lapping water. I held both lantern and pistol high to prevent soaked pitch and gunpowder, but I needn’t have worried. As we ventured deeper and deeper, the water sunk to my waist and then eventually my knees, where it tamely remained while we navigated those twisted corridors and endless crags.

Some time passed. We were by no means lost, and it was not for lack of exploration as we had made very good progress, but I could not shake the feeling that with each step my companion’s fortitude grew ever weaker. Though the water level remained low, I could feel movement past my boots, almost as though the liquid had come alive and thickened in density. The humming we had heard out in the bay had grown in volume and ferocity too, and was now irrefutably unnatural. Neither I nor the captain deigned to mention these things, for fear of giving in to our own premonitions.

It would have been quite a distance of persistent sloshing when we arrived upon that dead end. At first, it seemed as though the way forward was innavigable - a sheer rock wall blocked our progress, but under closer inspection, it was clear that the water beneath our feet was deeper than previously thought. Numerous sunken pathways revealed themselves, many of which we had passed by on our walking thus far, but one in particular lay dead ahead, in the direction of the ever-intense humming.

At this point my captain’s will broke.

“No. Sir. I won’t be going no further. I won’t be dipping my head beneath these waves for any money on heaven or earth.”

Disgusted by his weak will, I was reminded of my own virtues by way of his shortcomings. Where the common folk would shy from danger, I would strike on, undaunted by the surrounding aspect.

I handed him my pistol with some misgivings. It would be useless ahead, for I would need to swim my way under the rocks, and the powder would assuredly become drenched. My lantern on the other hand, I kept firmly sealed and fastened to my wrist. With any luck it would not shatter against some wayward stone as I dove. This time I had no worry of the boy’s departure. It was pitch-dark, and without a lantern of his own, he would have no way of venturing back to the boat. No, here I was quite safe to explore ahead at my leisure.

With a half-hearted bidding of good luck from the young captain, I knelt down, soaking my cloak thoroughly. I felt with my arms for the area where rock gave way to open water, and having found it, I dipped my head beneath the waves. I remember the icy chill ripple through my bones. I remember the humming grow to an unbearable height as I was submerged, but I moved quickly, and had no time to pause for thought. As my lungs were slowly starved of air, I thrashed my way through that sunken opening, wriggling my body into the crevasse and pushing out into a submerged cavern. Onward I swam, chest gasping for oxygen, every moment agony as I hoped against hope that somewhere up ahead these would lie relief. By now I knew that I should have turned back long ago to ensure no death by my drowning, but I had to find what was buried in this wretched place, lest my mind suffer even another night of tormented rapture.

The thickened water seemed to grow ever potent here, and I could sense something almost sanguine about it. There was movement, a brushing against my face for an instant, which vanished as quickly as it had arrived. My morale began to fall with every stroke. There was no way ahead, and I would perish to a foolish mistake. The humming had grown to a stultifying roar, my ears sinking into blackness along with my vision, when suddenly I burst out into the open, lungs gasping for air.

I crawled my way out onto open stone and heaved the contents of my guts onto the floor, where bile mixed with brackish water and the salty scent of the ocean became ever more sickening. I lay there on that damp stone floor for what seemed like an eternity, the rise and fall of my chest a reminder as to my own mortality. My breathing was ragged, my chest aching, but drowning out that pitiful, mortal mewling was a sensation beyond description; beyond human comprehension, utterly and entirely alien.

I rose to a crouch, to find none other than a man staring back at me. The tatty rags worn by the local mongers adorned his frame, though they were soaked with the tide that ran its way through this craggy tomb. The glim of my lantern illuminated his face in an intermittent orange glow, its pallor obvious even in that warm light. I raised that lamp and mumbled a greeting, asking him what exactly he was doing down in this place, but he did not make to respond. Curious, and miffed at his disrespect, I gave him a push with my free hand, though immediately drew the appendage back in disgust, for his very flesh seemed to pulse and writhe sickeningly. I scrambled to my feet and came to see that similar men were draped in various positions around the room, each of them twitching with that same revolting quality.

Quite suddenly the noise seemed to renew itself tenfold, as each man convulsed violently. I had no warning, and I could not react before a cacophony of tearing flesh and contorting cartilage joined the chorus of godless wailing. From every orifice and from the water itself, they came; eyeless, limbless, writhing, twitching, and roiling, thick as a man’s arm, slippery and black. Their toothed mouths gaped, screaming that accursedly beautiful noise. One lunged at my leg, teeth on flesh, making contact as an opaque film seemed to ooze from its mouth, and I was transfixed, enraptured, and granted both the greatest gift and the most wretched of curses.

Francesco Saverio Monticelli - Di un caso di parasitissimo Limantis nilotica (The case of the parasite Limantis nilotica), 1918

In another moment I tore the creature from my limb, and it rolled to the rocky floor with a scream, trailing gore and foam. Into the water I dove, arms tearing at the waves, pulling myself forward. I did not pause, did not falter, did not care as my chest began to tighten, did not think about the twisting mass of seaborne malignity snapping at my heels. My head hit rock and I felt the water grow thick with my blood. The current behind me grew frenzied as the creatures surged forward, but I was already pulling myself out, onto the floor, into the thin arms of my enlisted captain. I snatched the pistol from his hand and shoved him towards the rock wall, where the slippery dark shapes had begun to burst from the water. He said nothing, merely grunted in surprise as the creatures began to feast. The unnatural wailing grew louder as they entered his young body, devouring his insides, tails flicking water through the cavern as they burrowed in any way they could. I did not stay to watch.

Back through the cave I fled, never pausing once until I was in the light of day. My head and leg both trailed blood, but their wounds were nothing compared to that upon my mind; the pounding, racing knowledge of that which should not be known. My heart surged at the sight of that pathetic little boat, and I hauled myself aboard as quickly as my exhausted limbs would allow, all misgivings concerning the depreciative nature of rowing such a vessel banished from my fray’d psyche, for the moment that the beast had laid it’s maw to my skin, I had known the horrific, unknowable truth. My mind pulsed with that fathomless implication, an articulation of the (illegible scratchings fill this line). I was a fool, for we are all fools, to foolishly believe ourselves human, the misshapen lumps of sinew, muscle and bone we are. Outside of space and time, outside of knowledge, outside of existence is nothing but (the text becomes warped and misshapen here).

I Finally See.

Soon, I will be dead. They come for me, and I see them lurking, stealing the faces of the townsfolk. I will claw the eyes from my face, tear out my throat, that they will not receive satisfaction. I beg you. Destroy this house, raze the town, salt the earth, and dam the writhing lake. Let St. Evelyn be a name purged from history, lest it purge history itself.

(end transcript)

fiction
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About the Creator

boshmi

I write short stories every few weeks or so, mostly inspired by early modernist literature. These are the ones I like the best.

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