Ernest's Site

There’s something in the water at Lake Coltrane.

It’s hard to see and even harder to remember. I keep watch, day after day after day. My mother say’s I’m obsessed, whenever she remembers I’m out here.

It lives in the deep, where the water turns cold and sterile. Where the sun has no dominion, where the moon cannot pierce.

I watched it take a girl, once. She was in an inner tube, just floating around. Then she slipped off and away. The water was clear that day; I could see her, screaming, silent. Humans weren’t made to speak underwater.
I don’t remember her face. It hasn’t been long enough.

Whatever’s in the water, I’ve only truly seen it once. I was swimming with a friend– I still remember his name. Eric. We were going around, goofing off, having fun. He said something touched his leg. I didn’t believe him; I thought it was kelp. After a few seconds, he stopped swimming. He stopped treading. He sunk. I dove down after him, scared. There really was something wrapped around his leg. Something dark and very, very cold. There was fear in his eyes when I lost sight of him. Fear and death.

For a while after that, I still went out on the lake. I’d have fun, paddling around. But I’d always keep an eye out for the thing in the water. I never saw it again, but I’d see its effects: missing people, sinking children.

On a Friday, a couple brought their two beautiful children to play. On Saturday, they had one. On Sunday, they had been trying for years. Monday night, there was just a man staring into the black water. Did he remember his life before that point? Did he recall the face of his children?

I watched him walk into the lake. He floated there, facedown, for a while. Just as the light failed, he sank. The lake was still, once again.

I don’t go out on the water anymore. I can hear it calling when I’m out there. I flipped a canoe on the lake once; no one saw me. No one helped. Something was touching my leg.

My mother never asked where the canoe went. I never told her; I never told anyone. I suppose I just forgot.

I’m writing this because I’m tired and I don’t know what else to do. This isn’t to anyone, this isn’t for you. I keep looking deeper and deeper into the water each day. Down, past where everything dies and the darkness becomes absolute, something has anchored itself to the seabed. I cannot see it, but I know it’s there. It is dark and cold and looks like absence.

Everything’s fading. I can’t tell each day from the next. I’m writing this down so that there’s something left of me. Something left for someone to forget.

Eric’s invited me for a swim tomorrow. I don’t remember when. I don’t remember why.
But I think I’m

            going
                   to

                     join



                          him





                              there.