text: Hello! This is an expanded version of a story I posted before. Basically, I took the abstract "story" I had and added an intro and outro to it. It leans more towards traditional fantasy now, I think. While I've gone over the main portion of the story a few times, the segments I bookended it with are very much rough drafts, so it's definitely a work in progress. Hopefully you still enjoy it as it is now, however. ;) &#x200B; Monster of the Lake By Thomas Bradford The cabin was dark, its smell damp from the rain. But it was warm. The old woman settled herself across from him. The fire was between them, its crackling tongues casting the dwelling’s light. Throngs of shadows danced on the four walls around them, writhing in motion to the fire’s sparks. Beneath the dampness there was another scent, faint but familiar to him. “Rosehip,” the old woman said, when he asked. Her weary voice was thin, like old reeds which have been worn through by wind and time. *Rosehip.* Impossible to find in this icy wilderness. She must have had it for some time. “You’ve been expecting me,” he said. He still wore his wolf cloak; the thick fur gave off a gentle steam as it dried. The old woman nodded. “I keep some for all my visitors, few as they are in these dying days.” He didn’t reply to this. Slowly his gaze fell from the deepened shadows of her wrinkled face to the mesmerizing sway of the flames. His eyes lifted again when she said, “You mean to cross, do you?” Both were silent a moment before he nodded. “Yes,” he answered. “I have little time to spare and no supplies to waste. I must go across and be on my way.” “I see. You are not the first to insist this. My visitors may be rare, but I have heard your words before. You are not unique, nor are you the first to foolishly trust in a sword to keep you from danger.” There was a pause, interrupted only by the distant voice of the wind outside, and the subtle whispers of the fire. The steel hilt at his side reflected the light. “I do not mean to insult you,” the old woman said. She raised a hand as if to placate him and a few of her many bracelets slid down her forearm. “I only wish to warn you off. There is danger in the path you face. Peril, the likes of which cannot be slain with metal, if indeed at all. This lake is like no other. It does not freeze, nor does it allow all who venture across to reach the other side.” He answered the grim look in her eyes with an exasperated stare. “Then warn me,” he said, “so that I may be off again, old one.” The old woman shook her head. She gathered the folds of her heavy robes and drew them tighter at her neck. “Words do not work on their own here,” she said. “This I learned a long time ago. I must show you, as well. Will you see?” Confused, he replied, “What do you mean?” “I burn the rosehip not just for the warm scent,” the old woman said, her thin voice low. She pulled a small pouch from inside her robes. “Should I add to it, you will see and experience my warning for yourself. There was another who was caught in this lake, you see, and through their eyes you will see the graveness of its threat.” He didn’t speak. They stared at each other for a time; looking into her eyes, he saw no signs of treachery. “Will you see?” She asked him again. Finally, he nodded, and loosening the drawstrings of the small pouch, the old woman took a pinch of what was inside and cast it into the fire. As the smoke in the little dwelling gathered, and enveloped him, he began to hear the old woman speak as if from far away. Somewhere across the lake, perhaps . . . \# In a forest of tall trees there is a clearing, and in this clearing is a lake. Upon the surface of this lake, you float. The forest is quiet, the lake still. Your body gently lifts and falls on the water’s surface, divided between the black depths and the cold air. This division is not equal, with your greater half belonging to the depths. Your ears are submerged, the sounds of the world muffled and distant, beyond your reach. The sky is gray, dark, with the threat of a storm that never comes, a promise of rain that is never fulfilled. A perpetual cold has seeped into your bones, leaving your soul with the longing for fire, and warmth. There is no one besides you. You are floating alone. Yet that is not entirely the truth, because there is something else. Something down below, at the end of the darkness. Something that lives in the depths of the lake, with its eyes eternally poised, searching for you. There’s something in the lake. It wants you down there with it. And now, when the waters are still and nothing disturbs the mirror of their surface, when your thoughts are content, there appears an object rising beneath you. A coil, unfurling from the black void below you. A coil of metal. A hook, rusted and dull, rising at the end of a serpentine chain cast by a corpulent hand. All is quiet, peaceful, and you never suspect the chain’s presence. Taken unawares, like the prey of a stalking animal, you are hooked by this chain. With no chance to cry out, you are pulled beneath the surface without a sound. The waters are undisturbed by your departure. Gently they ebb and flow, their reflection of the sky unbroken in your absence. More perfect. Spiraling, descending, you watch the daylight recede. First it is at arm’s length, and you can still reach for it, then the moment has passed and it is beyond your grasp. With each tug of the chain, it drifts further and further away, as you sink with the hook that has caught you. Darkness covers you, the Stygian world closing in, smothering your sight, severing your hope. You cannot breathe. The darkness is not empty. Certain things dwell there - misshapen things, not living, but neither dead. Aspects of yourself, the dark reflections that exist in you. Thoughts, memories, once forgotten but now remembered in terrible flashes. Like ghoulish specters they rise from the deep, one by one to greet you like old friends, each with a smile on its face. Smiles which bare many teeth. There is no air to scream, no chance to free yourself. Your only recourse is to cry, the tears flowing into the water around you, joining with the lake, making it stronger as you are pulled down. Down. Your only company the phantoms of time, the things you never wanted to remember, but will never fully forget. The daylight has disappeared, the surface gone from you so completely that you are uncertain it was ever real. The world below becomes your reality, the dark water and grinning faces your nightmare, and your mind is filled with the terrible certainty that you will never get out again. Everything is distorted, all clarity lost. You become convinced that if there ever was a world above, somewhere free of this dark place, that that world is not for you. That you belong out of sight, in the darkness. As you think of giving in, of stopping your struggle to let the chain pulling you take its course, one last flicker of clarity does emerge, and you wonder how many times this has happened, and for what reason it continues to happen. What is the purpose of this lake, and why are you there? The chain pulls and pulls. You’re close to the bottom. With no air to breathe, surely you should be dead by now. And yet you live, trapped in this state of suffocation, desperate and denied the salvation of a single breath. Revolving slowly, your eyes catch a glimpse below of the thing that has ensnared you. Just a glimpse, a vague outline of the monstrous creature. Something that looks human. Eyes searing with hatred, a loathing that can never be undone. It grasps the chain, a murderous intensity in its eyes, in that grip, in every movement it makes. This creature wants you dead. It wants nothing more than for you to end. This thing exists because you exist. Its life is tied undeniably to yours, and yet it wants you to die. It does not care, for its sole purpose in being is for you to suffer, and ultimately cease to be. To meet this creature, to descend to the bottom of this lake and stare into its pale face, is to mean your death. Until then, all your efforts will be distorted, reshaped into ridiculous failures unworthy of note. All your dreams will be taken from you, smothered in their cribs while you watch in silence. Perhaps you will fall to the lake’s bottom one day. Perhaps the monster will win in the end. But today the hook’s hold on you isn’t strong enough, and you slip free. Terror takes hold as you flail, scrambling back to the surface, to pull yourself out of this nightmare. The monster remains where it is, for it is patient and sure that one day it will have you. Your ascent from the terrible deep seems never-ending, and you are afraid the surface might have been something you dreamed a long time ago. Or that perhaps the darkness has irreversibly changed you in some way, spoiled you, and now you can never return. You don’t see the surface appear before you. There is no long and ardent journey towards some far-off light. One moment you’re still mired beneath, with the voices and whispers from the past pressing around your head, each getting its final say in before you pass from their domain. Each phantom grinning and chuckling at your pathetic motions. And then you are out, once again floating at the surface, without a splash or a loud gasp for air. You’re just back, like nothing had happened. The chill air drying your face is the only indication you ever left. No relief at your escape, no thankfulness to still be alive - your mind runs with one terrible certainty: It will happen again. Sooner or later there will be another hook, another chain, and you will be pulled under again. True escape will never be possible. You are trapped in this place, trapped in this cycle without end. No. A cycle with one end. The quiet is broken by your screams, the peaceful air filled with your wretched cries. There are people standing at the edge of the lake. You didn’t notice them before, but you see them now. How can they not see you? How does your screams, your thrashing, not get their attention? But they do see. They are not blind. All around the lake’s perimeter the people stand in silence, watching as you struggle, listening as you wail and cry, unable to save yourself. Some of the people have never swam these dark waters; others know the dangers. None can help. They’re consumed, all of them. Concerned with their own problems, their own dreams. They don’t have time for yours. Some of the people leave, disappearing into the fog and the trees, perhaps to wander into lakes of their own one day. The others look away, and hope that your cries will end soon. \# The fire had died. No sounds came from outside, be it rain or wind, and when he turned his head he could see daylight peeking around the hanging hides of the cabin’s entrance. “The night has passed,” the old woman confirmed. She still sat across from him, her legs folded beneath her. Her eyes were closed, and her voice sounded more fragile and timeworn than ever. “The lake beyond this cabin is not quite the same as the one you saw, and felt. Nor is it entirely different. You will not find anyone floating in its center. But I believe, if you were to swim into its depths, you would find a creature that should not exist in this world. One that exists, instead, in many. “Thus my warning to you is given, and thus you may be on your way.” The cabin was cold. No trace of warmth lingered in the air, nor remained in the lining of his cloak. Rather than inquire further, he simply rose from the floor, feeling the slowness of his joints - awakening after hours of dormancy - as he did. He made to leave. “Do you still mean to cross?” the old woman asked from behind him. Turning his head, his hand resting on the heavy hides, he said, “I’ll go around.” With that, he pulled the flaps aside and left the cabin.