Mother Lake

Folk Horror.

A manic whisper urges me on, and I oblige, but what it is I’m giving in to, I cannot say.

When it’s over, I’m mesmerized by a reflection I see upon the water in the shadow of her skiff. She, a plain-Jane come to read beside the lake—now on her back, eyes bulged—and this man—this hideous creature—hands rising from her neck to cover his mouth like a child who’s broken his father’s favorite pipe.

I watch the woman’s chest in the reflection. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting—it does not rise or fall. Then, a raindrop ripples this ghastly image into oblivion, and I reel back, teetering away from the disrupted horror.

I stumble over her book, falling to the damp soil, but I keep my eyes on the warped reflection. I want to pull on the water like a bedsheet, to remove its creases and confirm what I already know: the Devil cupping his mouth is me.

Rustling from the bramble: a hare bounds, disappearing through the trees into the forest.

I scan the shoreline, but my sins are mine alone; forever shall I keep and hold and molest them privately. I pick up her book and throw it into the skiff; the pages flutter accusations. There is something between its pages: I pluck out a photograph of two children. One is hula hooping, the other is eating a chocolate bar. On the back: “For Mother Lake.” I return the picture to the book.

I drag the woman’s body to the edge of the boat and heave her up over the side. I do not look at her thin lips—I do not look at her breasts hanging from her blouse. I get into the skiff and push off with the oar.

From the turning of the water beneath the oar I hear incoherent, giddy voices. Children’s voices: water tricks.

When I’m far enough from shore, I hang the book over the side of the boat, but before I let go, I read the title: Paradise Lost.

Never to be regained.

Splash.

The photograph rises to the surface. I lean over the side of the boat and fish it out. I tuck it into one of the woman’s stockings. Her face is sanguine. Her body is nothing to me now. Her throat is storm clouds. Her hair, a golden nest once tied up in a black velvet band, is now loose and disheveled. Her eyes are lost in the sky. Her mouth is open, searching for raindrops. Her palms are up, waiting for Christ. Her children are speaking in the slosh.

There is a rope tied to the bow of the skiff and an anchor at my feet. I unfasten the rope from the bow and tie it around the woman’s waist, then roll her and the anchor over the side.

Splash.

My breath is coming slower now. My heart no longer beats for two. The woman never existed; I wipe my brow and smell roses on my hands. I can’t help but laugh—I’m alone! And I’ve been alone all day, of course. Back at home, Kerry will be making her mushroom pie. She’ll ask me why I’m late for dinner. I’ll tell her—

I pull back on the oar, but the paddle is stuck—now it’s out of my hands, swallowed up by the dark waters.

The clouds above me are a bruised neck. The children are laughing. Water tricks. I look over the side of the boat. Raindrops are rippling my face into oblivion.

The photograph rises to the surface, but the children are done hula hooping—done eating candy. They’re holding hands, smiling at me.

A body floats to the top of the water, but it isn’t the woman: it’s an animal, mutilated, with a rope tied around its waist. A dog? A lamb? I vomit over the side of the boat, then look to the shore. I’m alone.

No. No, I’m not alone.

I turn around and see thin-lipped Mother Lake and her hungry children, walking across the water, coming to ripple me into oblivion.

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