The Shadows by the Lake: Part II
By an Unknown Hand
The woods, as ever, held their secrets tightly. The whispers of those lost among the amber leaves mingled with the restless sigh of the wind. The unmarked lake glistened in the moonlight, a glassy eye watching the expanse of its haunted domain. Yet something had shifted—a faint, indefinable tremor that rippled through the earth and rustled the skeletal branches.
The Harvesters were not content.
Months had passed since the disappearance of Evelyn and James. Their names were whispered in hushed tones in the town below, their fate presumed but never spoken aloud. The brave, the foolish, and the morbidly curious occasionally ventured toward the woods, hoping to unravel the mystery—or perhaps simply to taunt it.
One such soul was Thomas Fletcher, a grizzled hunter known for his reckless bravado. Thomas had lived long enough to see the woods devour others, but he dismissed the stories as superstition. Armed with his rifle and lantern, he followed the cursed trail toward the lake, his steps steady and defiant.
The forest greeted him with silence. No birds called, no insects chirped. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Thomas grinned to himself, a grin that faltered as he noticed the trail narrowing, the trees pressing closer together as if conspiring to trap him.
The lake appeared suddenly, its black waters unnaturally still. Thomas paused, unease prickling his skin. The stories had mentioned the lake’s eerie calm, but seeing it—feeling it—was something else entirely.
“You’re just a pond,” he muttered, though his voice trembled. “Nothing but water and muck.”
But then he saw them.
The Harvesters emerged from the shadows, their grotesque masks glowing faintly in the moonlight. Their scythes, dull and rusted, gleamed as though eager to taste blood.
Unlike Evelyn and James, Thomas fought. His rifle roared, the sound shattering the forest’s eerie stillness. One of the figures staggered back, but the mask did not crack. Instead, a low, hollow laugh reverberated through the trees, as if the forest itself mocked his efforts.
Thomas ran, but the trail betrayed him. No matter which way he turned, the lake loomed before him, its dark waters pulling him closer like a siren’s call. The Harvesters followed, their steps unnaturally slow yet relentless.
Desperate, Thomas dove into the lake. The cold enveloped him, shocking his lungs into stillness. Beneath the surface, the water was not water—it was something else, something alive. It coiled around him, pulling him deeper, whispering in a language he could not understand but instinctively feared.
The last thing Thomas saw before the darkness took him was a pale, distorted face staring back at him from the depths—a face he recognized as his own.
The town mourned Thomas as they had mourned Evelyn and James, though they did not speak his name aloud. The woods seemed quieter after his disappearance, the trail more treacherous, the lake more watchful.
Yet those who ventured close swore they heard something strange: a faint, rhythmic sound, like the dragging of scythes across the earth. And in the distance, beyond the veil of trees, two faint lights glowed—like eyes carved into a jack-o’-lantern, waiting.
And the lake? It grew.
The Harvesters’ hunger was endless. Each offering fed the lake, which in turn fed them, binding them to the woods, to the trail, to the stories whispered in fear. And so the unmarked trail remains, inviting the foolish and the fearless to tread its cursed path.
But beware: the woods remember, and the lake never forgets.
