I.
The autumn of 2015 I had taken up my junior year at Ashokan University; I was as impetuous and overconfident about my abilities as any 20 year old. I had done well my first two years at University, being a budding biologist was invigorating. I had a insatiable curiosity for the natural world; influenced heavily by the riparian environments that dominated the area around upstate New York where I had spent my youth.
Walking shallow shorelines and quietly observing the cacophony of a world that seems at the same time smaller than me, but as large as any universe I could possibly imagine, gave me a sense of peace and simultaneously mad obsession. It was almost as if my reality was but one of many realities and these fantastic shorelines and their subsequent brooding waters drew me to them; often times allowing the disturbing exclusiveness of their furtive worlds to give me cause for unwholesome uneasiness. Nonetheless, I needed to know what it was like to exist within these other realities, within these other realms, to learn their machinations, understand their motives, and slowly join their unending rhythms. My acceptance into Ashokan, the summer of 2013, afforded me the chance to study a world that seemed not only familiar, but somehow shuddered, undisturbed, and extrinsic.
Throughout the course of my studies I would often take to the busy and private shorelines of the numerous freshwater realms that existed just outside, and sometimes, within the busy concrete cities that I indulged on weekends and holidays. I found the best way to excel in my studies was supplant myself within the environments I was academically invested in.
One of these unquiet riparian biomes, Thompson’s Lake, thrived and breathed just five miles from my small apartment; a meager size flat on the second floor of a failing Victorian era apartment row. I rented from a respectable but reserved elderly couple in the east town of Dartmouth. Refurbished in the 1970’s, my modest but adequate dwelling resided on the corner of South 10th Avenue (then called 12th street), and Weller Avenue, nestled against the generous private grounds within the Ashokan acreage.
I often took the two hour walk to Thompson Lake, enjoying the slow change of man's unnatural creations for the ever growing and less architecturally defined structures of nature. After travelling northward on 12th Street for a mile, the road split; continuing north to Ipswich, a quiet township resting softly along the northeastern coast of Massachusetts, or alternately east towards Thompson’s Lake, resting approximately two miles south of the Ipswich border. The eastern road at the split was much less kempt than the northern track, and completely impassable two weeks a year. During the heavy rain and storm surges of late spring and again in late autumn, the road was beneath one foot and a half of seawater. The Atlantic tides pushed far inland as heavy winds from the North broke against Scamp’s Reef, causing normally easterly tides and winds to creep westward across the low lying shores.
Once I was well enough down the split to forgo any remembrance of the main road, my appetency of promising bygone brooding realms began to grow. This was what had drawn me to Thompson’s Lake the first time and lured me back time after time. The lake sat upon a well defined depression atop an escarpment of opposingly hard to define dimensions, thereby unaffected by the biannual storm surges. I spent the summer after freshman year in the local surveyors office researching its tributaries and boundaries. I discovered that beneath the soft topsoil a significant folding of strata had occurred, composed primarily of underground shale, which could be seen protruding south of Rowley to the west of Ipswich; this caused a surge of the groundwater to rise abruptly and fill the soft depression which sat distinctly between the borders of the Parker and Ipswich watersheds. The uniqueness of this Lake never eluded me; such a small criterion for survival kept this rich riparian environ thriving. A single earthquake or shifting of tectonic plates, minor changes in sea level, or atmospheric temperature, would have instantly and irrevocably eradicated this undefiled and enigmatic place.
It was the first week of July, when the rest of the country celebrated its freedom, that I again returned to Thompson’s due to what I can only refer to as a disturbingly suggestive fear. I felt as if this could be the last time, my only chance to experience the reeds whistle and the hum of countless voices unwilling to be silent in a silent place. So without the ability to freely refuse I embarked one last time down the trail southeast of Ipswich; down the trail that would lead irrevocably to my withdraw from Ashokan University and my utter aversion to nature and biology wholly.
As I broke across the last hilltop at the trail's end, the umbrage of the Box Elder, Birch, and Single-leaf Ash gave way to a grassy slope revealing to me the curiously spread about surface of the lake, a skein of blue snow geese loomed above the glistening water and promptly descended to gaggle upon the swelling surface. I was surprised because snow geese are horribly loud creatures and to be startled unexpectedly by them is rare. I also noted, doubly, their bluish hue; which is often shed for their increasingly white plumage this late in the season. They fought briefly in the recently troubled water and finally calmed and drifted away, allowing Thompson’s Lake to take them on whatever journey it saw fit.
I moved attentively towards a low bank with partitioned vegetation where I had spent numerous observant sessions seated and watching the waters edges breathe in and out. This spot was particularly fruitful for a budding biologists curiosities. The flora consisted of thriving bulrush, flowering Golden Currant, as well as dense milkweed and watercress. Fauna was abundant and standard of the riparian life zones in the northeast, providing common sightings of mink, muskrat, and shrew. Amphibians also dominated here and sightings of a variety of frogs, terrapins, and skinks kept my naturalist mind busy.
Now, you must not ask me about the particular emotions that hitherto began pouring madly over me. I do not think I am able to put words to them in any case. The sense of darkness that began to gather about me was complete and unwholesome. I can not attest to how or why I experienced the events that followed my immediate arrival on the shores of Thompson’s Lake that day, or why I continued to venture forth after the chance meeting, if it can be called such, that I decried that fateful morning. I have struggled with whether or not to divulge through publication, or oral recounting, the circumstances that led to my withdrawal from my life's pursuit as a naturalist. I believe now, due to more recent troubling dreams and a growing unwholesome appetence to return to Thompson’s, that I must reveal the mad happenings of that day; if only to prevent others from searching me out in the event I unable to resist the urge to return and am therefore subsequently and irrevocably removed from this plane of existence.
To say the sight of a young child frightened me is surely going to immediately lend questions of the stability of my mental state some credence, although i'm sure the following account will be dismissed effortlessly by the academic minds of Ashokan, to whom I will send this manuscript. Nonetheless, a distinct sense of fear washed across me upon seeing a male child, no older than 6 years, standing near the water's edge and staring directly at me as I crested the hill down towards the shore.
In the previous eighteen months I had visited Thompson’s Lake twice a month, almost with religious veracity; with only May and October being off limits to me as the ocean engulfed the surrounding terrain. In all my visitations I had never encountered another human being, nor seen any signs that other people even undertook the trip to the lake. Indeed, even my trip to the surveyor’s office the year prior had revealed a general dislike and avoidance of the entire eastern road by not only the men tasked with mapping it but the residents of Ipswich as well. I had viewed these misgivings with a sort of superior ego, dismissing the attitude about the area as ignorance bred of small town folklore and a lack of general common sense and scientific deference.
Upon encountering the child, I longed to turn and run towards my small but safe apartment securely under the loving protection of the elderly couple I paid my rent to. I can not say why I did not. Whether from scientific curiosity, general defiance due to the overwhelming sense that this lake was mine and mine alone, or that something possibly more sinister held me in place, surely, with its own untold purposeful intrigues. Despite my longing, I stayed and stared back into the innocent eyes of the child. His dark thick hair was combed to the left and stood a little untamed in the back. A plain white t-shirt hung slightly too large on his thin frame. He went barefoot and had dried mud up his calves as if he had been wading in the shallow water near to the shore where he stood. His shorts were straight legged and a royal blue that had the look of newness to them. He held nothing in his hands and let them rest casually at his sides as he peered into my eyes. It was at this moment that the warm July air was replaced with a chilling stillness that sent my spine tingling and my hair standing on its ends. The young boy turned his gaze eastward along the shoreline and I, as if compelled by his youthful infectiousness, turned to view what had drawn his interest.
To say my fear turned to terror is only but part of the actuality of my emotions. A man of indiscernible features came slowly into view. He plodded along the shore in a mysterious manner but observably towards the child before me. His rough movements somehow did not disturb the bulrush in his path and I suddenly became horribly aware of the silence that overtook the usually unquiet lake. Only the sound of the water surging softly against the dark loamy soil embankments reminded me that I was even physically present and not viewing these events from some sort of lucid dreamstate. I am yet unable to give an account of the man's clothing and visage; it was if I was viewing him through a translucent lens. His demeanor though not entirely aggressive was nonetheless determined, and I could tell from the manner of his progression that he was fixed consummately on the youth before me. It was in this moment of foreboding that I shouted out to the child to come to me! Why I would attempt to draw that which had so recently frightened me, was explainable only because a stronger and more determined threat seemed to emanate from the man approaching our position. My cries, despite the urgency within my delivery, went unnoticed. The world around me seemed to swallow and hold tightly the voice I desperately tried to impart on the situation.
To my horror the man that radiated such vile intentions,of which I could scarcely imagine, was at once upon the youth, and in but a moment began to lead him westward away from where I stood. It was, I’m sure, only a moment in time that I hesitated, although I felt an eternity in my pause with the cycles of the universe circling around me. With sudden and unfounded bravery, I followed after the strange pair that had so curiously interrupted my usually peaceful peregrination to Thompson’s Lake. Although I lingered only but a moment before I found my resolve, I could not seem to make up the ground they were travelling ahead of me; each step labored and unnatural. Within moments my objective became unreachable and I lost all sight of the damnable man and the troubling child that seemed to freely follow him.
Now it is relevant to note, I had traversed the entire circumference of Thompson's on several occasions. A particularly rare and elusive four-lined skink, of which I was much enamored and desperate to study, I had realized, begun to cohabitate with the more common five-lined skink on the north shore. I often would discretely move into the tall grass that surrounded the this northern margin of the lake and attempt to study and record the habits of these reclusive creatures. My local familiarity with this exclusive environment shored my confidence and although I had lost sight of the disturbing couple, I continued along what I thought would be there only reasonable passage.
Here, I think it important to disclose the etymology of the lake’s name, Thompson. During my earlier investigations about the region that housed the secluded and obscure lake, I found information about its namesake that I, being of scientific and reasonable mind, passed off as local folklore; the type of information a grandmother uses to warn their grandchildren in a sort of fantastical storytelling, frightening tales told in the waning hours of the evening giving cautionary lessons. It was during my research at the surveyor's office when I first discovered that the local residents wholly avoided the place. When I inquired as to what was so abhorrent about the place, I was given information about a relic of man named, Ephraim McFaile, who at the age of 91, had grown up in a cabin southeast of Ipswich, near to then what was called Summer’s Lake. Apparently he was one of the few locals who, with a little encouragement, would still talk about Thompson’s.
I sought out old Ephraim near the express office in Dartmouth. He was, I was told, interested in any such news that might pertain to Ipswich and the surrounding areas. He was considered to be well beyond any semblance of the normal faculties that dominated the minds of younger men and was regarded distinctly as the town’s most feeble minded resident. Nevertheless, I had made for the Express Office which sat along the railway that brought simple correspondence from friends and family, as well as fantastic archaeological finds from remote regions of the globe, packaged in curious and oddly sized crates, to the people of Ipswich and Dartmouth, and the Department of Archaeological Studies at Ashokan University, respectfully.
I found old Ephraim leaning heavily against a balustrade that stood perpendicular to the railway itself, and by my account, staring hopelessly south down the length of the track. He seemed more able bodied than I expected and although his considerable age, wore distinctly modern apparel. I approached him slowly and engaged in simple conversation relating to the locomotives schedule and the prevailing weather, purveying a tourist's curiosity of the area. He responded easily enough and began to tell me about the construction of the tracks in 1936 and how it brought commerce and industry with it. It was roughly 45 minutes before I mentioned Thompson’s Lake and almost immediately his countenance changed.
“Thom’son Lake, eh? Not always thae name thar. Ol’ Thompson used to be the preacha’ up thar; shewed ‘bout ‘38...war brought. He had a right good ol’ church built up too. Ne’r did git too much a followin’ but I’d say those that did took the whole county by a fearsome storm, they did. Spoke about the summer solstice bunch after bunch, and made a frightful tear about the place in the fall; ‘specially round Hallows. I ‘member Paps did take’em me down thar, ‘bout ‘39. Thom’son and his folk all but a gyratin’ and mixin’ about with the amphibious down in thar lake. Summer’s Lake, it was called then, and Thom’son ne’er did suffer any in’ference with his land thar. Was about summer ‘42 when I first recall him out at the shore chanting in them guttural tones; make a man damn nerv’ when ya har the buzzin’ o bee’s in the lips. ...The Sombra...to many children lost that summer. Anyway, was round ‘45 when them boys come home from the war that they took ol’ Thompson back thar and drowned him good. Said, he was taking child’en from th’ town and drown ‘em to some god. I ne’er took to tha crowd or the doin’ but after that they burnt it all down, and er’ one was told good to stay out way from Thom’son’s Lake.”
Obviously senile and far from sane, I dismissed his ramblings immediately. In all my reconnaissance about the Lake I’d never heard about a preacher named Thompson, nor about him being drowned. Coincedently, there were several children reported missing in the early forties but it seemed that with the war in full swing, census keeping had been relegated to the visits from the stoic military messengers about young men lost in action. A memorial to those men is the only record of life, birthed or lost, of those fateful years. I’ve often wondered why old Ephraim’s tale never came to mind that day; but it did not. I thought only of the young child I was sure was in mortal danger.
II.
As my pursuit took me round the western shore, I began to move through a daunting throng of golden currant, and, I saw for the first time, a small cabin on the hill west of the lake. I was amazed that I had somehow missed this construction throughout all my previous excursions around the lake, and thought oddly of the high steeple towards the lakeside entrance of the old but sturdy looking home. The steeple shone a soft blue light that strangely cast no shadow on the surrounding structure. The whole of the home was not visible from where I stood; the retral quarter being engulfed by a low wooded fringe protruding from the thick forest rearward. A faint mist, perfectly white, breathed in and out of the forest's edge, creeping slowly along the cabins brick foundations and the timber fence lines that clutched weakly on the surrounding territory in a bid for purchase against the mists onslaught. I resolved to alter my predetermined route. If indeed a light was maintained in the cabin, then perhaps the maintainers may be present, and, by such calculation, could have possibly viewed the direction in which the pair I followed may have traversed.
The short climb up the hill revealed to me an expanding view of the lake’s shoreline; uncomfortably, I began to realize that there was no apparent trace of the young boy, nor the nefarious apparition of a man he travelled with. Moreover, I became frightfully aware of the persisting silence that unnaturally surrounded the entire region. My progression towards the cabin was increasingly laborious; each step requiring more determined concentration than the previous and a swelling sense of alarm began to gradually overtake my mind. I began to fear that I would soon become fastened in place, the soles of my feet sewn to the damp surface of the hill. With a determination sprung of deep apprehension, I willed myself onward. Upon my overdue arrival at the aging timber fence line, I was pleasantly surprised by the presence of an elderly man and woman having what appeared to be a rather fervid discussion.
The man wore long trousers, kept in place with over the shoulder braces made from denim. Beneath this he had a knitted long sleeve shirt with a row of uneven buttons running down the front and disappearing beneath his waistband. He wore loose fitting boots made of leather and had a straw hat rested lazily on his head. The women wore a long-sleeved muslin dress. It was full and long with a high neck and, by the look of the flat seams, was hand sewn. The colors of both outfits were of similar grey hues, and it was disturbingly difficult to make out the features of the faces, especially considering the clarity of their clothing.
I became aware I was resting exhaustingly on one of the fence posts; this particular picket supporting a swinging gate, that in turn, led up the path through the front of the property and up to the decaying wood stairs that ran the full width of the cabin. I called out to the couple, and when ignored, attempted to open the gate and travel further into the yard. To my immediate dismay, the gate would not swing open, whether pushed or pulled, and I again put forth an audible plea to be admitted to the cabin grounds. It was at this time that the woman stopped abruptly her conversation and turned to face my direction. She made no effort to offer me reply, but began moving towards where I stood along the fence. Her dress seemed impossibly still considering her obvious movement, and only small wisps of long gray hair, that had escaped the thong with which the remainder was tethered, betrayed any sense of motion as they swept silently about her face. As the distance that separated us began to shrink, I felt the undiminished and inexplicable exhaustion had overtaken me, as I still could not make any sense of her facial features.
The woman stopped just in front of me and placed a thin hand upon the gate. She then, to my utter shock, produced a small and ornate knife from within the sewn folds of her skirts. I remained unmoving, though by exhaustion or stark horror I can not say. Abruptly, the otherwise non threatening woman, slashed the blade upwards in a purposeful gesture directly in front of me, and this sudden deed appeared markedly a more strenuous motion than one would expect a small blade to provoke; especially from a wielder whose only resistance was the empty air before them. Upon her exposition of the weapon, her, what I assumed husband, began to move quickly towards our position. Immediately following the knife's curious flash across my vision, the woman began to seemingly faint and as her legs surely gave way beneath the muslin folds hiding them. The man arrived duly, with arms outstretched, catching the falling woman by the waist, and resting her gently upon the deep green grass and dew budded moss of the yard.
This now is when the onslaught of sounds and blinding rush of vibrant colors caused my own legs to falter, and had it not been that I was already leaning against the weathered fence post, I too would have been resting upon the damp ground. It was as if a sluice gate in my mind had opened and allowed the sudden onrush of the Lake's entire collection of noise and color to descend violently upon my senses. The afternoon calls of the black-capped chickadee, mixed with the incessant jeering of blue jays, and hammering of the red-bellied woodpeckers all assailed me. The sun, unremitting and blinding, flooded my vision and I forced shut my eyes against the invading rays. The change in perception, so startling and thorough, held my mind captive for what seemed an undefinable length of time. When I began to regain my equilibrium with the world around me, I opened my eyes and saw that the man had helped the woman to her feet.
The two faces before me were now clear and distinct. The woman, slightly more pale than the man, although possibly from her recent collapse, seemed to smile, and in her ageless eyes wore the look of relief. The man’s face was dressed of the same countenance, despite the still unabated obvious concern for the woman his arms. It was at this moment I felt the strength return to my legs, and more importantly, their seemingly invisible shackles release me from their grasp. I stood straight and took a refreshingly deep breath. My nerves remained anxious and, in a knowing way, the man and woman each took one of my arms and led me across the yard, up the aging steps, and settled me onto a weathered but sturdy bench resting along the facade of the old cabin.
I remember only fragments of my first few moments seated there, looking out across the whole of Thompson’s Lake. I liken it to when you awaken suddenly from a deep dream and have trouble wrestling away from the fog of slumber. I recall the couple retreating from me a few paces to sit upon the top step of the lengthy porch, and speaking slowly and softly to me; prodding me about my name, where I had been, and to where I had been attempting to go. To these questions I offered no immediate reply and was wholly relieved to hear the voices of other people above the invasive din of our surroundings. It had been, I concluded, at least an entire day since I had spoken to anyone, and despite my attempts to call the child near the shore to my side and my unanswered calls just moments ago along the fence line, I could not remember hearing even my own voice in quite some time.
Patiently the couple waited and soon my nerves calmed enough that I was able to begin relaying the unbelievable events that had transpired that morning. As I spoke, I detected no visible change in their demeanor; their countenance remained attentive and compassionate for the duration of my story. When I had revealed all I knew, or could remember, they turned to each other, and without words, I could see a great deal of understanding passed between them. It was in this moment that I began to feel a small pit of fear begin to rise in me. This couple had in no way, despite the brandishing of a small knife, threatened me or given me cause for alarm; but the strangeness about them was almost tactile and I, in my own recounting of the morning’s events, brought again the foreboding sense of despair and evil I had been exposed to that morning.
III.
to be continued...