Cliff has a Master’s degree in English Literature and an Undergraduate Degree in Creative Writing, which he has used to forge a management career with one of the largest academic publishers in the world. He has enjoyed trying to scare himself from a young age and writes primarily for his own amusement. He lives in Cheshire in the UK with his wife and three sons, where writing horror stories provides a welcome break from family-friendly cartoons.
You can read more from Cliff right HERE.
THE LADY IN THE LAKE
By
Cliff Holt
When I was 11 years old, I saw something in the water.
My family home was nestled amongst the trees on the banks of a large lake. My mother had died from an aggressive brain tumour a few days earlier and I'd wandered to its pebble shores, seeking solace from the tears and the sorrow and the grief.
It was late afternoon and the setting sun lit the still waters aflame. I sat on a low footbridge, my feet dangling over the side. Bitter tears bled down my cheeks and I wiped them angrily away.
I was angry at my mother for leaving me. Angry at my father for failing to see me, preferring instead to sit in his worn leather armchair, drinking and crying. And I was angry with myself, for reasons I couldn't quite articulate. My untied laces, which drooped from dirty trainers at least one size too small, kissed the surface of the still black water as my legs swung back and forth.
Through a cataract of tears, I noticed ripples a few metres out. I knuckled my eyes.
Silently, a hand emerged from the depths, slender fingers breaking the surface. The movement was slow, dreamlike. I don't remember feeling afraid. But I do remember being unable to move.
As I watched, a wrist emerged. Then a forearm, strung with dark green weeds. Then I saw a head. A woman. Her long black hair was slicked forward over her face, hiding her features. She raised her arm and beckoned to me. As she began to raise her head, the spell was broken.
Finally able to drag my gaze from the figure in the water, I scrambled backwards and pushed myself to my feet.
The woman stood now, her nakedness exposed. The calm water lapped about her feet.
I shook my head, an unconscious effort to dislodge the image of what must be a dream. But the woman remained. As I watched, transfixed, she began to sink once more.
When her fingers were again swallowed by the lake, I turned and headed home. The house was dark. I expected to find my father, still in his black suit but with his tie unknotted and his top button undone, drunk and asleep in his armchair. But he wasn't there.
I crept up the stairs, instinctively stepping over the penultimate tread to avoid the squeak, and navigated my way to my parent's bedroom. My fingers whispered against the woodchip wallpaper.
My father was there. On the floor. Next to the shotgun. The blast had destroyed much of the left side of his face. What was left stared at me from a crimson pool.
I gagged on the stink of offal and gunpowder.
Broken teeth protruded from my father's shattered jaw. His left eye was missing. Above where it should have been, fragments of skull glistened in the weak illumination afforded by the streetlight outside of the open window. A thick grey substance that looked like porridge was oozing onto the floor.
Somewhere, someone was screaming. And I only realised it was me as I lost consciousness.
Today, I have returned to the shores of that lake. Though I have avoided my old family home. As once again I have been hollowed out by loss.
Yesterday, my son lost a long fight with leukaemia. I'd held his hand, which seemed impossibly small, his tired face just visible in the dim hospital room. Just as I had on many other days and nights. But this day felt different. Leaning over him, I placed my head gently atop his for long, long moments. My tears fell onto his face as he slept, tracing the contours of his cheek before falling onto the clinically white bedsheets.
Finally, I whispered, 'It's okay, Billy. It's okay to go now. You've fought long enough. It's time to rest. But I'll see you again. I love you.'
I kissed his cheek, tasting the salt of my own tears.
Not long after, the soft beeps from the medical equipment grew more urgent until an alarm rang. Doctors and nurses rushed into the room.
Finally, I released my son’s hand. He was no longer there.
I walked to my car and drove to the lake on autopilot, arriving almost 5 hours later. While things have changed in the years I’ve been away, the lake looks exactly as I remember.
I waited for the day to draw to an end. I think I slept a little. But not much.
Now, just like that evening so long ago, the lake is dark and still, its surface reflecting the sun's dying light.
I walked to the bridge, the pebbles crunching beneath my feet, and sat at the edge. My feet dipped into the water. But I hardly noticed.
The sun had almost disappeared behind the horizon. The gentle tink tinkof the halyard ropes tickling the sailboat masts as they danced in the breeze seemed magnified by the loss of light.
And then I saw what I had come here to find.
The lady's fingers pierced the surface of the lake silently, almost elegantly. She moved as though on an automated pedestal that was hidden from view; her ascent smooth and sustained. Soon, she stood in front of me, only her feet concealed by the water, as though needing to maintain an essential connection. And as before, she beckoned to me.
This time, I slid forward and into the lake. The icy water quickly reached my waist as I waded out, stealing my breath.
She lowered her arm as she turned away. I took her offered hand. Her skin was slick and colder than the water in which we stood.
She waited for me to draw alongside her before beginning her descent. And I followed. Willingly.
As I sank, the waters washed away my sorrow. For soon, I knew, her hand would be replaced with my son's.