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The Skin of the Lake
horror◐ Mature5 contributors · 5 paragraphs deep
We swam toward the candle light, because we were paid to catalogue everything. It hung in a back room over a cradle of waterlogged wood. The cradle rocked on its own. Reyes leaned in to film, and a wet, gray hand reached up over the side and grabbed his wrist.
I grabbed Reyes and pulled with everything I had. The gray hand let go, but it had left its mark: five long scratches that wouldn't stop bleeding. We surfaced and quit on the spot. We never went back. But every year the reservoir drops a little lower on its own, and every year Reyes' scars open up and bleed again.
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