The Skin of the Lake
horror◐ MatureReyes tapped my shoulder and pointed. Through the kitchen doorway, deeper in the house, a light was moving. Not lamp-light, softer and yellow, like a candle. Underwater. We both froze. Then the light went still, as if it had noticed us watching it.
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.
What happens next?
1 ways forwardI 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.