Page 4 of A Curse On Black Lake
Over 160 Years Later
Fogsitsovertheground like a heavy wet blanket, and I can hardly see the steps I take, clouding my way to safety. He’s chasing me, but I don’t know why.
Panting as the thick air clogs my throat, I run as fast as I can through the trees, the dim moon my only light. The ground beneath my bare feet feels wet the closer I get to the lake. Leaves brush my hair, and his footsteps feel like they’re pounding behind me. But I don’t look back. If I look back, something tells me I will never look forward again.
Run, run, run. He’s coming for you.
I force my lungs to drag in more air and change direction, going away from the lake. Then I hit a solid wall of a man.
Too stunned to speak or scream, I look up and … I’m not terrified at all. His cowboy hat shades his features, so I can’t see his eyes.
His large hand gently takes my arm, pulling me behind him.
“No, we have to run!” I whisper to him. I don’t know why. I don’t know who this is. But I feel like I have to. He has to come with me.
The man takes a step forward, and a gun materializes in his hand. He aims at the hooded figure in front of us.
There is no talking or begging. The man who pushed me behind him fires.
The hooded figure falls to the mossy, wet ground, and my feet start to sink into the mud.
I look up to ask for help, and his hand is already out.
Then the hooded figure appears behind him, and I scream.
My eyes spring open, and I sit up, looking around. I’m in my bed, the shades are drawn, my quilt is at my waist, and it smells like lavender, my favorite scent. My nightgown is soaked in sweat, and my heart beats erratically in my chest. Eyes burn, lungs gasp, and an acute sadness grips me like it’s squeezing its large hands around my neck.
He wants you.
“Who?” I ask them.
Another will help you, and you will help him.
“What? Who?” I nearly scream.
They go quiet, and I take a deep breath, trying to remember the man in the cowboy hat. It feels like I knew him even though I couldn’tseehim. I felt safe with him, and I wasn’t worried about what would happen to me.
The hooded figure was a predator. I was the prey, but…the man in the hat was the protector. The one strong enough to defeat the predator, like a sheepdog and his herd.
Most days, I believe I’m losing my mind. The Spirits speak to me. For a long time, I thought they were all bad. Some were. Many are not. I sit between the world and the other side. I straddle the veil, able to know what others do not.
Or I’m crazy. That’s possible too.
The people of Black Lake believe I’m insane, possessed by the devil or a witch. More often than not, the only way for me to deal with the Spirits is by talking to them. Some get frustrated when I try to ignore them, and talking is how I calm them down.
I climb out of bed and go to Gram’s room to check on her. She’s slipping from this Earth, I know that, and she knows it too, but it still rips my heart out.
She’s all I have.
Her eyes are closed, and her breathing is steady. I stare at her curly, salt and pepper hair and peaceful expression. It’s a terrible blessing to watch someone you love slowly wither away, but I know it’s a blessing to be able to say goodbye. I couldn’t do that with my parents, gone too young, too quickly.
Leaving her to rest, I shuffle to the kitchen and make some tea. I won’t be able to sleep again. The clock reads three in the morning, and a heavy fog, like the one in my dream, covers the ground, sending a shiver down my spine. The branches of the trees in the back of the garden look like skeletal hands reaching out for me, trying to tug me back to the place of my nightmares. Ignoring the strange call, I take my tea and grab my journal to write down what I saw. Grams always told me to write them down, especially when they’re vivid.
“What are you doing up so early, my flower?” Grams asks me, pulling me from my pen and paper.
I look up and she’s leaning on her cane, staring at me as if she already knows my dream was bad.
“You had another one, didn't you?” she asks.
