Post by Deleted on Oct 20, 2017 13:58:47 GMT
THE THING ACROSS THE LAKE
As told by Ross Hull
It was always just there. As kids, we would ask our parents why it looked so different than the others, but whenever we questioned them about it, a glaze of forced disinterest would come over their faces. "They ran out of money," or "Someone will move in and fix it up," or "Nothing to see up there but piles of old wood," they’d say. After their protracted, seemingly forced explanations, they would always end the conversation bluntly with an "under no circumstances will you ever go up there, understood?"
But nothing would ever change. That "unfinished" cottage on the other side of the lake, perched on a tall, rocky hill would stand by itself, abandoned for years.
Everything else about our summer cottage getaway seemed bright — looking back, it felt like life was lived through a vivid summer Instagram filter. As kids in this community of cottages around a pristine lake — generations had cottaged there — the summers seemed like an eternal eden of amusement. But every afternoon as the setting sun blazed its July beams across the lake, I swear I could see something moving over on the other side where the lone cottage stood. Was it really just a shadow cast by the high sun? I had to find out.
I don't know why I was "that kid" — call it unbridled childhood exuberance or just plain idiocy, but I wasn't afraid to do stuff other kids wouldn't. So, when Frank, the type of guy I wouldn't ordinarily be friends with back home, dared me to cross the lake and climb the hill to the haunted cottage, I couldn’t resist the challenge.
When I look back at that day sometimes I have regrets. What if I had gone alone? What if Frank hadn't fallen off that steep cliff that led to the cottage? In the moment it happened, his screams were all-encompassing — not surprising, considering I could see the white of jagged bone protruding from his skin (and, it wasn't long before our mission was discovered and our parents were themselves screaming for our return). Then, however, came a deafening silence. In this moment of complete stillness, one piercing sound from the towering cliff above broke through. It could have been a bird, maybe an owl? But it sounded like a distant, satisfied cackle to me. I guess I'll never know.
Now when I take my own kids to that very same lake, much is as it was back then, except the abandoned house is no longer there; it was torn down the summer after Frank's accident. When my young son asks me what I'm looking at as I stare across the sparkling, sun-kissed lake, I tell him, "Nothing son, nothing."
