The Black Lake: Tales of Melancholic Horror

by Jon Athan

  Lost in his dreadful contemplation, Arthur whispered, “What do I do now? What if she...”

  Abruptly, the shrill whistle of the gleaming teapot on the stove reverberated through the living area. Arthur rushed towards the fuming stove. His boots thudded on the hardwood floor, then clacked on the linoleum flooring as the room seamlessly transitioned from living space to kitchen. He turned the knob on the stove, then leaned on the marble counter. From afar, he could hear Dorothy shuffling in the bedroom. Packing, he thought.

  Arthur sighed, then returned to his desk. He sat in front of the thin monitor, then retrieved a stack of rustling papers. His manuscript was tentatively titled: Red Rivers on Snowy Hills. Although the sentences were comprehensible, the words were muddled nonsense in Arthur's eyes – he saw an unsolvable puzzle, letters drifting apart in every direction.

  Arthur whispered, “How the hell am I going to fix this crap?”

  He turned to his right and gazed out the frosty window. The wind whooshed, the trees howled, and the unfortunate woodland critters sought shelter. The surrounding forest was painted white by the falling snow.

  Arthur retrieved a spotless silver flask from his coat, then took a swig of the tantalizing alcohol harbored within. He gritted his teeth as the whiskey slid down his throat. Arthur turned his attention to his keyboard. His preparations were complete.

  As the keys clicked and clanked with his methodical work, Arthur whispered, “I'll write something better... I will write something better.”

  ***

  Abruptly, an earsplitting shriek reverberated through the woodland. The remaining birds rapidly fluttered their wings to escape the piercing sound. The woodland varmint scampered into bushes and tree trunks to shield themselves from the ruckus. The hair-raising noise seeped through every crack on the log cabin until it pummeled Arthur's ears. Shocked, Arthur bolted up from his desk – pages from his loose-leaf manuscript spiraled to the floor.

  As the shriek dwindled, Arthur whispered, “Did I fall asleep?”

  His eyes widened and his hands trembled upon spotting the blood and slobber streaming across the makeshift workstation. Gooey saliva oozed on the sleek black keyboard. Pages of his manuscript were stained with blood – a striking composition. Arthur stood from his seat, then grimaced from the staggering pain.

  His head violently throbbed, like if his tender brain were rattling in his skull – like if raucous drummers were using his brain as a bongo. He stumbled towards his desk as he clenched his jaw and rubbed his moist brow with his fingertips. The inexplicable agony was overwhelming.

  Arthur whispered, “What the hell is wrong with me? This... This pain... It's too much...”Arthur turned towards the hall, then shouted, “Dorothy! Dorothy! My head! Please... get me some aspirin! Get me some vicodin! Get me some tea or something! Please!”

  There was no response. The cabin was eerily silent. Only the woodland noises reverberated into the small home. Arthur staggered forward, then glanced around his surroundings. The fireplace was smoldering as the flames diminished. The kitchen was silent, the teapot had vanished. All sense of normality had been whisked away without a trace.

  Arthur furrowed his brow and whispered, “How long was I out?”

  He attempted to shrug off the incertitude, then hobbled forward. The striking pain echoing through his dome brought his entire body to an enfeebled state. He trudged down the hall, then stopped at the first door. The door squealed and howled as he slowly shoved it open. He stepped into the doorway, then flicked the light switch to his left. The bulb buzzed and flickered, then settled.

  “She's not in here...” Arthur murmured as he rubbed the nape of his neck and inspected the cramped bathroom.

  There was a counter with an installed sink to his right; a medicine cabinet with a pristine mirror was installed directly above. To his left, a toilet was anchored to the floor. Directly ahead, there was a bathtub-shower combination with transparent curtains. A very basic bathroom without a single place to hide.

  Arthur sighed, then turned towards the hallway. He suddenly lurched as the pain thumping in his dome struck. He swayed side-to-side as he hopelessly sought balance. He could feel the thrumming in his ears with each palpitation. To his utter surprise, Arthur found himself leaning on the next door.

  Arthur knocked and announced, “Dorothy, it's me. I... I need your help, sweetie. I really need your help. Are you in there? Are you... are you okay?” There was no response. Arthur sniffled, then said, “Dorothy, I want you to answer me... I want you to answer me, damn it!”

  Arthur brutishly shoved the door open. The neighboring wall rattled from the collision. Arthur tottered into the room. His head swayed in a circular motion and his eyes rolled, like if he had been dazed by the mighty blow of a professional boxer. As his eyesight adjusted to the grim shadows, Arthur shook his head and sighed.

  The bedroom was barren like the rest of the home. The drawers on the dresser to the right were pulled out. Garments for every occasion and gender were sprawled across the floor. A black suitcase with a hard shell rested on the crimson sheets of the queen-sized bed. The luggage was brimming with Dorothy's clothing.

  As he leaned on the wall, Arthur rationalized, “If her clothing is still here... If the briefcase is still here... She must be around here somewhere. She has to be around here.” He looked over his shoulder and peered into the hall, then whispered, “But, where the hell is she?”

  Arthur sealed the room with the impenetrable darkness as he reluctantly departed. He shambled down the hallway, drifting towards the living room as terrifying ideas hurtled through his fragile mind. He stopped at the end of the hall, then glanced around the vacant living room. With Dorothy's mystifying disappearance, Arthur couldn't help but feel the hefty burden of responsibility sitting on his shoulders.

  Suddenly, Arthur leaned forward and grimaced as he felt an unexpected twinge in his head. His body shuddered from the unbearable torment reverberating through every limb. The pain would not stop. He gritted his teeth, then bellowed.

  Arthur cried, “Please stop! Stop, damn it!” Slowly, the pain dwindled, withdrawing from the battlefront and lingering at the back of his mind. Arthur sniffled, then said, “Maybe she was right. Maybe I'm working too much... Maybe... Maybe I am drinking too much.”

  Arthur's legs wobbled as he shambled towards his desk. The chair scratched the hardwood floor as he carelessly pulled out the seat – he couldn't conjure the energy to lift the sturdy furniture anyway. He sat, then shuffled through his manuscript, organizing the bloodied sheets as he prepared to finish his work. The blood did not disturb him. He figured he bled from his nose as he slumbered. As he riffled through the pages, Arthur abruptly stopped.

  He whispered, “What the hell is this?”

  Scrawled in blood across a sheet of paper, a message read: No victims, no witnesses.

  Arthur narrowed his eyes as he repeatedly read the ominous message. He shook his head, then planted the sheet on the desk. He carefully perused the following pages, scanning each sheet with squinted eyes – a meticulous ocular examination. He stopped as he stumbled upon the second message.

  The message read: The perfect crime, the perfect plot.

  “What's going on here?” Arthur whispered with a furrowed brow.

  He planted the second message atop the first, then skimmed through the remaining papers. Most of the crisp sheets were soaked in blood. The thought of the blood suddenly sent chills down his spine – is this really my blood?

  The third message read: They'll never know.

  Arthur's breathing intensified as he began to piece together the terrifying puzzle. He tossed the paper aside, then frantically searched for the next message. He whisked pages beneath others as he hunted the missing pieces.

  As the possibility lingered in his mind, tugging at his conscience, Arthur murmured, “No, no... I couldn't have done that. I would... I would never do something like that. I can't hurt...”

  Arthur stopped as he stumbled upon
the fourth message. The sopping paper read: You killed...

  The final word written in bloody ink was smudged. The note was obscured. Arthur's hands trembled as a tear trickled from his eye. The saline tear dripped onto the paper, streaming across the forbidding message.

  In a dubious tone, Arthur whispered, “Did I... Did I kill her?”

  Suddenly, in a raspy tone, a woman shouted, “Why?!”

  ***

  Arthur quickly turned towards the adjacent window. He stared out the misty glass barrier with protuberant eyes – his bloodshot eyes practically bulged from his skull. The wind howled as it pummeled the remote cabin with each powerful gust. The snow relentlessly poured onto the home and the neighboring woodland.

  Without a single blink, Arthur slowly stood from his seat and gazed out the window. He said, “She's alive. She's still alive.” He glanced at the stack of malicious messages on the desk and whispered, “I didn't killer her... I didn't touch her. No, I couldn't have.”

  Arthur tightly clenched the stack of notes, then bolted towards the front door. He recklessly stumbled outside, slipping and sliding on the rickety front porch. With narrowed eyes, he glanced around the snowy woodland. He lifted his index finger and pointed around the forest, swaying his hand as he hopelessly tried to pinpoint the origin of the hoarse shout and bloodcurdling shriek.

  “Where are you? Huh? Where did you go? What happened?” Arthur murmured as he searched from the porch.

  He swiped at the mucus dribbling from his rosy, pudgy nose, then dragged his feet off the porch. His boots sank into the piling snow as he trekked forward into the surrounding forest. The dense snow reached up to his shins. He stopped five meters away from the cabin, then furrowed his brow.

  A woman's plaintive cries echoed through the woodland. The sorrowful sobbing coursed between the cluttered trees and sashayed towards Arthur. The doleful weeping was funereal, like if someone had recently departed.

  Arthur whispered, “You're still alive.”

  Arthur tramped through the snow, slowly following the woman's wailing. The wind shoved his slender body with each flurry of snow. The snow majestically danced through the air, clinging onto anything and everything. The towering trees surrounded him from every corner, ghoulishly groaning with the storm. The gloomy ambiance smothered him, slowing his arduous journey more than the frosty environment.

  Suddenly, Arthur stopped. He peered through the shimmering snow and gazed towards a secluded tree; a peculiar tree strangely separated from the bestrewn forest. From afar, Arthur could see a woman kneeling down in front of the tree. The petite woman donned a black loft jacket with a polyester hem and tight blue jeans. Her feet were buried in the snow. He could see her silky brunette hair. Arthur nervously smiled and nodded, then trudged towards the lonesome woman.

  He shouted, “Dorothy?! Dorothy, is that you? I didn't mean to hurt you, I swear! I didn't mean any of it! It was... It was an accident!” The woman did not respond. Arthur scrunched his face and continued his trek and apology, “I swear, sweetie, I'm going to change. I was stupid for far too long. I'll never act like that again, I promise. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

  The woman wept as she slowly shook her head and indistinctly muttered. Arthur bit his bottom lip as the persistent pain struck the back of his dome. He inhaled deeply from his nose and gritted his teeth to bury the insufferable pain. The papers in his left hand rippled and crunched as he clenched his fist. He helplessly tried to endure the agony.

  The finish line was in his field of view, a headache could not stop him. Arthur weaved and bobbed his head as he turned the corner of a tree for a better view of the mysterious woman. Suddenly, he stopped in his tracks.

  Arthur whispered, “Who the hell is that?”

  From his vantage point, Arthur could the woman was kneeling in front of a body. He could see legs veiled by dark blue jeans and a torso covered by a heavy coat. The person's limp arms dangled at his side as his torso leaned on the tree. The person's face was shielded by the sobbing woman's body.

  The woman cried, “Why'd you do this? Why would you do this to me? You're leaving me all alone, don't you know that? You–you're taking my life away... You... You're taking everything I lived for. I loved you. I wanted to take care of you. Why didn't you let me take care of you? Why wasn't I good enough? Why?”

  Arthur hobbled forward, persevering through the pain as he limped towards the mysterious couple in the woods. As he approached, the falling snow was miraculously whisked away. Arthur had a clear view of the woman – Dorothy.

  “You're okay...” Arthur whispered with tears swelling in his eyes.

  He loudly swallowed the anxiety clogged in his throat, then walked forward. He gaped as he finally recognized the person leaning on the tree. Arthur's own body rested on the trunk, veiled in an identical outfit. Blood oozed from his nose, dripping like an open faucet. Arthur's teeth chattered and his body trembled as he gazed at himself, like if he were staring at a grim reflection of death.

  Arthur stuttered, “A–A... A premonition? Right? It's–It's a... It's some sort of dream or something, isn't it? It's a vision, right? I'm not... No! No! I can't be dead! This isn't possible!” He shambled towards Dorothy and asked, “What kind of prank is this? Huh? Is this your way of teaching me a lesson? Is that it? You're teaching me a lesson?”

  Dorothy did not respond. She tightly clenched the deceased Arthur's right arm with both of her hands. Tears streamed down her crimson cheeks. The rivers of sadness caromed off her jaw and trickled onto the snow. Arthur shook his head as he watched the poignant portrait as it was painted before his very eyes.

  In utter disbelief, Arthur whispered, “Please, tell me this is a joke...”

  He grimaced from the emotional pain as he noticed the grisly gunshot wound at the back of his deceased body's dome. He glanced down at Dorothy and shook his head. The wrists on his deceased body were brutally slit, sawed down to the bone. Suicide was clearly the goal – suicide was inevitable.

  Dorothy whimpered as she said, “I'm sorry about everything, Arthur. This is my fault. It's all my fault. I shouldn't have come here. This wouldn't have happened if it weren't for me.” She woefully sniveled, then said, “I can't live without you. I won't live without you. I'll join you. I'll do better next time, I promise. I love you.”

  Dorothy stood, then marched past Arthur without a single glance. She strode towards the log cabin in the woods, staggering as she traversed the snowy terrain. Arthur shook his head as he struggled to speak. He could only croak and moan as he watched Dorothy sauntering towards her melancholic fate.

  Arthur murmured, “Don't... Don't do it. Don't kill yourself, Dorothy. Please, don't do it.” He glanced back at his deceased body and said, “This can't be real...”

  Suddenly, his eyes widened. Arthur noticed the sheets of paper he tightly clenched in his hand had vanished into thin air. The ominous messages were abruptly erased, swept into nothingness. Baffled by the revelation, Arthur reached towards the back of his head. He grimaced as he felt the bloody crater on his dome.

  Arthur's bottom lip trembled uncontrollably as he whispered, “I didn't kill Dorothy, I killed myself... I really did it... I really did it.”

  The Unrepentant

  Troy Walker sat on the flimsy mattress in his puny 6' by 9' cell with a ceiling ten feet high. He absently gazed at the murky brick wall directly across his bed, his feet firmly planted on the mucky concrete flooring. His eyes glided across the modest chamber as his mind wandered through a misty field of uncertainty.

  To his left, there was a sturdy door with an impenetrable window. To his right, there was a filthy toilet anchored to the wall. The wall parallel to the shaky bed was vacant. Only a small tube television was hooked up at the top-left corner of the barrier – its working condition was doubtful. Luminous moonlight seeped through the tiny rectangular window on the wall to his right. The lucent stars and radiant moon washed the dreary cell with a pearly glow.

  Troy sighed, then whispered
, “Let's hurry up and get this over with...”

  Shattering his hazy contemplation, loud thudding reverberated through the room. Stony-faced, Troy slowly turned towards the only blockade keeping him imprisoned – the door. His perpetual deadpan expression remained as he spotted the correctional officer at his chamber's entrance.

  Correctional Officer Howard Cain asked, “You've got not visitors today?” Troy sat in silence. Cain sniffled, then continued, “Don't you want a... a priest or something? Visitations are welcome today, Troy. You still have some time before the... before the event. Would you like me to call someone for you?”

  Troy did not respond. The hushed cell was drenched with an unwavering silence. Cain bit his bottom lip as he examined Troy from head-to-toe. He couldn't pierce into his enigmatic demeanor, but he could inspect his appearance – it was something from nothing.

  Troy stood five-eleven with a slim physique – prison dieting had blatantly taken a toll. His dome was completely shaved, not a single hair protruded from his head. His brown eyes were dull and hollow, like a dead man's eyes. A thick scar contrasted on his left cheek from his lip to his earlobe – a savage battle scar from a prison shank. Troy donned an orange jumpsuit with the sleeves rolled up to his rugged elbows.

  Cain sighed, then asked, “Troy, you ever think about that night? You ever regret what you did?” Troy did not respond. Cain leaned on the door and said, “I just don't understand it. You've never been any trouble for us. I know some inmates treated you like trash cause of what you did, but you never tried to fight back. You just... you just kept to yourself, I suppose. It just doesn't seem right to me. I may be out of line, but I need to know: why'd you do it?”

  “No,” Troy responded in a hoarse tone.

  Cain cocked his head back like a walking pigeon, surprised by Troy's response. He asked, “No? What do you mean 'no'?”

  “I don't regret it.”

  Cain nodded like a bobblehead toy and said, “Okay, okay. So, why'd you do it? What happened that night?” As he caught a glimpse of the sudden hesitation in Troy's lusterless eyes, Cain asked, “Don't you want to... to confess? Don't you want to tell-all before all is told?”