The huge stack of firewood waited for her at the back of the shed. A wheelbarrow lay next to it, and Sam hurried to load it up with the logs then pulled it out of the shed. When she turned towards the cabin, the ripples hadn’t disappeared from the lake. In fact, they’d intensified.
Water frothed and churned as something struggled just under the surface. The ripples, which had at first lapped peacefully against the shore, were battering at it, surging forward and retreating like small waves.
Sam stared, her mouth open. She couldn’t see what was causing the disturbance, but it had to be big. What kinds of fish live in this lake?
The water roiled, spraying droplets high into the air. Dark mud, drawn up from the lake’s floor, stained the crystal-blue water black, slowly bleeding out from the frenzy.
Then, as though a switch had been flicked, it stopped. The miniature waves bumped into the dock’s pillars and spent themselves on the shore as the lake’s surface stilled.
Sam dropped the wheelbarrow and approached the water’s edge. The disturbance had been just past the dock. If she stood on the end of the pier, she might be able to see the cause.
Don’t go onto the dock. The phrase from Peter’s letter echoed in her head as she eyed the wood. It looked solid. But her uncle had underlined his warning twice.
Caution won out, and Sam reluctantly returned to her burden. The wood had spilled when she’d dropped the wheelbarrow, and she grumbled as she righted and refilled it.
It only took a few minutes to transfer the logs into the bracket beside the fireplace, then Sam returned the wheelbarrow to the shed. She kept one eye on the water as she passed the lake, but it didn’t repeat its antics.
* * *
Bathing in the wilderness was a new experience for Sam. She heated pots of water over the fire, carried them upstairs to the bathtub, and mixed in enough cold water from the pump to bring it to a tolerable temperature. She’d forgotten to bring soap, so she used shampoo instead. It wasn’t until she’d drained the dirty water that she realised she’d forgotten to boil anything to rinse herself with. She swore under her breath, pumped a few bursts of the icy tank water into the tub, and splashed it over herself as quickly as she could.
She was shivering by the time she drained the bath for the second time and wrapped herself in the two towels she’d brought. Sam hurried downstairs to where the fire crackled pleasantly, and warmed herself while she dried her hair.
It was past lunch by the time she’d finished dressing, and she set to exploring the depths of the pantry. She decided it wasn’t a day to be healthy, so she pushed the beans, Spam, and tinned vegetables to one side and eventually settled on a cup of instant noodles.
Sam planned her day while she ate. She had less than four hours of daylight left. Part of her wanted to pull the canoe out from the shed and take a spin on the lake, but she squashed the idea quickly. Whatever had stirred up the water must have been strong, and there was no guarantee that being in a canoe would keep her safe. Insane ideas rose in the back of her mind—What if the lake has freshwater sharks or even Harob’s own version of the Loch Ness Monster?—and even though she could laugh at them, she couldn’t entirely dismiss them.
The second reason against going onto the lake was the entire purpose of the trip: she had five days left to create twelve paintings. Time wasn’t in her favour.
Sam washed up quickly then set a fresh canvas onto the easel. She laid her best set of oils on the table, opened her favourite roll of brushes, and stared at the blank cloth.
Okay, Sam, what are we painting? The grey eyes flashed into her mind, but she pushed them back out. Nope, not today. How about a corrupted classic? They’re a little cheesy, but at least they won’t be met with complete derision by the art elite.
Sam took a soft pencil and sketched the faint outline of a bowl of fruit onto the canvas. She didn’t have any references, but she thought it came out reasonably well. She added some maggots crawling out of the apple and dripping onto the crocheted cloth below the bowl, then squeezed the appropriate oil colours onto her palette.
The painting started well. She applied the dark colours first then built up to the light. The bowl was steel grey. The same grey as his eyes, she realised, before continuing hurriedly. She used slightly off colours for the fruit. Twenty minutes later, she stepped back from the painting and felt distaste scrunch her lips. The perspective was weird, and she wasn’t sure how to fix it. Sam gritted her teeth and switched to painting the background, which was normally the easiest part for her. The lines kept coming out crooked, though, no matter how often she painted over them.
“Damn it,” she hissed, dropping the brush back onto the palette. “Get a grip.”
It’s the water. I can’t get it out of my head. The way it churned and dug up mud… I’ve got to know what’s in there.
“Fine,” she said, letting her frustration bleed into decisive action. “Fine. We’ll take a look at the creepy lake then. We’ll prove there’s nothing to be frightened of, and when we come back, we’ll be able to focus on our work. Okay? Okay.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The lake was perfectly still when Sam left the cabin. She went to the shed, unlocked it, and began dragging the canoe off its pallet.
It was much heavier than she’d anticipated. She got the boat off its stand without too much effort, but pulling it to the water’s edge exhausted her. Sam left it on the shore while she returned to the cabin, changed into her swimsuit, and collected one of the still-damp towels. She retrieved the paddle from the shed, tossed it and the towel inside the canoe, then gave it one final, hard shove into the lake. As soon as it came free from the shore, it started drifting away, and Sam hurried after it, wading waist-deep before catching its edge. The water was cold, and the sandy lake floor felt slimy between her toes. Sam grimaced, imagining the multitude of tiny creatures that were probably flittering around her feet.
She nearly tipped the canoe the first time she tried to pull herself into it, but eventually, she managed to haul herself over its edge and collapsed inside. The vessel rocked wildly, and Sam waited until it had stilled before climbing into the seat, wrapping the towel around her waist and picking up the paddle.
She had never been canoeing before, but it had looked easy enough in the commercials she’d seen on TV. She dipped her paddle into the water and pushed a little too hard. The canoe rocked again as it turned.
“Easy,” Sam muttered, switching the paddle to the opposite side and trying to ignore the sensation of cold water dripping down her arms. It took a few minutes for her to figure out a system, but then the boat started moving forward, slowly at first, but picking up speed as she alternated sides every two strokes.
Sam turned her canoe towards the end of the dock and drew as close as she dared. The worst of the sediment had cleared since that morning, but the water was still cloudy. Sam squinted, trying to make out shapes through the haze, but it was impossible.
Whatever it was probably moved on ages ago, anyway.
Sam turned the boat towards the opposite side of the lake and picked up speed. She was starting to love the sway of the canoe, the splashing noises the paddle made each time she drew it through the water, and the way the breeze cut through the sun’s heat. The lake was too wide to travel to the opposite end and back before the sun dipped behind the mountains, but Sam reached the halfway point before reluctantly turning around.
The cabin stood out like a dark rock against the grey-green woods. It was the first time Sam had seen the mountains behind her home clearly, and she soaked in the view. She could see a crop of rocks halfway up the hill that she thought might have been where she’d stopped during the previous day’s hike. Farther up and to the right was a slight gap in the trees—probably one of the viewing spots from the trail. Not far above her cabin, a craggy ledge jutted out from the mountain.
And on the ledge stood a man.
Sam’s mouth opened in a silent gasp. The stranger’s pose was stiff, except for
his arms, which hung limply at his sides. He was too far away for her to see him clearly, but Sam thought he seemed tall and lean and wore dark clothes.
Calm down. It’s just a hiker. So what if he ignored the warning sign and crossed over the chain? I’m sure plenty of people do that. It’s not like he’s the same man who was on the dock or anything. He wasn’t carrying a backpack or equipment, though.
The man turned his head, and Sam followed his gaze. He was looking at the cabin. Sam’s heart fluttered, but some primitive instinct told her to keep still.
Then the man looked back at the lake, and Sam felt their eyes meet. I’ll bet they’re grey, she thought as her stomach turned cold.
The man held the gaze for half a minute then turned and disappeared into the forest.
Sam sucked in a deep breath. Panic, hot and irrational, coursed through her. She began paddling as a sense of urgency overwhelmed her. How long would it take him to reach the cabin? Could he get there first if he ran?
Her arms ached as seldom-used muscles were taxed, but Sam pushed herself to move the canoe as fast as she was capable, single-mindedly focussed on getting to the safety of the cabin and the reassuringly heavy axe.
The familiar hum of insects filled her ears as she drew closer to the shore. Sam’s eyes were scanning the mountain, searching for movement between the trees, and she didn’t notice immediately when her paddle snagged in a patch of weeds. The plants nearly tugged the paddle out of her hands, but she twisted in her seat and managed to keep her grip. That turned out to be a mistake. The force of the abrupt stop, combined with the way she’d turned her body, tipped the canoe and plunged her into the water.
The lake was ice cold. Sam thrashed, trying to right herself. Her limbs brushed through the dense weeds, and their slimy leaves made her gasp as they swept over exposed skin. Water rushed into her mouth, but she bit down on it before it could fill her lungs. Her feet couldn’t find the floor. A flicker of sunlight penetrated the dark water, and Sam struggled towards it, her lungs burning, her heart thundering.
Panic had clouded her mind, and she didn’t see the shadowy shape drifting above her. Instead of breaking through the surface, her head rushed up to meet the canoe’s hull. Sparks of light shot across her vision, and water filled her lungs as she cried out. Her limbs felt heavier than rocks; she tried to move them, but they only weighted her down, pulling her deeper into the lake. The canoe drifted in front of the sparkling sunlight, leaving her smothered in the weed-choked, muddy shadows.
Hands crept out from between the dense water plants. Ghost white and bone thin, they caressed her skin, tangled in her hair, and tugged at her ankles. There were dozens of them. Sam had a vague idea that they should have bothered her, but all she cared about was finding the energy to take another breath as the blackness crept across her vision.
CHAPTER NINE
Sam woke in the cabin, lying on the rug in front of the dying fire. Her lungs felt sore, and stabbing pains extended from a spot just above her temple. She tried to sit up but thought better of it as her stomach threatened to empty itself.
How’d I get here?
Keeping her head as still as possible, Sam let her eyes rove around the room. Everything was quiet. She seemed to be alone.
A new painting stood on the easel. Someone—I?—had painted over the malformed fruit still life. The steel grey bowl had been turned into a large rock, and the draping background fabric had become trees, while the tabletop had been altered into bushy vegetation.
In place of the rotting fruit stood a man. It was a familiar image. She’d seen it earlier that day, albeit from a distance. Although she hadn’t been able to see the man clearly from her canoe, she’d painted him the familiar, haggard, sallow face that had been haunting her.
As soon as she thought she had control over her body, Sam staggered to her feet. She was dizzy, but all of her limbs seemed to work. She hobbled to the door and tried the handle—it had been locked from the inside. She unbolted the latch, opened the door a crack, and looked outside. The canoe rested on the shore, with one end barely touching the smooth water. She couldn’t see any other signs of interference.
Sam closed and re-locked the door. The axe still stood beside the fireplace, but unwilling to trust herself with it, she picked one of the paring knives out of the kitchen drawer instead. The blade was far too small to look even remotely threatening, but Sam still held it ahead of herself as she clambered up the stairs.
It only took a minute to search the bedroom and assure herself that she was definitely alone. She returned downstairs, tossed the knife towards the kitchen, and slumped into one of the overstuffed lounge chairs. Too physically drained to even cry, she watched the fireplace’s glowing embers fade into ash.
She slipped into a tenuous, disjointed dream. She saw herself pulling the canoe out of the river, locking herself in the cabin, and painting as blood dripped down her face. Every time she stirred towards wakefulness, she felt the man in the painting watching her, his cold grey eyes fixed on the back of her head with an animalistic hunger.
* * *
It was dark when Sam pulled herself together enough to light the candles and draw a drink from the pump by the sink. She leaned on the bench while she savoured the taste of the cold, clean water and tried to clear her head.
She didn’t seem seriously hurt. Her vision wasn’t blurry, and the dizziness had passed following her nap, so she doubted she was in imminent danger of brain damage. She let her mind drift to less certain ideas.
A man had been watching her from the rock. The following hours were foggy, but she was certain of that, at least. She’d assumed he was a hiker stopping to admire the view, but she felt less confident of that as she remembered the way he’d glanced towards the cabin, as though he’d known exactly where to look. That, combined with the figure she’d seen on the dock and the nightmarish paintings she’d been creating in her sleep, made her deeply uneasy.
Sam approached the table. Amongst the jumble of paint boxes, pencils, and papers, she found the black walkie-talkie the ranger had given her.
It seemed simple enough; a red button sat on top, next to a dial to adjust the volume. It’s got to be after six. There’s probably no one at the office.
Sam pressed the button and cautiously said, “Hello?”
To her surprise, the speaker crackled when she released the button, and a terse female voice answered, “This is the Harob Park Rangers Office. Who’s speaking, please?”
“Oh.” Sam had been hoping to get straight through to the ranger she’d met the previous day, and wasn’t sure she wanted to explain her concerns to the unexpectedly cold voice. She cleared her throat and pressed the button again. “Hi, my name’s Sam. I’m staying in the cabin by the lake. I spoke to a ranger yesterday, and he gave me his walkie-talkie—is he available, please?”
A tsk of irritation came from the speakers. “Would that have been Brandon or Tom?”
“Uhh… I’m not sure, sorry. He didn’t tell me his name.”
“Probably Brandon,” the woman said, more to herself than Sam. “He’s already left for the day. Do you need emergency assistance?”
Sam felt unsteady on her feet, so she dropped onto the couch and wet her lips. The woman’s voice was cold. Unfeeling. Still, hostile help was better than no help, so she said, “I heard on the radio that there have been disappearances around Harob Lake.”
“Yes,” the woman said after a brief pause. “There have been missing-person cases. They occur in any inhospitable region that’s frequented by tourists.”
“Were any of them found?”
Another tsk. “The forest spans more than eighteen square kilometres, much of it mountainous and unchartered. We make every effort to locate missing persons, but the odds are very much against us.”
Sam’s mouth was dry. She licked her lips again. “So… no? You didn’t find them? Not even their bodies?”
“Look,” the woman said, and the walkie-talkie’s crackle couldn�
��t mask her irritation. “We maintain the trails and post signs, but there’s very little we can do if an inexperienced hiker strays off the paths and becomes lost.”
Sam knew her companion’s patience was wearing thin, but she couldn’t stop herself from saying, “The path going near my cabin was cordoned off. Is it because people have gone missing on it? More than normal, I mean?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of unresolved cases.” The ranger’s voice could have frozen hell. “But I can assure you, provided you take proper safety precautions when hiking, you are at no greater risk than in any other remote, densely wooded area. Now, if there’s nothing else I can help you with, I would appreciate it if we could keep this line clear in case of actual emergencies.”
“Oh, yeah, sure. Sorry.” Sam let the walkie-talkie fall silent. She sat for a long time, staring at the empty fireplace, chewing over her options. The woman’s refusal to answer was almost as good as an affirmative: the trail had been closed because people had gone missing on it, and they considered it too dangerous to keep open. Not that it had bothered the mysterious hiker.
I could leave, Sam thought as she stared at the three paintings propped against the wall, their ghastly images facing away so that she wouldn’t have to see them.
Part of her wanted to go—to get out of the cloistered forest and back to her familiar, over-populated city—but she knew she’d never forgive herself if she did. She’d been so grateful for the week in the cabin; it was a merciful lifeline, a final chance to prepare for the Heritage and save her reputation and budding career. She couldn’t throw it away just because a hiker didn’t like obeying caution signs.
Dead Lake Page 4
