I always knew there was something beyond the lake. Even in my child hood visits to the small cabin in Georgia, far away from anything. Even then did I know that there was something more to that lake. I would never swim there, but I was not alone, for even the native boys wouldn't swim in it. The natives blamed it on the blacks polluting it. Yet even I had heard the rumors that were whispered along in local diners, and gas stations. Rumors of hauntings, and black magic.
On my many family vacations there I would spend so many hours just staring at the murky water, until the setting sun would send bolts of red fire through the water, and I could sometimes imagine the faint sounds of reed pipes trickling through the air.
It was with only a small amount of curiosity, and a lot of nostalgia did I decide to return to the cabin over a break from my college studies.
I brought with me a few books, and papers which I had to go through or memorize my clothes, and a few comforts such as a few cigars, blankets, and quite a bit of alcohol to compliment my necessities.
The first day at the cabin I did nothing special, not even visit any local sites or the lake. Instead I allowed myself a drink, or two, and some rest to my mind.
The next day I awoke early, and decided to go to the lake.
The lake held a quality of such stillness that seemed like it had not even been touched by time. And only a few small signs of disrepair told me any differently. It was very, very much how I had remembered it from childhood, beautiful, but strangely eerie. I enjoyed a cigar in the surreal tranquility of the morning, okay, and perhaps a nip or two at the bottle.
I spent the better part of three hours at the lake until I was interrupted by rustle in the bushes. Upon investigation I saw a small dog in the bushes, it had strange circular wound on its side and was whining piteously.
I felt compassion for this poor creature, and elected to take it into my care until I could perhaps find a place for it to go live safely.
I took the dog back to my living quarters, cleaned its wound with a bit of vodka, and threw him some scraps from my meal the previous night.
I decided I would call it Al after my grandfather Alain Noles.
On the third day of my vacation I decided I would continue with my reaccquantice of the local surroundings I went to a small restaurant and pub quaintly named Bill's Pub.
The restraint itself was in not too terrible of condition, and the food itself though greasy was quite delectable.
Admittedly I went to the bar, and ordered myself a little something to quench my thirst. The bartender was a beefy man, who seemed to look at everyone kindly though beady brown eyes.
We iniated the typical barstool conversation with the exchange of names, and basic introductions, turns out that the man was Bill. I ordered myself another drink, and then he asked me where I was staying. I replied to him that I was staying in the small cabin up by Gains Lake.
Bill immediately withdrew a little bit, his friendliness waning slightly, and his beady brown eyes squinting to the point where they were near indiscernible.
"I find it odd that a tourist as well off as you would want to stay there." He said hiss lip quivering a little bit under his white moustache. "Especially after the girl drowned down there last year."