Do you know about the lake?

At the far end of an abandoned trail,

Corpses of row boats littering it's shores,

With a stargazing hill?

Yes? Good.

Then you should also know about how,

Whenever a fool-hearted tourist is dared to wander out into the mirror-calm surface of the silver lake water,

The entire area would become shrouded in a mist as thick as pea soup,

Your ears would hum and tingle with a buzz,

And it would take ten minutes of terror stricken stillness before the mist dissipated?

Yes? Great.

So you should also be aware of how,

After the ten minutes,

When senses are rejuvenated with vigor,

It is as clear as crystal that the person would be nowhere to be found,

Save for the bottom of the lake?

Yes? Perfect.

Then I'm going to tell you a secret,

A dark secret.

A secret in the form of a story,

A story about the Women of the Lake.


Did you know there once was a house,

A cute little cottage,

At the very edge of the west lake shore,

Hidden in the shadows of towering oak,

With a thatch roof?

No? Good.

There was also a frail old woman who use to live in that cottage too,

With wiry gray hair and gnarled fingers with calloused knuckles,

She was the nightmare of any child stupid enough to stare in her muck brown eyes,

Cried out that she was going to kill them in their sleep,

Can you believe that?

No? Great.

There was also a man who lived in that house,

A man 'bout as old as the woman,

But his face was smooth,

Free of wrinkles,

Handsome from years of letting the woman do the work,

That old, suave man was the woman's husband,

But he had a secret,

A lustrous relationship with a mer,

A mer of midnight hair and golden eyes,

Do you understand where I'm going?

No? Perfect.

You should know that at the time,

There was a legend that was whispered back and forth between the native folk,

That if you pluck the petals of a white lily,

And let them flutter like torn butterfly wings onto the lake's surface,

The water rippling with chime,

The mist would encroach your vision.

Once it seems that you were all alone in a world consisting only of yourself and the lake,

A sweet voice would sing,

"Bring me a heart so sweet,

So maiden,

So that their honey blood would perch my thirst,

And in return I will lift the burden of age from your weary bones".

No? Splendid.

That seductive voice belonged to the mer,

That the old, suave man would love nothing more,

Than to gather into his arms,

Drag to his home,

And latch her wrists to the wall so that she may never escape,

But he kept this desire stuffed down his throat.

One day,

His beloved mer had a request,

One he could not deny her of in fear that she may never answer to his calls of pale petals again,

To bring her the heart of his wicked witch of a wife,

Do you think he would do it?

No? Foolish!

He was shivering with thrill at the prospect of being rid of that woman,

Whom he pledge his twisted heart and soul to,

In return a kiss from the mer whom held the form of a gorgeous young one,

So he took the curved dagger offered to him by petite palms with glee,

With thoughts of forever young and wet kisses.

But,

Oh,

What an idiotic old, suave man,

Who wouldn't realise until it was too late,

That his wife was just as dark in spirit as he,

So would never qualify as the pure maiden heart that the mischievous mer sang for,

That it was odd that the mer would ask for such a loathsome women,

To staunch her bloodlust.

So when he stomped into the doorway,

Of that cute little cottage,

His wicked wife was there in the shadows,

With a shard of her shattered white lily's vase.

Do you realise what's happening yet?

No? Hmm...

I'll cut the gory details,

To the strain of the woman's shoulders as she dragged the corpse to the lake's edge,

To the booming splash of the body hitting the water,

Sinking with a brick tied around its ankles,

To the bottom of the lake.

It took ten minutes of silence for the surface to turn from silver to red with blood,

For the voice of the old, suave man's beloved mer to sing out again,

"My loyal witch of the wood's lake,

Oh how I love thee,

Let me plant a kiss upon your withered lips,

Lift the burden of age from your weary bones,

To bring me more of such fine, horrid feasts"...

Do you see?

Yes? Finally!

I'm glad you enjoyed the story,

It's been years since I've told my story to a willing guest.

Oh, why are you shaking?

Look at that, you broke one of my favorite tea cups.

After you so kindly complimented the beautiful white lilies.

You're scared? Lovely...