The Lake

“There once was an entire town here... beneath the lake…,” my brother stated quietly, gravely. “The houses still stand down there… you can see their roofs if you swim down far enough…” his voice building with the story, “they say that some people refused to leave and they drowned in their homes when the lake was filled…” His flashlight created shadows on his face that made him almost unrecognizable in my child's eyes. The darkness behind him swallowed everything that didn’t quite touch the light.

We were huddled in our small, two-person tent by the beach, camping with our parents for the week. A summer tradition that went back as far as I could remember. Every year, they would drive us three hours to the middle of nowhere and we’d live among the trees and the giant man-made dirt pool, playing the game of loving family with other like-minded delusionists.

As my brother’s story goes, the mayor of the small, campy town decided that a large body of water could create tourism and more people meant more revenue. But what was best for the community as a whole, wasn't necessarily best for everyone. The people of the tiny town were evacuated, but rumor has it, some houses still stand at the bottom. My brother would relay all of this to me, the gullible little sister who hung on his every word, in his most unsettling voice. He’d warn me not to swim too deep, for fear the lake people would take me under and keep me down there forever. The fear stung my eyes with tears, making it hard for me to breathe. “B-but how will I survive? Won’t mom miss me?! Won’t she look for me?!” My brother would click off the flashlight, satisfied with himself for evoking such emotions from me. He’d stifle a laugh and console me, telling me it was just a made-up story, but still, I’d heed his warning. I would stand at the shore - never deeper - the waves nipping at my toes like hands trying to reach out and grab me.

When my brother died years later, I knew that some of what he had told me held true. His story stuck with me, along with all of my other memories of him, haunting every waking and sleeping moment. I was thirteen when a drunk driver took him from us and by then I was head-over-heels obsessed with all things creepy and unsettling. I found myself researching the tall tale he’d scared me with all those years ago, in an attempt to feel closer to him. In my findings, I had learned that before the valley was filled to transform it into the lake it is today, people had entire lives that were suddenly, forcibly uprooted. The townspeople weren’t offered much compensation other than the idea that their businesses would benefit from this drastic change, if only they’d be open to it. In the grand scheme of things, it seemed like a win for everyone. But people were expected to give up everything they knew, move on, and forget the life they left behind.

My family still visits every year.

Sometimes, I stand at the shore and wonder where all those people went. I wonder if they camped out where we do now, along the edge of the water, trying to stay close to the only home they knew. I wonder if they were able to move on and forget their past, or if, like grief, they were never quite the same afterward. I wonder if any of them were as stubborn as the people in my hometown. The ones that refuse to leave their home when it’s in the path of a fire, destined for destruction. Not even the threat of death enough to make them abandon what’s most important to them. And sometimes I wonder if my brother is down there now, just waiting for me to wade into the water.