The Shadow of the Southern Shore

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. Now this is not going to be some silly ghost story to give you a fright before bedtime. No, what took place that night really happened. Even as I think about it, remembering the eeriness of what happened that night, my hairs stand on end, and feel the shiver running up my spine. Indeed, the only reason I tell you this story is so that it will serve as a warning. On the nights when the moon is high, and mist swirls and dances along the surface of the water, beware the soft cries that quietly carry over Francois Lake.

My wife, Maria, and I moved up from Abbotsford to Burns Lake, British Columbia, just about three years ago, with our two young children. It was our dream to own a small bit of lakeshore, and we found the perfect three bedroom, one bathroom log home on Collymount Road along the shores of Francois Lake. For those of you who may not know this, Francois Lake is one-hundred-ten kilometres, and the second of longest natural lake in British Columbia after Babine Lake.

Francois Lake is an absolutely gorgeous lake, and every time I drive down Collymount Road, it reminds me of some of the channels that I took while occasionally riding the BC ferries around the gulf islands. Every time I drive around the head of the lake, I see the islands with scraggly pine trees clinging to the rocky sides, and their wavy reflections in the dark water, I sometimes forget that I am driving by a freshwater lake, and half expect to see an orca breech. But something you do not expect from the lake, which the locals are always quite happy to share about, is the depth of Francois Lake.

At its deepest points, it is over two-hundred-fourty-four metres. That is over eight-hundred feet deep! Those deep waters have claimed the lives of many, their bodies pulled down to the depths. They say the spirits of those who have died in the lake will sometimes find their way back to the surface, and becon the living to join them. I of course thought this was just the locals trying to have a bit of fun with some of the newcomers to town, so I did not really think much of it, and just laughed it off any time someone mentioned it. That all changed one fateful night in early October as the leaves on the aspens and poplars began changing from green to golden yellow, which complimented the blisteringly bright fireweed that grows on the steep slopes along Collymount Road.

I was outside chopping some wood for our wood stove, and the last rays of light shimmering on the water as the sun dipped behind the hills, casting a shadow on the that creeped slowly across our property which sloped gently down to the water’s edge. A small breeze picked up, and my tin boat bobbed up and down at the end of our little dock out on the lake. It still amazes me how quickly darkness falls in autumn, and in a very short time, the only light available by which I could see while chopping wood was my propane lantern, the twinkling stars in the sky, and the silvery crescent moon which was low on the horizon.

It was a beautiful, clear night, and I lost myself in the methodical motions of stacking the wood I had chopped when I first heard it. I thought I heard a baby crying. I stopped, unsure if what I had just heard was actually a baby. I could hear it carrying across the lake, from the southern shore. Thinking it was just my imagination, I shook my head and continued stacking. But then I heard it again, the very soft, distinct sound of a baby fussing. Knowing that it was not one of my own children—Maria and my two kids were still out at the children’s choir practice at church—I stacked the piece of wood that I had in my hand, picked up my lantern and my shotgun I kept close to hand when working alone outside, and walked to my dock. As I got closer, I could hear the crying clearly. There was no mistaking it.

Now. Before any of you think that I was making a big deal out of nothing; there were no houses or cabins on that side of the lake. At least, none that were inhabited. The forest on that side was old growth forest, thick and wild. An old trapper had lived there back in the sixties, so I had been told, and he had been killed in his cabin. Murdered with one of his own knives. The murderer had never beeen found. There were no provincial parks, no camp grounds, not even any good beaches to explore as the thick forest went all the way down to the shore of the lake. I felt my concerns were justified.

Stepping into my tin boat, I placed my gun and lantern on the bench in the boat, lowered the electric motor and turned it on. The motor’s gentle hum, as I slowly pulled away from the dock, was the only sound in the night. And then I heard it again. The distinct sound of a baby crying. I started crossing the lake as quickly as I could. I was worried that the sound of the crying, which was becoming more constant, and getting louder; would attract predators into the area. As I got to the halfway point across the lake, a mist started to rise on the water, and I felt a chill in the air. The cries of the baby died down, but I could still here the sounds of fussing. Anxious to get out of the swirling mists, I peered ahead searching for a place to beach my boat. Seeing a likely spot, I adjusted the motor, and headed for that spot. Stepping out of the boat, I splashed in the shallow waters and pulled my boat up onto the beach. Tying my boat to a fallen tree, I shouldered my shotgun and raised the lantern, and headed into the thick forest that awaited me on the southern shore.

The closeness, and heaviness of the air around me felt like I was wearing too many layers of jackets zipped up tightly. It was suffocating me. But I could hear the cries of the baby, and it led me further into the darkness. Not wanting to alert any predators that may have been lurking in amongst the trees, I stayed as quiet as I could, all the while listening for any other sounds that could indicated the presence of a bear or cougar.

I altered my course, slightly, adjusting so that I was more in line for where I thought I heard the crying coming from, and then stopped dead in my tracks. There was a small, derelict cabin perched on a small outcropping. There was a candle burning in the window, and I knew something was not right. The crying was coming from the cabin. I wanted to turn and run, flee from the area, but a part or me knew I had to go on. Taking a deep breath, I stepped towards the small structure.

The cry of the baby turned into a wailing sound and, fearing for the baby’s safety, I ran, my heavy boots thudding into the ground, as I awkwardly made my way to the top of the crumbling outcropping and opened the door. As I stepped inside, lifting my lantern to see, the wailing of the baby turned into an ear-piercing scream that made the hairs on my body stand. My senses were overwhelmed by the screech that continued to ring out in the abandoned cabin.

In a panic, I turned every which way, trying to see all directions at once. With every turn, I was able to glimpse a shadow of something out of the periphery of my vision. Something was there! Something sinister. I felt the foulness of it. And then my lantern went out, the candle that had been burning in the window was snuffed, and the shrieking stopped. I froze in place, terrified, and felt a coldness growing around me. The chilling sensation of fingers tracing the back of my neck caused me to turn. The shadow was there before me, something darker than the night itself. It said one word to me. “Run.”

Dropping my shotgun, I ran. Tumbling out of the door of the cabin, and down the small outcropping, I raced through the dark forest, all the while hearing the hysterically maniacal laughter of whatever it was that I had met in the cabin. The laughter followed me as I made my way down to the shore, about fifty metres from my boat. Running along the water’s edge, I had the sensation of being watched. I did not turn to look, but I knew that whatever it was that had been in the shack was there on the beach with me.

The laughing stopped suddenly as I hurriedly untied my boat, pushed it into the water and leapt into it. Starting the motor, I glanced up at the trees, and saw the dark form, like a flowing, undulating smoke hovering by the tree line. I turned my boat so that I faced the northern shore, and sped my way in that direction.

Casting a look back at the southern shore, I saw the black shadow make its way over the waters towards me. The waters around me became choppy, and my small boat rose and fell with the small waves, my progress being slowed as the shadow sped up. I yelled in panic, knowing that if that thing got me, I would be a dead man.

The mists floating above the waters swirled, like a thick blanket of cotton, and I thought I could see hands forming from the mists, reaching towards me. The shadow was getting closer, I could feel the powerful and sinister energy of it. My motor cut out, and my boat just drifted in the direction I had been going. I tried to get it going again, but it would not start. I looked up, and the shadow was almost upon me. Then something strange happened.

I made it halfway across the lake, and everything went still. The mists vanished, the waves ceased, the sounds quieted, and I stood there in my boat, my heart pounding, as I looked around. The shadow, the mists, everything that had felt so wrong just a moment ago, was gone. I still felt the overwhelming sensation of dread and terror, but now the night looked as calm as it had before.

Looking to the northern shore, I could see the taillights of my wife’s minivan in our driveway. Shaking my head and taking a deep breath to settle myself, I tried my motor again. It started, and I steered my boat in the direction of home.

To this day, I still cannot explain what happened that night on the southern shore. Part of me does not even care to figure it out, especially if it means seeing that shadow again. All I know now is that on the nights when the moon is high, and mist swirls and dances along the surface of the water, beware the soft cries that quietly carry over Francois Lake.