Puddles

As I drove down the desolate wooded road, the crisp orange and red leaves of autumn cascading down, were almost enough to make me forget about my grandfather, and the long summer nights my family spent at his lake house. My sister and I would stay up telling each other ghost stories. There was one that had me tucked tightly under my blankets, night after night. It was about this woman that was found in the lake. It was said that she had been missing for four years before they found her drowned corpse, floating along the edge of the water. Her eyes had decomposed, leaving dark soulless sockets. My sister made a point of telling me that she roams the house at night, hoping that she’s still alive.

I would be shivering with fear as I hastily ran to my parents bedroom, pleading with them to let me sleep in their bed. But alas, that was over twenty years ago, and I was more gullible to children’s antics then. I have grown. Matured even. I know that it’s not real. But sometimes the nightmares still haunt me.

Snapping out of my reminiscent trance, I pulled into the gravel driveway, hearing the crisp crunch of the tiny pebbles beneath my tires. I knew that the lake house had long been vacant, ever since my grandfather had been put into hospice, but I could have never anticipated the neglected state it would be in. The white paint of the shingles had peeled off, revealing the dark weather worn wood. The windows had been glazed over with an eerie patina, like that of an old glass coke bottle. Unlocking the door, I pushed through, and was hit by a gust of stale air. The afternoon light, slightly obstructed by the unkempt window, pored through, illuminating the cloth covered furniture.

As I left the living room, I slowly walked to the kitchen, analyzing every little corner, I saw something quickly move across the wall. It was like a shadow. Maybe it was a bird or a tree. The wood floors of the kitchen were covered in a film of dust and left over dirt. However, I noticed something. Slowly, I walked across the kitchen to stand in front of the backdoor and bent down. Carefully, I ran my fingers over the fresh mud tracks that slowly led outside. The mud painted my fingertips, causing me to go to the sink to wash my hands. As I did so, I couldn’t help but stare at the lake outside. I was in a trance. It was as if I had known something was there. I couldn't feel it. I couldn’t see it. But I knew it was there. Just as I started to feel as though I too was being watched, a loud bang echoed through the house. The movers…

For the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening, the movers came to and fro, placing the haphazardly taped boxes into their designated area. The house was full of more life than when I had first come. Once the movers had finished and the red of their tail lights disappeared from the driveway, I decided to hop off to the shower. The bathroom was just as it had been when I was younger. The black and white checkered floor greatly opposed the floral pattern of the wallpaper. As my bare feet gently kissed the cold floor, I was surprised to see it was already wet. A small puddle had formed just in front of the sink. Was there a pipe leaking? That would be something for the morning I guess.

Finally being able to resign myself to the comfort of my bed, covered in the handmade quilt of my grandmother, I sighed in relief as my back hit the mattress. It wasn’t long before I slipped into a deep sleep. I had a strange dream. I was standing at the bedroom window, looking out onto the lake. There was a woman. She was smiling and dancing by the edge of the water. She seemed so happy. She was beautiful. She soon noticed me, her face contorting and her eyes sinking until they disappeared. As she walked towards me, the sound of dripping water jolted me awake.

Just as I opened my eyes, a drop of water landed in my eye, blurring my vision for a moment. I thought I saw the shape of a person standing over me. I hurriedly sat up, rubbing my eyes clear. As my feet touched the floor, another puddle soaked my feet. It was cold and muddy. There were leaves scattered around my bedroom floor. The rest of my night was restless, hoping that nothing strange was happening around me. I felt like the scared little girl again who would rush to her parents, afraid of ghosts and monsters. There’s probably something logical to explain the water, the mud… the leaves.

In the morning, I called the plumber, hoping that maybe the pipes had simply deteriorated, causing water damage around the house. While he was rummaging around the house, examining the pipes and floors, I received a call from my sister. She was talking about this DNA test that she took to help my niece fill our family tree for school.

“Did you know we have an aunt?”

“No. Why wouldn’t mom mention that?”

“Maybe because she died before we were born.”

“She’s dead?”

“That’s what I just said. Maybe Grandpa had some pictures of her. Can you take a look. Ella needs it for school.”

“Yeah… I’ll look in the attic.”

“Thanks. Call me if you find anything.”

As I closed the front door behind the plumber, who had enlightened me to the fact that the only thing in this house not falling apart is the pipes, I made my way to the second floor. Pulling the string that hung down just enough to reach, the ceiling gives way, revealing a ladder. The climb into the dark hole of the attic terrified me. The smell of old books and damp rotting wood kissed my nose, causing me to feel slightly dazed. Pushing past the disorganized boxes and withered chairs, I finally stumble upon a stack of scrapbooks.

Most of them were of my sister and I when we were young, but the last one was of these two other girls. They were young as well, and the picture looked as if it was taken in the 60s. I hurriedly flipped through, looking to see if there was a picture of them older. There was one that looked like a school picture. The woman was beautiful and she looked almost identical to my mom, except her smile was more natural and less stiff than my mother. I took the photo out of the scrapbook, flipped it over, and read aloud “Mary Watson.”

It began again. The dripping noises from the night before. This time it was right behind me. I whipped around, hoping to catch whatever was making that noise. There in the corner of the attic stood a shadow. It's a human-like figure pointing at the floor before me. I reluctantly looked down, shifting my eyes between the still pointing shadow and the floorboards. Before me I laid a newspaper clipping with the title, “The Family Accident.” The article’s picture was identical to the picture of Mary that I had just viewed prior. The article’s picture was of my aunt.

That night was restless. I paced back and forth thinking about the shadow, my aunt, the puddle. Was that shadow trying to hurt me? How did she drown? I had called my sister to tell her everything that had happened in that attic. “It was just a story” rang in my ear as she laughed at my childish unease. Maybe I was being childish…

I soon became parched, opting to go to the kitchen and drink a glass of water. Standing in the kitchen, still pacing while drinking, I notice someone outside of the window. It was just like in my dream. A woman. Her hair was long and unkempt. She wore a light blue nightgown that clung to her body. She was wet. I dropped my glass, not caring as it shattered around my feet, cutting them as I ran to the back door. She was still there. I ran outside. The cold air stinging my face as I finally stood behind her.

“Who are you? You can’t be here. This is private property.”

Standing at arms length away from her, I noticed that she was soaked. Like she had been swimming in her nightgown. She slowly turned around, her profile coming into view. She was pale, almost grey. But even stranger than her skin was her eyes, they weren’t there. Finally, face to face with the woman, I became horrified. It was like the woman from my sister’s story. No… It was my aunt!