Shadow #2

Maria loved quiet evenings at her lakeside cabin. Surrounded by forest and silence, she often spent hours sitting on the wooden porch, watching the moonlight shimmer on the water. The lake was calm, almost hypnotic, but the locals avoided it, claiming it was "too deep to be natural."

Maria paid no attention to stories about "the depths" or "what lies unseen." She was pragmatic and preferred to believe in things she could explain. However, one evening, as the moonlight illuminated the dark surface of the lake, she noticed something unusual.

Shadows appeared on the water.

At first, she thought clouds had covered the moon, but the sky was completely clear. The shadows moved, not like waves, but as if something beneath the surface was shifting and taking shape. There were several of them—scattered, indistinct, but real enough that Maria stood up and stepped closer to the shore.

As she leaned over the water, a chill ran down her spine. The shadows grew clearer, resembling human figures but distorted—elongated arms, unnaturally thin legs. They seemed to be looking at her, though she knew that wasn’t possible. She stepped back, convincing herself she was tired and that the strange shapes were just a trick of the light.

The next night, curiosity got the better of her. Equipped with a flashlight and an old fishing boat, she decided to approach the center of the lake. She rowed slowly, listening to the soft splash of the wooden oars. When she reached the middle, she turned off the flashlight and waited.

The water was still, but the shadows reappeared. This time, they were closer and moved as if whispering to each other. Maria stared, transfixed, until the boat began to sway gently. She looked over the edge and saw her reflection in the water. But she wasn’t alone.

Next to her reflection was another face—pale, with dark eyes that seemed endlessly deep. She jerked back as the boat began to tilt. She managed to steady herself but couldn’t tear her gaze away from the face in the water. The shadows were now rising toward the surface, as if trying to emerge.

Panic-stricken, Maria rowed back to shore. When she arrived, she glanced over her shoulder. The lake was calm again, and the shadows were gone.

The next day, she tried to forget it all. But she couldn’t. On the table in her cabin, she found a wet mark in the shape of a handprint. The hand was thin, almost unnaturally slender, and its trail led to the door.

Since then, Maria has never returned to the lake. She abandoned the cabin, but the locals say that at night, when the moonlight hits the water, the shadows still dance, and sometimes a boat can be seen on the surface, with a lone, motionless figure inside.

Maria’s departure did not mark the end of the strange occurrences surrounding the lake. Over time, whispers of her experiences began to weave into the fabric of local folklore, solidifying the lake’s reputation as cursed. Those who lived near it spoke in hushed tones, warning travelers and newcomers never to linger after dark.

One stormy night, a pair of hikers, ignorant of the warnings, sought shelter in Maria’s abandoned cabin. They found it oddly pristine despite the years of neglect. The air inside was heavy, damp, and carried a faint, metallic tang. On the wooden table lay a dusty lantern and a single sheet of paper with the words, “Do not look into the water,” scrawled in faded ink.

The hikers laughed it off as a local prank. But as the night wore on, they couldn’t ignore the oppressive silence outside. No wind rustled the trees, and no insects chirped—only the sound of water lapping against the shore broke the stillness. Curiosity eventually got the better of them.

From the cabin’s porch, they stared at the lake, its surface eerily calm despite the distant thunder. Then, just as Maria had seen, shadows began to move. The hikers watched in disbelief as the dark shapes gathered, swirling like a dance just beneath the surface.

Suddenly, the lantern flickered, and one of the hikers, emboldened by a mix of intrigue and fear, stepped closer to the edge of the lake. “It’s just the moon playing tricks,” he muttered, but his voice lacked conviction.

The water stirred unnaturally, and a ripple, silent yet deliberate, reached the shore. The second hiker urged him to return, but he didn’t listen. He knelt at the edge, peering into the depths. For a moment, there was nothing—just his reflection and the glassy surface. Then, as if summoned by his presence, the shadows coalesced into a single, towering figure.

The reflection of his face warped, twisted by unseen hands, and the figure in the water began to rise. Long, spindly fingers broke the surface first, followed by a head with hollow, unblinking eyes.

The hiker screamed, stumbling backward, but the thing in the water didn’t pursue. Instead, it sank slowly, the ripples subsiding as if nothing had happened. The two fled the cabin, leaving everything behind.

The next morning, locals discovered the hikers at the edge of the forest, shaking and incoherent. They were taken to the nearest hospital, where they could only mumble fragments of what they had seen. No one believed their story.

But now, when the villagers pass by the lake, they notice the cabin’s windows faintly glowing at night. And some say that if you dare to listen closely by the water’s edge, you can hear a faint, desperate whisper: “Don’t look into the water.”