Dark Waters Now

He didn't jump. He simply leaned forward until the center of gravity gave way.

"You stayed top-side too long, Elias," the boy’s voice didn't come from his mouth; it echoed up from the floor of the lake, vibrating through the wood of the boat. "The air is thin. The sun burns. Down here, the water remembers everything." Dark Waters

The fog didn't just sit on Blackwood Lake; it breathed. It was a thick, cold lungful of silver that swallowed the hemlocks and turned the water into a sheet of polished obsidian. He didn't jump

Fifty years ago, his brother, Thomas, had fallen into these waters. They’d been skipping stones when Thomas slipped. Elias remembered the splash—a heavy, final sound—and then... nothing. No thrashing. No bubbles. Just the lake smoothing itself over like a closing wound. The divers never found a body. They said the lake was bottomless in the center, fed by subterranean rivers that could pull a man down to the roots of the world. "The air is thin

Elias leaned over the gunwale, his heart hammering. "Thomas?" he whispered. The humming stopped.