The Dead Girls

Securing the cooler, his rod, and the tackle box, he picks up the oar handles and begins to row.  The blades slip in and out of the water, propelling him forward, squeaking in their hinges.  The dark forest crawls along the shore, and he can see the shiny reflection of his jeep back in the trees.

Then the lake starts to tremble, just like he knew it would.  He knew he hadn’t imagined the girls.  They were out there somewhere, biding their time.  Waiting for him.

They weren’t going to let him off that easy.

Because once you see a legend you instantly became a part of it.  You never get to go and tell your friends.  Not if you really see it.  Not if you really get a glimpse into the unknown.

He paddles faster but it’s useless.  The oars pass through air, not even coming close to the surface of the lake.  There’s no resistance whatsoever.  He’s just winding back and forth, going nowhere, the metal hinges squealing and scratching.

The boat begins to spin.  Light erupts from underneath, highlighting the black water.  He realizes he’s not even on the lake anymore, and stops paddling.  Round and round he goes.  The oars are wrenched from their holes, bent, torn out, cast aside.





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