People of the Lake

by Nick Scorza

  I wondered if Zoe and I would still look so alike if she were alive. They say twins look less and less identical as they grow. Life makes its mark on everyone. Back then, we’d been total mirror images: the same wavy, espresso-colored hair and matching eyes from our mother, the same pale Anglo-Irish skin from our father. Maybe by now she’d have grown half an inch taller than me, or dyed her hair pink for the hell of it. Maybe I’d be confident enough to do something like that, if losing her hadn’t messed me up.

  Neither of my parents ever talked about her. They never even mentioned her name. I had started my life with a perfect double, another me who shared everything I was, all up until that horrible day I would never forget, eight summers ago. It was like scissors cutting my life in half: Zoe and post-Zoe. Now I mostly knew her by the ache of her absence, like they say amputees felt the pain of their missing limbs, and tried to keep her with me in my thoughts, even though I knew it was just a pale reflection.

  Sometimes I saw her in my dreams, just lying there still, and in those dreams I couldn’t tell which of us was dead and which one was alive.

  I couldn’t sleep. My head was full of bad memories, and I couldn’t relax in this strange bedroom. Even sleeping without her was hard, all these years later. The rhythm was off. The world was too silent.

  Back then, the nights had belonged to the two of us, and we would stay up late whispering, daring each other not to laugh. We spoke in our secret language, and Zoe made up stories of the world beyond the mirror and our adventures there, dancing with the wood sprites or running from the wicked king, fooling everyone into thinking we were one girl who could be in two places at once.

  She was always the more creative one, the bolder one, waking me at midnight, pulling me along by the hand. Even though we were the same in almost every way, I sometimes felt so gray and ordinary beside her. Sometimes I had even hated her for it. Now, without her, it felt like the whole world was gray. Now there was just me, alone and unable to sleep.

  Quietly, I slipped out into the living room. My father was gently snoring on the couch with the TV still on. I shouldn’t have yelled at him, but I wished just once he’d fight back instead of pretending to be so zen about everything. Trying not to disturb him, I shut off the TV and tiptoed out the sliding door to the back porch.

  There were still a few ghostly firefly lights in the yard, and a cloud of moths battering themselves against the porch light. Further out, in the woods behind the house, I could hear what must have been an army of crickets filling the night with a cacophony of chirps.

  I sat in one of the deck chairs and let the cool breeze and the sound of the crickets wash over me. I was far from home, I had no idea what would happen next, and I wouldn’t let bad memories steal that from me. Up above, the night sky was full of more stars than I’d ever seen. I could make out Ursa Major, and a few others I knew must have been something, though I couldn’t guess what. Instead I made up my own constellations—Damien the Duck, star-sign for procrastinators, highly compatible with Stella the Wombat, who represented sarcasm.

  I wondered which one of the real constellations was Gemini. I was glad I didn’t know.

  Suddenly, the crickets were quiet. Everything in the forest was still but the breeze. Time seemed to hang there for a tense moment, as if we were all hushed, waiting for something bad to happen, or for it to go away.

  Then there was a rustle deeper in the woods, and the sound of twigs snapping. Something big was moving, getting closer. I felt a cold wave of animal panic, species memory telling me to run like hell. I didn’t wait to see what it was. I ran back inside and bolted the door, pulling the curtain shut behind me.

  Hours later, too exhausted for fear, I finally fell asleep.

  II.

  The next morning, I forgot where I was, and for a second I lay in bed transfixed by the strange sound of birdsong and the pale, clean light of a country morning, before my brain kicked in and I remembered why I was here. Sun and birdsong seemed a long way from whatever I heard moving around in the forest last night. I took a cautious peek out the window. The woods still looked dark and eerie in the morning fog, like under those dense branches the night had never really ended. I probably wouldn’t be taking any morning walks through the forest, never mind a midnight ramble.

  Out in the kitchen, my father had made coffee already—instant, to my poorly concealed dismay. I’d have to do something about that if I was going to last the summer. At least the cupboard was well-stocked with cereal. Good to see he remembered how much I hated hot breakfast.

  Dad gave me a little wave when he saw me. I waited for him to say something about the fight last night. I’d probably have to wait all day—silence never drove him crazy like it did me and Mom.

  “Dad, I’m sorry for yelling at you like that.”

  “It’s okay, honey. I’m sorry, too.”

  I almost asked him just what he was sorry for, but that would start things up all over again. I rarely saw my dad angry, but that didn’t mean I wanted to. I hoped my visit would make us both feel better, not worse. I changed the subject.

  “Dad, I couldn’t sleep last night, so I went out back to look at the stars. I think I heard something big moving in the woods.”

  My father’s lips pursed in a nervous grimace. It took him a moment to answer.

  “Probably a deer,” he said, “or maybe a coyote. Those things are spreading all over the country. I heard they even make it into Manhattan sometimes.”

  I smiled, imagining neurotic urban coyotes hanging out in Central Park, complaining about all the tourists even though they’d just moved to the city. It seemed miles away from whatever had filled me with prey-animal fear last night.

  “Clara, what you heard was probably harmless, but I want you to do me a favor and not wander in the woods around here. It can be dangerous.”

  “Dangerous how?”

  “It stays dark in there, and it’s easy to get lost. It’s not a state park. There are no paths, at least not reliable ones. Plus, you know, there are lyme ticks and black widow spiders and things like that.”

  We’re going, I imagined Zoe whispering, he doesn’t have to know. After what I’d seen last night, I was in no hurry to listen to her.

  I nodded.

  “Now I’m sorry to say I have to work today, sweetheart.” My dad did look genuinely sorry, though I bet he was glad I wouldn’t be asking him any more questions. “Otherwise I’d take you into town. When this project is done in a day or two, though, we’ll go hiking or to some of the vineyards a few towns over—they’re really nice. For today, you can borrow the car if you get bored. Downtown is just a few minutes’ drive.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me. I invited myself, remember?”

  He didn’t know what to say to that; he just smiled, a helpless look in his eyes. He was so eager to make me happy and so afraid of failing I could punch him in the face. Anything to make him be normal, and maybe deal with everything he was going through with the divorce. Instead, I looked away, and he went back to his computer.

  The living room walls were lined with bookcases—shelves and shelves of them Dad had never had room for in the city. I looked through some of the titles, hoping to find something good to read. There weren’t many novels. Most of it was history from the area—the Iroquois Confederacy and the French and Indian War and American Revolution and all that stuff. There were a few volumes of local folk tales and ghost stories I’d probably come back and read later.

  “Oh, that stuff’s for a pet project,” my dad said.

  “Are you gonna write a book or something?”

  “Nothing big, just a history of the town.”

  It was a strange moment, realizing how little I knew my own father. He never brought up this town when I was little, and if Zoe or I asked about it, he’d quickly change the subject. I had no idea he cared about history, or would ever try to write about it. Not only that, but some of his research was pretty odd—one cheaply-bound book claimed to prese
nt hard evidence that fairies were really aliens that had been living side-by-side with humans since the dawn of time. I flipped through some of the others. There were a few books on something called ley lines, and a multi-volume history of mediums and spiritualism in New York State. I quickly scanned the shelf for a tinfoil hat. My father was starting to worry me.

  “Is this for real?” I said.

  “Yeah, I mean no, not literally. I’m more interested in why people believe in things like that,” he said, “especially around here.”

  I waited for him to tell me more, but he quickly turned back to his computer. When I realized that was his way of ending the conversation, I announced I was going into town, and he handed me the car keys.

  I’m glad he didn’t stop to think about how rarely I drove. I’d been behind the wheel maybe twice since getting my license. In the seven years since we moved to Queens, I’d become a city girl—half my friends didn’t even bother with licenses. I adjusted the seats and the mirrors and did all the things you were supposed to—hands at ten and two and all that—but I still drifted in the lane, and went much, much slower than necessary. If the local police saw me, they’d probably think I was stoned. I could see the headline now—“City Girl Busted on Country Road. Is it Reefer Madness?”

  Luckily, Dad was right. It didn’t take me more than a few tense minutes to make it to the town center. I was glad there was plenty of street parking; I’d barely passed that part of the road test.

  The first thing I did was walk down to the lake. The far side was still veiled in morning fog, and a chill wind made me wish I’d brought a cardigan. The breeze made the leaves rustle in the trees, but it never stirred the surface of the water. It was a perfect mirror. When I stared down, I saw my face staring back up, clear as glass.

  I walked up and down the little waterfront promenade, which was paved with cobblestone and studded with wrought-iron lamp posts. I couldn’t believe Redmarch Lake wasn’t on one of those online travel lists—top 15 Unknown New York Weekend Trips. Most of the rich kids at school had summer houses in Westchester or Long Island, in quaint little towns on the Hudson or the Sound (I was guessing—I’d never been invited). I always pictured them looking just like this. It was kind of far from the city, but this town was so pretty I couldn’t imagine why it didn’t have summer tourists. Even the weirdness of the lake was creepy in a picturesque way.

  I looked around until I found a loose stone. Something about the stillness of the surface of the lake was really bothering me. I held the stone in my hand, and held my hand out over that smooth surface. It felt wrong, like talking in church, but then I thought, This is crazy, it’s just a lake.

  I let the stone drop.

  It vanished with a little splash. There was a tiny ripple, then everything was still again.

  I felt absurdly like I’d just thrown a rock through a window, and I was going to regret it. I backed away from the lake.

  As I hurried up the hill toward the town square, I gave it one last look—just to make sure nothing had moved. Maybe it was stupid, but I felt uneasy turning my back to the lake. The fog had rolled back a bit on the far side, and I could see the little rocky island, crowned with one broken-tooth pillar jutting into the sky.

  Back in the town square, I took a closer look at the statue in the center. It was cast in dark bronze, and at first, it looked just like every other horse and rider statue, but the man’s face was odd. He was smiling or grimacing in a really strange way. Even in bronze, the eyes were wide and piercing. It almost looked like the rider was laughing as he prepared to trample you with his horse. The plaque below read Capt. Broderick Redmarch, Founder. Beneath the name was a strange little symbol made of sinuous lines like a nest of snakes. I originally thought it was some kind of graffiti, but it was cast in bronze just like the name.

  Turning away from the creepy statue, I noticed some of the shops and the café had opened. I walked into a vintage clothing store called New Again, curious to see what kinds of things they had.

  “I think you want the café,” a young woman, visibly pregnant, said as soon as I walked in. She squinted at me, as if trying to make sure I was really there. I noticed her hand drift down to something behind the counter. Did she think I was going to rob her?

  “I just wanted to look around.”

  “I don’t think we’ll have anything you’d like.”

  Her disgust was evident in the curl of her lip, but her eyes almost looked frightened. Now that she could see I was real she was looking at me like I was a weird bug. Who the hell did she think she was? I was this close to letting the Queens out and casting all sorts of aspersions on the paternity of her unborn child.

  I took a deep breath. I had promised to leave the snark at home. I didn’t need to make enemies on my first day in town, no matter how bad they were asking for it. Instead, I just gave her a drop dead look and walked out.

  I told myself it wasn’t my fault. The town must have a shoplifting problem—the sort of thing that happens when kids my age don’t have enough to do. Still, part of me kept thinking that she knew me—or knew of me—and didn’t like me. Clara Morris, terror of Redmarch Lake. Public enemy numero uno. I laughed to myself, glad the street was still empty.

  Let’s put spiders in her clothes, I imagined Zoe whispering. Always looking for a way to cheer me up.

  The café was called Clyde’s Coffee Cup. The handmade sign featured a cartoon cat licking his lips over a huge caffe latte. When I walked in, I saw that Clyde was real—an old, jowly longhaired cat that looked decidedly less happy than the sign out front. He gave me a sour stare when the chimes on the door rang, then went back to his pillow by the window. Apparently he was the hands-off sort of manager.

  The guy behind the counter was my age, wiry and hatchet-faced but still kind of cute. His eyes widened when he saw me, like I’d just walked into his living room instead of the place he worked.

  “W-what’s your name?”

  “Clara.”

  A minute later, he remembered he was on the job, and he looked at the floor while he asked me what I wanted. I ordered a cappuccino. My friend Rayna once said I was the only person our age who liked real coffee, not the chocolate and whipped cream stuff everyone else drank. I’d struck my best movie star pose and said, “That’s because it’s like me—hot and bitter.” At the time, I was sorry Rayna was the only one around to hear that, but now I was kind of glad.

  “I’m Neil,” the boy said when he handed me my coffee. It was too much foam, not enough espresso, and a little burnt, but otherwise not bad. “Have I seen you somewhere before?”

  I raised an eyebrow at the question. He clearly thought I looked familiar, the way he was staring at me.

  “I don’t think so, this is my first time here. I’m just visiting my father for the summer.”

  “Your father lives here?”

  He was taken totally off guard, like before I said this he’d thought I was someone else entirely. He actually seemed to relax a bit.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Tom Morris. He grew up here too.”

  “No way. You’re Tom’s daughter? He used to come in here sometimes.”

  Evidently he didn’t any more, which was too bad. I had to get dad out of the house somehow. It wasn’t healthy for him to spend so much time at home alone.

  The café was actually fairly pleasant. The walls were painted a pastel yellow, and there was a square of watery sunbeam slowly migrating across the floor from a skylight in the middle of the ceiling. One of the walls was covered with literary quotations in all different sorts of fonts—a coffee shop cliché, but I was prepared to let it slide. I could see myself becoming a regular here, if Neil would stop staring at me. He went through the motions of cleaning the espresso machine and brewing a new pot of decaf, but every so often I’d feel his eyes on me and look up to see him quickly turn away.

  What was his deal? I was mostly happy with the way I looked, but I wasn’t any kind of femme fatale. Every so often, I’d hear
rumors at school that so-and-so thought I was cute, but that was always the word they used: cute, not hot. Maybe things were different in a little town like this, or maybe it was something else entirely.

  Neil didn’t seem like a creeper—more confused than anything else, looking at me like I was making him question his own sanity. Not exactly the effect I was going for when meeting new people.

  “Everything okay over there?” I said.

  “Yeah. Sorry, this place gets too quiet sometimes. The whole town does. And we don’t get many new people.”

  I guess that was an invitation, because a minute later he came over and sat across from me.

  “Sorry, I hope I’m not bothering you, it’s just . . . people aren’t very friendly here if they don’t know you. It’s like they can’t handle a new face. It drives me crazy. Ranting at you about it isn’t much better, I know.”

  Neil fidgeted when he talked, sometimes looking over at the door. I couldn’t tell if he was nervous or just enthusiastic. In any case, there was something endearingly real in his awkwardness—something that stood out in this town, where so far nothing else quite felt real.

  “Oh no, I already know what you mean,” I said. “The lady at that New Again place basically threw me out of her store as soon as I walked in.”

  Neil frowned.

  “That’s exactly what I mean. Don’t take it personally. They just don’t know how to deal with new people. I hope they don’t drive you off.”

  Well, at least there was one nice person in this town, even if he was a little odd.

  “Hey Neil, could I ask you something? Why are there no summer tourists here, or rental houses on the lake, that sort of thing? Someone could probably make a killing out here; this town is really pretty.”

  He gave me a look that was so utterly befuddled I might as well have asked why more aliens didn’t visit from outer space. Then again, maybe aliens were the sort of tourists they did get.

  “I guess because of the Redmarch family. You’ve seen the mansion on the other side of the lake? They own the bank and the quarry, and a lot of the lakefront land, and I think they like it better without tourists.”