[TRANSMISSION 201-A - THE GHOST OF CUTLER LAKE]
CLASSIFICATION: CLOSED
STATUS: AQUATIC ZONE DISTURBANCE
_____________________
Code Name: The Ghost of Culter Lake
Signal Type: Continuous Loop
Status: Aquatic Zone Disturbance
Surveillance Image 301-A
Source:42-75
9:59
Spring started to flourish a little earlier than normal, giving way to the fresh, clear waters of Cutler Lake. Floating through the center were slates of disappearing ice, cold reminders of the harsh weather that enveloped the neighborhood just days earlier. Some were small, no bigger than a backyard patio. Others rivaled makeshift winter ice rinks, which were filled with neighborhood kids just weeks earlier. Despite their size, they warned visitors of the stubborn upstate winter that had settled in well before the typical seasonal shift. Still, the water’s serenity was softening, even to the most rugged budding frontiersman looking to cast a line for an early spring catch.
Two unlikely adventurers set out that night, Jed Roland, nicknamed ‘Rolly’ (not because of his size, they insisted), and Will Standish, better known as Will Stand Alone. That was for obvious reasons, at least to those who grew up with him. They didn’t normally cross paths, but this day was different, and it stemmed from a wager that was made almost an eternity ago from their perspective. For the rest of us, it was just last Halloween.
That night, a handshake and dually-approving nods solidified the deal. It wasn’t for much money. Only a dollar was at stake. The thrill of it all was what was enticing. It was well worth losing a lousy buck and coming into school the next day with more than just a touch of bravado in their swagger.
This friendly wager was to ascertain the validity of a story that haunted the shores of the lake for at least two generations. Their friends called it “The Ghost of Cutler Lake.” Judging by the age and wisdom of some of those who passed it on through the years, one could easily surmise it was accurate. Some, however, grasped onto the fancifulness of it all simply to reap the benefits of scaring the hell out of their younger peers. Whatever anyone’s take on it was, no one was ever bold enough to trek into the waters to see if it was true.
According to legend, the lake and its surrounding countryside were once the sole property of Mr. Romney Cutler. Amongst other post-Civil War ventures, Mr. Cutler made easy money by selling ice to nearly everyone within an 8-mile radius. One early spring morning, while crossing the lake, the ice gave way, and neither he nor his beloved horse, Summit, could escape the frigid waters. The closest neighbor was more than a mile away. Both drowned that night, and by the time the news had spread, they were buried under a fresh new layer of solid ice.
Their bodies were never recovered. But Summit’s allegiance to Mr. Cutler was so ironclad that it was said she would assuredly finish the journey across the lake if she were brought back to life. Therein lies the tale. Legend has it that under a bright moonlit night, after low-lying clouds would disappear, Summit would spring back to life with one warm stare into her sunken eyes. Her purpose, of course, was to finish her journey across the lake, with or without her guiding owner. But the unlucky soul who spotted her eyes became the one who would inevitably take her place in the watery grave.
As ludicrous as it seemed, the boys set out to put the legend to rest or become legends themselves. The only thing they agreed upon was that both of them would look into the horse’s eyes if one of them found its ghostly remains.
**
One checked his homework off his list, found unusual jobs to finish around the house—mopping the spotless bathroom floors, emptying garbage cans littered with nothing more than a couple of tissues and Q-tips—and did everything else possible to avoid his dad’s listless scanning of business receipts on his home office computer. The other, he didn’t have to disguise anything. He prepped an after-school snack, wiping the crumbs off the counter, kicking them underneath the cupboard, and tossing the peanut butter-laden knife into the cluttered sink. A tall glass of apple juice sat on the counter, waiting to be dragged along for the journey. He took one bite out of a thick sandwich, set it down on a hunting magazine, and splashed a trail of juice behind him as he rummaged through hallway closets and abandoned storage bins.
The days were getting longer, and sunset was pushed back another few minutes since they had hatched out their plan. All the details were in place. Less than 50 yards from the road, the base of a tall oak was carved with the letter X. Behind it lay a stony path, mildly protected from the elements by the hundreds of hanging branches overhead. The trail was relatively straight but narrow. Traversing it wouldn’t be a problem, so long as they stuck to the stones. Veering off, however, could cost them more than just a damp sock.
At the end was a makeshift boat launch, complete with strategically placed boulders and a steep drop-off. Unless someone else had sabotaged their plan, a small rowboat would be right there on shore waiting for them. Underneath it were two oars, two sets of fishing boots, and an extra flashlight.
The boys were to head out after an early dinner, just minutes before sunset. They planned on making it to the lake by dusk. The moonlight would help them find their way to the middle, and the oars would double as tools to push the floating ice away. They even had their excuses lined up. Jed would tell his parents that he was going to a friend’s house to work on homework. Will, although he really didn’t need one, would tell his father that he was heading to the nearby gas station to buy snacks and “hang out.”
A bright pair of motion lights lit up behind them, casting long dark shadows onto the damp one-lane road. They could’ve used the flashlight but felt more confident keeping their operation covert. Although clearly marked, they didn’t really need to search for the carved X. By now, the route was embedded in both of their heads, more so than their school locker combinations.
Will “Stand Alone” led the way, sauntering almost naturally into the path. The virgin snow sparkled, lighting up the dead trees, idle rocks, and youthful shrubs. It couldn’t have been more inviting. Nothing fell from the trees, and there was barely any mud to avoid, which was a good sign, seeing that they were covering their tracks. It all blended together to form a crystallized tunnel leading straight to their destination, and the layers of impenetrable gravel paved the way.
They crossed the rocks, not bothering to use the flashlight yet. Dried leaves from the long, windy autumn crunched loudly under their heavy boots, and low-hanging twigs crackled as they broke through them to reach their destination.
Despite the obvious difference in their ability to navigate Mother Nature’s obstructions, their adrenaline kept both of them moving—so much so that Jed began stripping off his ski gear before reaching the launch.
They trudged on. The trail narrowed, and the thick brush made it nearly impossible to see more than 10 feet in front of them. Will continued to lead the way, slowing down to avoid getting a stray branch in the eye or being responsible for one whipping back and getting Jed in the face. It was time for some help.
“I’m slowing down. Time to get the flashlight on.”
Jed’s heart raced through his chest while cold beads of sweat dripped from his forehead. He took a moment to find a dry spot on his shirt to wipe them down. Will tested the strength of the flashlight and then turned to check on Jed. “You ready?”
“Yeah. How much further?”
“It’s just up here. Not long. Stay on the path. It opens up again soon.”
It sounded like a well-rehearsed line by Jed’s measures. Not much was known about Will. He stood alone. Played alone. Hung out by himself. How far down the path was the fishing spot? And would the boat really be there? Jed tried to quell the thought of not knowing and sinking into an elaborate trap. But the lure of seeing a real ghost drew him nearer to the water and even closer to a dashing Will.
Soon, the trail opened up again. The once beautiful array of glistening snow on baby pines gave way to swampy inlets, uprooted ashes, and scattered brush. A canopy of skeletal branches reached for them as they raced towards the water. Jed kept a close eye on Will’s back while swatting at the heavy, snow-soaked twigs. The last of the thick brush snapped as they squeezed through and arrived at the open fishing spot. A rodent or two scurried away, but otherwise, they were as far away from civilization as they had ever been. A sigh of relief whispered through the chilled air.
“That was the easy part,” Will said with a snicker. “The next part’s going to be the tough one. Let’s get our boots on.”
A chipmunk scurried out of harm’s way as they flipped the boat over. Both of the boys jumped back, sharing the same feeling that the bet was off and it was each man for himself. Once they realized what it was, they shared a laugh.
“That scared the shit outta me,” Will said in between chuckles.
“Me too!” Jed searched their surroundings for other unexpected visitors.
“Let’s get moving,” Will directed.
Jed pushed his glasses up and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Two trembling eyes stared motionless into the dull aluminum floor of the rowboat. Thoughts of escape raced through his head but were quickly hijacked by a subtle insistence that bowing out would be far worse than moving on. He followed Will’s lead and hopped into the boat to put his boots on.
Will kicked aside some broken shale, smoothing out a path into the water. Rather than getting into the boat, he brought the boots over to one of the boulders. As he lifted his pant leg up to untie his shoes, Jed noticed the extra protection that Will decided to bring along. It was long, shiny. Appeared to be brand new. Maybe six or seven inches. Why would Will have a knife strapped to his ankle? It was more than his conscience making him nervous. His mother was now in his ear, interrogating him on how he ended up in Cutler Lake with a loner up to no good. But he vowed through deadened silence to forge ahead.
“How long do you think we’ll be out there for?” Jed finally asked.
Will shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.
The voice in his head interrupted, mumbling random thoughts. What-ifs, could I’s. Other utterances.
“Hey,” he finally spoke up.
Will slowly turned away from adjusting his boots. “Yeah?”
“You have a knife. Why would you bring a knife out to see the ghost?”
“Oh, that?” Will focused on tying his boots. “Don’t worry about that. I carry it with me all the time.”
Searching for the right words was far trickier now than it had ever been. Letting Will see his growing trepidation wasn’t an option. He kept one eye on his boot laces and the other on Will.
“You almost ready?” Will asked.
Jed nodded and sloppily finished tying and sealing his boots. The nerves in his stomach reached into every single twist and turn in his body. Planning this was easy. But carrying it out on this cold, clear night with nothing to look at but black water and an endless sky dotted with distant stars was far more treacherous than he had imagined. “It’s not too late to back out.”
Will peered at him, waiting for his next line.
“We won’t have to tell anyone about it. I’ll pay you a dollar and we can just go home. I’ll… I’ll even pay you two or five… or, whatever you want.”
Will hawked up a rich ball of post-nasal snot, swished it around, and spit it onto the boulder. Jed watched it stick to the surface, wondering if it would freeze or if it would still be wet and slimy when they returned to shore… if they returned to shore.
“Look. We’re not going anywhere. Except. For out there in that lake. Right out in the center. Think about it this way.” He paused to let it sink in. “If you win, you’ll get to tell this story to everyone.” His words began dribbling slowly from his mouth. “They’ll be coming out here in fishing vessels to see this.” A half smirk formed on the right side of his lips. Its intentionality did anything but calm Jed’s nerves. “And, if there’s a horse running the streets at the end of the night… and you’re not there to witness it, I’ll take all the credit. Sure. I’ll lose the bet. But who cares at that point?”
Beneath the empty shelter of darkening skies, the two boys stood on the shore of shadowy Cutler Lake. One shivered, the cold air biting at his extremities. The other, unseasonably confident and cool under pressure. The boat, weathered and creaking, sat idly on the matted pebbles and hardened mud. Its peeling paint blended with the murky reflections of the still night.
Jed glanced nervously at the middle of the lake, where a dense fog began curling like a ghostly ripple. Will tightened his grip on the flashlight, his determination cutting through Jed’s unsettled silence.
“Let’s move this thing. I’ll get in. You push me out.” Will stared at Jed as he spoke, his breath disappearing into the chilled air.
Jed nodded. Two heavy hands shoved the small vessel into the inky waves, scraping the bottom across the cold, slippery rocks on shore. The oversized boots made it awkward, but the job was getting done, remarkably easily.
Within seconds, the boat started to float on its own, noticeably rocking when it was Jed’s turn to get in. A cold splash scattered across their faces, desperately trying to warn them of the potential dangers of continuing, but they ignored it. Once the boat stabilized, they each grabbed an oar and started navigating the uncharted layers of Cutler Lake.
The tiny rowboat glimmered across the dark, mirrored surface, while a looming cold front began running through Jed’s gear. The lake’s quaintness and serenity hid the secrets buried in its unknown depths. The surrounding woods, once seen as a protection against the rest of civilization, urging them to carry out their plan, now seemed more like that stranger shielding them from everyone’s view, knowing that they’re falling further into his twisted grasp as they traverse the unsettled stillness of the lake.
The boys stopped rowing. A thin veil of mist, expelled from their unchecked adrenaline, swirled faintly before disappearing into the night. Occasional rustles and distant, unidentifiable sounds echoed across the eerie silence, amplified by the vast emptiness. The air was damp and heavy. Faint scents of decaying leaves and stagnant water mixed into it as if they were a demon’s final ingredients in a recipe for disaster. Scattered clouds began rolling in as an unspoken tension began docking in a harbor forgotten by time, filled with troves of buried secrets.
The boat floated magnetically towards the middle. Passing chunks of ice were pushed aside as they neared their destination. This journey had shifted into a test of will, a thickening silence hovering from above, eerily making its way into the vessel.
“Get the oar in the water. Quick!” Will shouted as he hung over the edge, face distorted from what Cutler Lake was trying to reveal.
“I’m not rowing,” Jed replied.
“No! I don’t want you to row! Slow us down!” Will reached for his knife. “I don’t believe…”
Jed stood up, spreading his heavy legs across the width of the boat, straddling Will’s oar. Panic overtook him. That once-friendly wager and daring venture was now a quest for survival. Two frightened eyes trembled under the shadowy expanse. The heavy oar slashed through the now frigid air, making a swift whoosh heard loudly over Will’s clamoring. The blow came swiftly and without warning, a hollow crack splitting the air as the wood struck the back of Will’s head, sending him unconsciously into the freezing depths of Cutler Lake.
**
An elderly man cautiously made his way across the ice. Lake Road and the smaller, swampier inlets of the watery expanse no longer existed. Both were drowned out by the rising waters. His rickety carriage was put together with novice skill and resourceful frugality. Rusted screws kept the floorboards from slipping down into the dusty snow, but he moved on despite the painfully crystallized wind that blew the wool scarf off his face.
“That-a boy. Good work, Lightning.”
Other than having bright white fur, his horse was anything but lightning. She walked rather gingerly and behaved more like a long-time canine companion than a workhorse. Her pace was more indicative of her grasp of routine rather than prudence.
There wasn’t a creak, a shift, or anything else that would compel her to speed up. If anything, the change of pace would assuredly spin the wagon’s wheels and lead to a short delay. Both the old man and his horse were used to the cold weather and the thick, slippery ice.
“Easy girl. That’s it.” The old man detached the carriage and led Lightning to her barn. Just as he began to limp back to his wagon, the buzzing of an early-model skypod broke through the silent darkness. The old man watched it hover for a minute before three bright lights appeared on its undercarriage. He took a narrow cylindrical tube out of his pouch and pulled the trigger.
A dark blue flash was followed by a series of neon green orbs flying over the lake. The skypod responded, flashing its lights and slowly making its way down onto the old man’s property, growing more silent as it approached the grass.
The pilot lifted the top of his skypod and climbed out. His broad athletic frame and shiny white smile were just what the old man had expected from a traveling realtor. Still, he’d listen to another pitch, and maybe this one would be lucrative enough to consider.
“I see you made it without any problem. Little early, in fact,” the old man said as he extended his right hand to greet the visitor.
“I most certainly did. Not too much traffic at this hour,” the realtor replied. “I’m just glad that you made it. Ever worry of that ice there giving way?”
“I don’t think about it much. Good ole’ Lightning guides me pretty well. She has another sense, beyond anything that you or I could comprehend. Only time anything ever spooks her out is when the ice starts to thin on the warmer nights,” the old man explained.
“You know, I can get you one of these babies at cost. I know a guy who runs a plant out in Ohio. Beats the hell out of risking your life driving that old wagon around. It’s economically efficient and environmentally friendly too,” the realtor said.
“Thank you, Mr. Sculley, but I’m not sure if it gets any more economically or environmentally friendly than this wagon and my trusted friend, Lightning,” the old man replied. “It is Scully, isn’t it?”
The realtor grinned as soon as the old man finished. “You can call me that, sir.”
Puzzled by that response, the old man stopped in his tracks.
“And you make a good point. Well, how ‘bout a warm fire and cold drink? We can start talking real estate. That’s what I came for, after all.”
“Yes. Let’s go inside. Shall we?” the old man responded.
“Respecting all of my potential clients, after you, sir.” The realtor motioned his hand to allow the old man to lead the way to the rear entrance of his 1890s mansion. He reiterated his plans for the vacated land surrounding Cutler Lake. “Have I got a deal for you, sir. The whole property—trees, shrubs, dirt trails, all of it—it all stays. Nothing will be ripped down at all. 30x30 foot cottages. That’s it. One or two stories high, keeping under the canopy of these old pines and oaks, and each one equipped with a skypod station on its roof.”
“It has been a while since I’ve listened to a pitch from a traveling realtor, but you’ve caught my attention, Mr. Scully,” the old man said as he slowly walked across his backyard.
“Well, that’s because you’ve caught my attention. The history of this property is amazing. The old photos you sent, with people actually boating and fishing and just relaxing in the sun—they’re beautiful! There’s a market for that stuff again. I’m telling you. And the dirt trails; the wildlife that lurks around every corner on summer nights. And the one about the ghost? That one fascinates me!” The realtor chuckled as he took in the beauty of the surrounding woods and frozen plains of water.
The old man stopped again, looked straight forward for a moment, and turned around to address his guest. “The one… about… the ghost, Mr. Scully?”
“Yeah. It was one of the first things you told me when I contacted you about the land. The Ghost of Cutler Lake,” the realtor replied.
“I told you about that?” the old man asked.
Mr. Scully stopped right behind the old man and chuckled. “Of course you did. The two boys. Out on the lake. About 60 or 70 years ago. Screwing around with some boat they had. One of them smacks the other with an oar and he drowns.
You told me that on clear, moonlit nights, if you go out to the exact spot where that kid died, that you can see his eyes peering out of the water and back at ya. Ha! It’s enough to scare me into grabbing a boat and taking it out for some cheap thrills… once the weather breaks, of course.”
The old man turned back towards his house and stared into the darkness, a chill colder than the lake’s icy splash crawling up his spine. “The Ghost of Cutler Lake… Yes, I remember that one. It’s taken on many forms over the years. First, a horse. Then… a boy. Maybe more. Hard to say what the lake remembers… or chooses to show. You left out the most important part of the story, Mr. Scully. As I remember it, one year, an old man was found wandering near the lake and through the surrounding properties, mumbling to himself and seemingly out of sorts.
He was looking for his horse and couldn’t come to grips with anything around him: the cars, telephone lines, bright lights. He was taken to the psychiatric center but later released. For everything else seemed normal. They chalked it up to dementia but couldn’t hold him there. He left but was never seen again. Rumor has it that someone had gone out to the lake and found the eyes of Mr. Cutler.”
Mr. Scully stared out into the desolate countryside. “Boy, if this lake could talk… I bet those kids could tell quite a story.”
The old man continued to walk towards his lakeside mansion. “If the lake could talk, I’d invite it over for dinner, Mr. Scully.”
Mr. Scully chuckled and shook off a sudden cold shiver that ran up his spine. It engulfed his entire upper body before exiting through the ends of the few scattered hairs on his head.
“What would you ask it?” Mr. Scully asked.
“I think I’d be more interested in speaking again with the boy who drowned in the boating accident, Mr. Scully. In fact, I’d have him over for dinner and perhaps show him how much the grounds have changed over the years,” the old man replied.
“I think you’d make the perfect tour guide, sir,” Mr. Scully added. He stopped walking and peered into the back of the old man’s head. “Would you be scared… if he still had that knife strapped to his fishing boots?”
Mr. Scully paused. Now he was the one watching another man drown. “You wouldn’t have to look very far.”
The old man chuckled quietly, as if he hadn’t quite heard him. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Let’s make a bet,” Mr. Scully said, stepping closer. “I’ve got a dollar that says we can still find those horse’s eyes—out in the middle of the lake.”
The old man stopped, staring into the darkness. “Well,” he said with a hollow chuckle, “I don’t have a boat.”
“Sure you do,” Mr. Scully replied. “I saw it in the pictures you sent… Jed.”
The old man swallowed hard.
“And don’t worry about oars.” Will unclipped a telescoping oar from his belt and flicked it open. A slow, sinister smile stretched across his face. “I brought my own.”
**
People discover new things when they take a few steps, or row a few big strokes, out of their comfort zones. Often, they discover secrets that they never would have guessed existed. Sometimes, those secrets are better off being left a secret, buried under a thick or fragile layer of ice in the middle of a remote country lake.
But when such secrets are hidden behind the façade of a timid adolescent boy or seemingly friendly traveling entrepreneur, we instinctively let our guards down. And when our guards are down, we are vulnerable enough to become not only victims of hidden wrath, but its instruments.
We need to tread cautiously when laying a critical eye on the past. For it is easy to focus our energies on vengeance, even when a friendly stranger suggests that they’d like to focus on rebuilding what “used to be,” complete with a smile, a few fireside stories, and a lucrative offer.
I am willing to wager $1 that if anyone in the future dares to take a boat out on Cutler Lake on a clear moonlit night to search for and subsequently reveal yet another secret, vengeance will prevail. It’ll rear its ugly head once again, and a new legend—and perhaps a new Ghost of Cutler Lake—will haunt whoever, or whatever, awakens it.
End Transmission