The Dreamer of Thalenmere

Where sleep remembers what waking forgets

The first time Mara dreamt of the lake, a shiver of dread trickled down her spine. Though night embraced both her bed and mind, it was the lake’s grip that made her heart pause. The moonlight reflected clearly on the still water, silver and cold, yet something about its flawless surface unsettled her. The air in the dream carried a crisp scent of pine and frost. She heard gentle chimes beneath the unbroken surface, whispering of secrets she could not touch.

When she woke, her hair was damp with mist, and her heart thudded, filling her with a strange tension, as if fear had followed her into daylight.

At first, she told herself it was nothing, though unease crept beneath her skin. Thalenmere had always been strange; the locals said the water remembered people, that if you stared long enough at your reflection, it began to blink back. Mara had laughed at the stories when she moved into the old keeper’s cottage that faced the shore. But laughter sounded different now. Thin. Unsure. A knot lived in her stomach.

She began to dream of it every night. Each time, new details appeared: reeds whispering her name, distant lights moving under the surface, shapes with fingers stretching up toward the air. The same chime echoed deep in her bones.

When she asked the villagers, they only shook their heads. “No one’s lived by the mere since the keeper vanished,” said an old woman at the inn. “Not since the water took him.”

“The water?” Mara repeated.

The woman nodded grimly. “He dreamt of it, too.”

Mara started writing the dreams down. She kept a notebook by her bed, filling it with sketches of the lake as she saw it — or thought she saw it — in sleep. Some mornings, she’d find pages already filled in handwriting she didn’t recognise: loops of words she hadn’t written, but that seemed eerily familiar.

Do not wake while the water listens.

The surface is only a veil.

You are remembering the wrong world.

She stopped reading them aloud after the fourth night, when her own voice echoed back from the lake outside. The sound chilled her, tightening her chest with dread.

By the seventh dream, Mara could never be sure how or when sleep began. Sometimes she watched her own hands set down the pen, and the next moment she stood inside the dream.

This time she stood within the water, her bare feet pressing into sand that glowed faint blue beneath the surface. The moon seemed close overhead. Around her, shadowy figures floated upright in the depths, still and thoughtful. Their eyes were open, their faces calm.

She tried to call out, but her voice came as bubbles. The sound of it — even muffled — felt right somehow, like remembering a language she used to know. A shadow moved among the others, taller, broader-shouldered. When it turned toward her, she recognised him from the photograph still hanging in the cottage hallway — the former keeper of Thalenmere.

He smiled. “You shouldn’t have come so soon.”

Mara jolted awake.

The room was dark. Outside, the wind moaned across the reeds. But her feet were wet, leaving faint prints across the floor. Panic prickled at her skin, her breath shallow as she stared at the evidence.

The next day, she walked all around the lake, looking for anything concrete — hidden springs, thin streams, remnants of an old mill. She found nothing. The water reflected everything directly: trees, clouds, her own slim frame at the shore.

That night, she promised herself she wouldn’t dream. She drank coffee, kept the lamps burning, and tried to write letters to people she hadn’t seen in years. But at some uncertain point—she never knew exactly when—her eyelids drooped, her head nodded, and her pen slipped from her hand. She was at the lake again.

This time, the sky above it was the colour of bruised glass. The figures beneath the surface looked closer. Clearer. She realised she recognised more of them — faces from the village, the woman from the inn, the post-rider who had waved to her that morning. Their expressions were calm. Waiting.

A voice came from behind her.

“You see it properly now.”

She turned. The keeper stood a few paces away, lantern in hand. The light made the water around his boots shimmer with threads of silver. He looked alive enough, though the lantern cast no shadow.

“Am I dreaming?” Mara asked.

He studied her for a long time before answering. “Yes. And no.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It’s the only one there is.” He stepped closer. “The lake shows what lies between. Some call it dreaming. Some call it remembering. Once you see it, it doesn’t let go.”

“Then how do I wake?”

He smiled sadly. “Perhaps you already have.”

Morning came—sunlight across the window, the kettle’s gentle hum. For a few blessed moments, everything seemed ordinary again. She laughed at herself, shaky but relieved. Relief faded, though, when she spotted the footprints: wet trails led from the doorway directly to her bed. It was only then that she wondered: had she truly awakened? Or was she still dreaming, the lake just behind her eyes?

She stared at them for a long time, heart hammering. Then she noticed something else. On her desk lay the notebook — open to a page she didn’t remember writing. The words there read: Stay until the chime stops. Do not fear the reflection. Her fingers trembled as she touched the page, dread curling inside her.

Her hand trembled as she turned to the mirror above the fireplace. Her reflection blinked — once, twice — but she hadn’t.

The days blurred after that. She was certain she’d gone into town, spoken to people, and eaten dinner by the hearth. Then a blink, and she was back at the lake’s edge with no memory of how she’d gotten there. The two versions of her life began to overlap like transparent film. She would hear the sound of water while walking through the kitchen, the smell of smoke weaving through her dreams.

Always, the chime.

Every evening, it started faintly, swelling stronger by midnight. Blocking her ears brought no relief; the sound arose from inside her skull, deep and resonant, beating like a borrowed heart.

One evening, she found herself standing ankle-deep in the lake again — though she couldn’t remember walking there. The moonlight trembled on the surface. Behind her, someone whispered.

“Who’s there?” she called, turning sharply.

No one. Only ripples. But the voice came again, closer now.

“You are.”

The water around her brightened as a ring of white light formed, casting shadows that swam within it. The icy sting around her ankles intensified, making her shiver with fear, cementing her in place as shapes of arms stretched upward, faces rising from below to peer through the surface.

Mara wanted to flee, yet her body didn’t move. The chime pulsed louder. Cold dread flooded her limbs as the figures began to whisper her name.

“Mara… come home…”

Her breath caught. “Home?”

“You’ve been dreaming too long,” said the keeper’s voice. “Wake now.”

She woke gasping, tangled in her sheets, drenched in sweat. Morning light poured through the window. Everything looked normal — the kettle, the notebook, the chair she’d left by the fire. She almost laughed with relief, tears stinging her eyes.

Then she noticed the mirror again. Her reflection wasn’t laughing. It stood perfectly still, eyes unblinking. The kettle’s whistle rose, shrill, and the sound seemed to warp into the chime.

“Mara…” said her reflection.

She backed away. “No.”

The mirror rippled like water. The reflection reached through.

The world turned over.

When she opened her eyes, she was lying on the lakebed, staring upward through a film of silver. Above her, the moon drifted like a pale coin. She tried to move, but the water was thick as honey. All around her, the other figures swayed gently, their faces peaceful. She recognised herself among them — or a version of herself, standing at the water’s edge, lantern in hand.

She raised her own hand, and the reflection did the same.

For a heartbeat, both images merged—her dreaming self below, her waking self above—leaving her unable to distinguish between them.

Then the surface broke. The other Mara turned and walked away, leaving ripples that faded into stillness.

Weeks later, villagers claimed they saw light moving under the lake at night — a faint glow, like a lantern carried far beneath the surface. Some swore they heard a woman’s voice echoing through the mist, calling her own name. But when they went to look, the cottage was empty. Only the notebook remained on the desk, open to a final line written in neat, steady script:

If this is the dream, let me stay until I wake.

No one ever knew whether she had drowned or walked into the water and disappeared.

On quiet nights, when the moon touched Thalenmere just right, the lake still hummed softly — the sound of something breathing between two worlds.

And if you listen long enough, you might hear her voice asking the same question she never answered:

Am I dreaming… or remembering?