Still Water

               Rachel Venn hated lakes. Not oceans. Not rivers. Not swimming pools. Lakes. People always thought the distinction was strange. Rachel did not. An ocean was honest. It announced itself with crashing waves and salt and currents powerful enough to drag a person away. Rivers moved. Pools had concrete bottoms and chlorine and lights. A lake just sat there.

               Quiet.

               Dark.

               Waiting.

               Rachel had been nine years old the first time something touched her beneath the water. Thirty-four years later, she could still feel it.

               “You’re staring at it again.”

               Rachel looked away from the window. Her older sister, Danielle, stood behind her holding two glasses of wine. “I’m looking outside.”

               “You’re looking at the lake.”

               “The lake is outside.”

               Danielle handed her a glass. “Still scared?”

               Rachel took it. “Yes.” At least she had stopped lying about it. The cabin stood on the shore of Lake Vermilion in northern Minnesota, surrounded by pine, birch, and enough wilderness to make Rachel feel as though civilization had been misplaced. Danielle had rented it for four days.

               Sisters’ weekend.

               That was how she had sold it. Rachel had imagined wine, books, food, maybe some hiking. Danielle had neglected to emphasize that the beautiful rental cabin was approximately 40 feet from a fucking lake. “You’re 43,” Danielle said.

               “I’m aware.”

               “You live in Minnesota.”

               “Also aware.”

               “There are lakes everywhere.”

               “And somehow I’ve managed not to get into one for 34 years.”

               Danielle laughed. Rachel did not. Her sister’s smile faded. “I’m sorry.”

               “It’s fine.”

               “No, I know you really hate them.”

               “Hate isn’t the word.” Rachel looked through the window again. The lake reflected the evening sky so perfectly that it almost seemed solid. Almost. “I’m afraid of them.”

               Their parents had owned a small cabin near Brainerd when Rachel and Danielle were children. Rachel remembered almost nothing about the cabin itself. She remembered the lake.

               July 18, 1992.

               She remembered the date because her mother had written it inside the family photo album. Rachel had been swimming with Danielle and their cousin Mark. The water was warm near the surface and cold around her feet. She was perhaps 20 yards from shore when something touched her ankle. Rachel kicked. Whatever it was disappeared. She assumed it had been a fish. Then it touched her again. Higher. Around her calf. Not a brush.

               A grip.

               Rachel screamed. Danielle and Mark laughed because children laughed when other children became frightened. Rachel kicked harder. Something wrapped around both legs. She went under. Her eyes opened beneath the water. Green. Brown. Sunlight above. Darkness below. Something pale moved underneath her. Not a fish. Too large. Rachel felt pressure around her waist. Then she was descending. She remembered trying to scream underwater. She remembered the lake entering her mouth. Then something strange happened. Whatever held her stopped.

               Rachel hung beneath the surface. The pressure around her waist loosened. Something touched her face. Not aggressively. Almost gently. It traced her cheek. Then her lips. Then the center of her forehead. Rachel saw shapes moving below her. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. Long pale strands extending through the darkness. They were connected. That was the detail nobody believed. All of them were connected.

               Rachel kicked upward. This time, whatever had her let go. She surfaced screaming. Her father dragged her onto the dock. Rachel told everyone something had pulled her under. Her father said weeds had tangled around her legs. Rachel insisted the weeds had grabbed her. Her mother said she was frightened. Rachel said there had been something underneath them. Her cousin called it the lake monster. Everyone laughed. For the rest of that summer, Rachel refused to enter the water. She never entered a lake again.

               Saturday morning was beautiful. That annoyed her. Rachel would have preferred fog. Maybe thunderstorms. Something that made the lake look dangerous. Instead, sunlight glittered across the water while loons called somewhere in the distance. Danielle carried coffee onto the dock. Rachel stayed on shore.

               “Come sit.”

               “No.”

               “I’m not asking you to swim.”

               “I know.”

               “It’s a dock.”

               “Floating over a lake.”

               Danielle rolled her eyes. Rachel hated that. “You know what? Fuck you.” Danielle stopped. “I’m serious. You asked if I was still afraid. I told you I was. You don’t get to decide I’m ridiculous because you aren’t.”

               “I didn’t say you were ridiculous.”

               “You rolled your eyes.”

               “I’m your sister. I’ve been rolling my eyes at you since 1983.” Despite herself, Rachel laughed. Danielle smiled. “There she is.”

               Then something struck the underside of the dock.

               Thump.

               Danielle looked down. Rachel stopped laughing. “What was that?”

               “Probably a fish.”

               The dock moved. Not much. Just enough. Rachel stepped backward. “Danielle.”

               “It’s probably nothing.”

               Thump.

               Harder. Danielle stood. “Okay. Big fish.”

               Rachel was already halfway to the cabin. She spent the afternoon embarrassed. Not because she had been afraid. Because part of her had wanted Danielle to be afraid too. Rachel had spent 34 years being the only person who understood that lakes were wrong. She knew that was irrational. She knew millions of people swam in Minnesota lakes without being dragged into the darkness. But knowledge had never changed what happened in 1992.

               That evening, Danielle grilled steaks. Neither mentioned the dock. After dinner, Rachel stood at the kitchen sink. Something moved outside. She looked toward the lake. A ripple traveled across the surface. There was no wind. The ripple moved toward the cabin. Not toward shore generally. Toward her. Rachel watched it approach. Twenty yards. Ten. Five. It reached the shoreline directly in front of the kitchen window. Stopped. The water became perfectly still. Rachel backed away. “Danielle?” No answer. She walked into the living room. Empty. “Danielle?” The screen door was open. Rachel ran outside. Her sister stood on the dock. “Danielle!!!”

               She turned. “What?”

               “Get off there.”

               “I’m taking a picture.”

               “Get off the fucking dock.”

               Danielle lowered her phone. “What happened?” Rachel pointed at the water. She did not know what she was pointing at. Nothing was there. Then Danielle looked down. “Holy shit.”

               Rachel’s stomach tightened. “What?”

               “There are fish everywhere.”

               She approached despite herself but stopped several feet from shore. The water surrounding the dock was filled with fish. Hundreds.

               Bass.

               Bluegill.

               Perch.

               Others Rachel could not identify. They floated just beneath the surface. Motionless. All facing the same direction. Toward Rachel. “Why are they doing that?” Danielle whispered. Rachel stepped backward. Every fish turned simultaneously to follow her. Danielle saw it. This time she did not laugh.

               Neither slept well. At breakfast, Danielle suggested leaving. Rachel should have agreed. Instead, she said, “Not yet.”

               “Yesterday you wanted to get away from the lake.”

               “I still do.”

               “Then why stay?”

               Rachel looked outside. “Because it knows me.”

               Danielle stared at her. “Rachel.”

               “You saw those fish.”

               “I saw fish behaving strangely.”

               “They followed me.”

               “Maybe your movement…”

               “Don’t.” Danielle stopped. Rachel put down her coffee. “For 34 years, everyone has explained what happened to me. Weeds. Panic. Imagination. I started believing it because believing I imagined it was easier.”

               “What are you saying?”

               “I want to know what happened.”

               “How?” Rachel looked toward the dock. Danielle followed her gaze. “There is no fucking way you are going in there!”

               “I’m not getting in.”

               “Good.”

               “But I want to look.”

               The rental shed contained fishing gear, paddles, life jackets, and an underwater camera. The camera had 20 feet of cable. Rachel carried it to the dock. Her hands shook. Danielle noticed. “We can leave.” Rachel shook her head. She lowered the camera. The first few feet showed ordinary lake water. Sunlight. Particles. Small fish. At 10 feet, the light dimmed. At 15, vegetation appeared. Long strands rose from the bottom. Rachel stopped lowering the camera. Her mouth went dry. “What?” Danielle asked.

               Rachel pointed at the screen. The plants moved gently. Except there was no current. One strand bent toward the camera. Then another. Then all of them. Rachel dropped the monitor. Danielle caught it. On-screen, vegetation surrounded the camera. A pale strand wrapped around the cable. Danielle pulled. Resistance. “Help me.” Rachel grabbed the cable. Together they pulled. Something pulled back. The cable became taut. Danielle wrapped it around her hand. “What in the actual fuck???”

               The dock creaked. Whatever was below was stronger. Rachel saw the water beside them darken. “Let go.”

               “The camera…”

               “Let go!!!”

               Danielle released it. The cable shot into the lake. The monitor struck the dock and disappeared over the edge. Silence returned. Rachel stared at the water. Then something floated to the surface. The camera. Its cable had been severed. Around the casing was a single pale strand. Rachel crouched. “Don’t touch it,” Danielle said. The strand moved. It slid across the camera like a finger. Then formed a loop. Rachel knew that loop. She remembered it around her ankle. She backed away.

               “It was this.” Danielle said nothing. “It was fucking this.”

               They packed. Danielle did not argue anymore. By noon, their bags were beside the door. Rachel went upstairs for her charger. She heard Danielle scream. Rachel ran. Her sister was outside. At the shoreline. Something was wrapped around her ankle. “Rachel!!!” Danielle fell. The strand pulled. She clawed at the grass. Rachel grabbed her wrists. Another pale strand emerged from the water. Then another. They wrapped around Danielle’s legs. “Pull!”

               Rachel pulled. Danielle screamed. The strands tightened. Tiny roots or hairs along their surfaces penetrated her skin. Blood ran down her calves. Rachel dug her heels into the ground. For a moment, neither side moved. Then the lake pulled harder. Danielle slid another foot. Her shoes entered the water. “Rachel!”

               “I’ve got you!”

               More strands emerged. They wrapped around Danielle’s waist. Rachel felt her sister being taken. Exactly as she had been. Thirty-four years disappeared. Rachel was nine again. Green water. Darkness. Something touching her face. Except now she understood something she had not understood then. It had let her go.

               Why?

               The question struck with such force that Rachel nearly released her sister. Why had it let her go? The lake could have taken her. It had chosen not to. Danielle screamed. Rachel pulled harder. One of the strands loosened from Danielle and rose. Its tip hovered in front of Rachel. She froze. It moved toward her face. Danielle sobbed. “Rachel!”

               The strand touched Rachel’s cheek. Exactly where it had touched her in 1992. Then her lips. Then her forehead. Recognition. “Oh my God.”

               The strand withdrew. The others released Danielle. Rachel dragged her sister away from the shore. For several seconds, they lay together in the grass. Then the lake began to move.

               The entire surface rippled. Not from wind. From below. Fish erupted from the water. Hundreds launched themselves onto shore. They thrashed in the grass. Danielle screamed. Rachel stared. The fish were not attacking. They were fleeing. Something enormous shifted beneath the lake. The water bulged upward. The dock rose several feet, tilted, then snapped in half. Rachel finally understood. The strands were not plants. They were part of something larger. Much larger. The lake itself was not alive. Something beneath it was. Something so old and vast that vegetation had grown through it until animal and plant had become impossible to distinguish.

               And it remembered her.

               “Run,” Rachel whispered.

               They ran. Behind them, the shoreline moved. Mud split. Roots erupted from the earth. Trees leaned toward the cabin as their buried root systems were pulled sideways. The ground beneath Rachel’s feet trembled. They reached the house. Danielle grabbed the car keys. The driveway buckled. Roots broke through the gravel. “Go!” They jumped into the SUV. Danielle started it. The tires spun. A pale strand whipped across the windshield. Another wrapped around the passenger mirror. Danielle reversed. The mirror tore off. They accelerated toward the road. For 50 yards, Rachel believed they would escape.

               Then the pavement rose.

               A root thicker than a tree trunk broke through. Danielle slammed the brakes. The SUV struck it. Airbags exploded. Rachel’s head snapped forward. For several seconds, everything became ringing and powder. Then she heard Danielle moaning. “Rachel?”

               “I’m here.”

               Water flowed across the road. Rachel stared through the cracked windshield. The lake was coming toward them. Not flooding. Following. A shallow sheet of black water advanced uphill against gravity. Pale strands moved inside it. Rachel unbuckled. “Out.”

               Danielle’s door was jammed. Rachel kicked it until it opened. They stumbled onto the road. The water surrounded the SUV. Strands climbed the tires. Danielle limped. Blood ran from her forehead. “We can’t outrun it.” Rachel knew. Because it was not chasing them. It was chasing her.

               No.

               Not chasing.

               Calling.

               Rachel turned toward the lake.

               “Rachel, what are you doing?”

               “It wants me.”

               “You don’t know that.”

               “Yes, I do.”

               She walked toward the approaching water. It stopped. Every strand became still. Danielle grabbed her arm. “Don’t.”

               Rachel looked at her sister. “It could have killed me when I was nine.” The realization hurt more than fear. “It didn’t.”

               “Why?”

               Rachel looked toward the lake. “I think it marked me.”

               The pale strands separated, creating a path through the water. Rachel followed it. “Rachel!” She kept walking. The water reached her shoes. Her ankles. Her knees. The old terror returned so violently she nearly vomited. Then something touched her leg. Rachel screamed. A strand wrapped around her calf. Another around her waist. She wanted to fight. Every instinct told her to fight.

               Instead, she whispered, “I remember you.” The lake pulled her under. Green. Brown. Sunlight above. Darkness below. Thirty-four years disappeared. Rachel descended. The pale strands surrounded her but did not restrain her. They guided her. Down. The bottom came into view. Rachel understood why no one had ever discovered what lived there. There was no creature on the bottom. The bottom was the creature. Miles of roots, algae, fungal threads, bones, plants, and flesh had fused into a single living network.

               Fish moved through openings in it. Turtles crawled across it. Roots from shoreline trees descended into it. Everything touched everything else. Everything fed everything else. Rachel saw bones. Deer. Fish. Birds. Human.

               Not victims.

               Components.

               The lake had been assembling itself for centuries. A pale strand touched Rachel’s forehead. Images entered her mind. Not words. Memory. Chemical runoff. Fuel. Plastic. Hooks. Lead. Engines. Shorelines cleared for expensive houses. Plants poisoned. Fish killed for photographs. Invasive species dumped from boats. Generations of people treating the lake as scenery, playground, sewer, property.

               Rachel understood.

               The thing had not awakened angry. Humanity had taught it anger. Then she saw herself at nine. The lake had touched her. Tested her. Marked her. And released her. Not because she was special. Because it needed something capable of leaving the water. Something that could carry a piece of it onto land. Rachel felt a sharp pain in her abdomen. She looked down. A pale strand had entered her navel. Another pierced her thigh. Another her wrist. She tried to scream.

               Water filled her mouth. The lake entered her. Not enough to kill her. Enough to plant something. That had been the plan all along. Rachel had spent 34 years terrified that the lake wanted to drag her back. She had been wrong. It wanted her to leave.

               Danielle found Rachel facedown near the shoreline. She dragged her onto the grass. Rachel coughed water until she vomited. “You’re alive.” Danielle hugged her. Rachel stared over her shoulder. The lake was still again. Perfectly still. The broken dock floated near shore. Fish swam normally. The road behind them was undamaged. Their SUV sat where Danielle had parked it that morning. Rachel looked at her sister.

               “Did you see…”

               “Yes.”

               Danielle was crying.

               “I don’t know what I saw, but yes.”

               Rachel touched her abdomen. Something moved beneath her skin. She said nothing.

               They left Minnesota the following morning. Rachel returned home and tried to resume her life. Three weeks later, she discovered the first growth in her bathtub drain. A pale thread. She pulled it out. It grew back. Then another appeared in the kitchen sink. Another inside the toilet tank. Rachel stopped removing them. She understood now. By October, neighborhood dogs refused to enter her yard. By November, roots had penetrated the municipal water line. By December, people three blocks away complained that their tap water tasted like pond water.

               Rachel stopped being afraid of lakes. There was no reason anymore. She stood at her kitchen window one winter morning and watched snow fall across Minnesota. Beneath the frozen ground, she could feel the network spreading.

               Pipe to pipe.

               Drain to drain.

               Creek to river.

               Pond to reservoir.

               The lake had spent centuries trapped inside its shoreline. Human beings had finally given it roads. Rachel placed one hand over her abdomen. Something beneath her skin moved affectionately against her palm. Far below the city, millions of pale strands reached outward. For the first time in 34 years, Rachel smiled when she thought about the water. It was not waiting for her anymore.

               It was coming for everyone else.