The Hand in the Water

Melanie Blake had always trusted the lake. Over the years, it had never let her down, and today was no different. Pine Lake was beautiful in its own alluring way, yet it held its share of secrets. Some secrets were harmless; others, shrouded in legend, could not be explained. Nonetheless, for many who lived nearby, it offered countless attractions.

Unchanged by passing years or dwindling population, the lake was the single place in her life that never seemed to change. Always cold. Perpetually clear. Continuously waiting, as if for some purpose. Melanie had learned to swim here before she could even read, and she returned after her father died from cancer, after her mother remarried and moved away, after every heartbreak and disappointment. Constancy—that was the lake.

Which was why she didn't hesitate to dive in on the late August afternoon, even though the sky was very gray and bruised with the promise of rain.

The water closed around her, almost a familiar embrace. Kicking downward, she let the coolness swallow the day's heat. Only ten feet deep and sandy here, the lake bottom comforted her, long strands of eel-grass drifting like green ribbons.

As she approached the midpoint of her second lap, something brushed her ankle.

She was about halfway through her second lap when something suddenly brushed her ankle.

Melanie jerked a bit, startled by something brushing against her. It was probably a branch from one of the trees, or possibly a fish—both were abundant in the lake.

She kicked out again.

Something felt like it had closed around her ankle.

Her heart went slamming against her ribs. She twisted, kicking hard, and whatever it was released her. She shot straight upwards and broke the surface with a real gasp.

The lake was very still, quiet, and empty.

She treaded water, her breath shaking. “Mel, get a grip, woman,” she muttered to herself. “It's just weeds.”

Yet the feeling wouldn't leave her—something had touched her. Solid, shaped, unforgettable.

She took another breath and dove down again.

The water was very dark and murky as she descended, and the light thinned into greenish-looking shadows. When she reached the lake's bottom, she let her fingers brush the sand.

There was nothing at first.

She turned a bit slowly, scanning the very dark-looking water.

Then she suddenly saw it.

It was a pale shape half-buried in the silt. It was small and thin. It was reaching upward, as if frozen in mid-gesture.

Melanie's lungs tightened, and she felt like screaming but couldn't.

It was a hand.

A skeletal hand that looked very human to her.

She kicked backward instinctively, her foot stirring up a cloud of silt. The hand remained very still, with fingers slightly curled, the bones yellowed by time.

Fear burned in her chest. This time, she shot upwards, broke the surface with a strangled gasp, and swam frantically toward the shoreline. Grass under her knees, she collapsed, unable to stand.

For a long moment, all she could do was breathe.

In. Out. Over and over. Air filled her lungs as she fought for calm.

The lake responded by rippling gently, as though nothing had happened.

But Melanie did know what she had seen was real.

It was a hand, a human hand, and it looked like a child's hand.

Her stomach clenched with nausea.

Amanda Driscoll.

The name rose up into her mind like a ghost of some sort.

Amanda had disappeared when Melanie was only eight years old. A little girl with blonde pigtails and a missing front tooth. She'd vanished from her own backyard inexplicably one summer evening, and the whole town of Kelvin searched everywhere for her for weeks. They found nothing.

Then the police arrested Gruesome.

Even now, the name did make Melanie shiver. He had been responsible for about seven murders across the state, mostly children. The news had been running his mugshot for months. He was a gaunt man with hollow eyes and a smile that never reached them.

Gruesome confessed to some of the killings, but not all of them. He denied doing some of the others. And many of his victims were never found.

Amanda Driscoll was one of the victims who was not located.

Melanie stared towards the lake; her pulse began to thud in her ears.

It couldn't be, or could it?

But the hand was small. It was too small.

She stood up shakily, wrapping her arms around herself. The wind had picked up, carrying the scent of rain. The sky was getting darker, with clouds gathering like bruises.

She should call someone, the police, the sheriff, anyone.

Somehow, her legs just wouldn't move.

Instead, she found herself walking back towards the water.

The lake lapped gently at the shoreline, very innocent and quiet. Melanie crouched down, staring into the shallows.

Her reflection rippled, distorted by the moving water.

“You've been hiding something, haven't you?” she whispered.

The lake didn't answer her back.

She stepped back out into the water again, slowly this time, with her breath tight. The cold crept up her legs, numbing her skin. She waded in deeper, until the water was up to her waist.

She took a deep breath and dove under.

The world went murky green again. She kicked downwards, her eyes scanning the bottom of the lake.

There, once again, was the hand.

But now the silt had somehow settled, and she could see more in detail.

There was a wrist and a forearm. There was the faint outline of a small ribcage lying beneath the sand. A scrap of fabric was caught on a rock. The material was a faded pink, patterned with tiny white daisies.

Melanie's throat closed suddenly.

Amanda wore a pink dress the day she vanished.

Her chest burned. She pushed upwards, breaking the surface with another gasp. She swam to shore this time, stumbling onto the grass once more.

This time, she didn't hesitate; she grabbed her phone and dialed 911 with shaking hands.

The dispatcher answered immediately on the other end. “911, what's your emergency?”

Melanie swallowed hard, but found her voice. “I found something in the lake.”

“What did you find there?”

Her voice cracked in response. “A body or what is left of one.”

There was a sudden pause. “Where are you calling from?”

She gave the dispatcher the location in a trembling voice.

“Stay right where you are,” the dispatcher said. “Help is coming.”

The dispatcher answered immediately. “911, what’s your emergency?”

Melanie hung up the phone and collapsed onto the grass. She hugged her knees. The wind snapped, and her damp auburn hair lashed her face. The lake rippled softly, as if finally exhaling its secret.

She closed her eyes and thought of Amanda Driscoll.

The little girl who vanished one day. The little girl whose mother still left flowers at the edge of Kelvin every year. The little girl whose face had been printed on posters that faded away in the sun.

Melanie felt some tears sting her eyes.

“I'm sorry, Amanda,” she whispered.

She could hear sirens wailing in the distance.

The lake remained silent and still.

But Melanie knew one thing for sure.

The past didn't always stay buried forever.

Sometimes, it could and would rise up from the water, with a skeletal hand reaching for the truth.