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NorCal Creeps! Episode 4.16: The Eyes in the Lake

Airdate: 12/12/23

Transcript

“Hello, Creepers! I’m DJ Sybil Moore, and you’re listening to my podcast, NorCal Creeps. Man, do we have a story for you today. User Tawny1987 posted this beauty on the forum a few days ago and it’s been living in my head rent-free ever since. I just had to share it with you.

“But first, I have to get a little housekeeping out of the way. We will only get our stories from the NorCal Creeps forum from here on out—thanks for moderating, user The_Moore_The_Merrier! And remember Creepers, you’re not limited to just Northern California. We want anything—cryptids, aliens, ghosts, demons, angels—from anywhere. Oh, and please only send in true stories. I’m not out here trying to read your newest fiction, alright? And, don’t forget! We’re releasing a pod weekly now. Make sure to like and subscribe to keep your feeds full of creepy stories.

“Okay, now that that’s out of the way. As promised, Mama Sybil has got your macabre needs covered. Here you go my hungry little Creepers! I present to you: The Eyes in the Lake from User: Tawny1987.

This happened in 2008. So, it must have been my Junior year in college. Jesus. It’s been 15 years.

I was attending the University of Washington. It was December. We had just finished exams. The holiday break was upon us and everyone was super buzzy about it.

My best friend, Julie, and I weren’t going to go home, but we didn’t really want to stay on campus either. I found this cabin in the Olympics on AirBnB. Three beds, two and a half baths, the house was nestled deep in the forest and overlooked a massive lake. It had a reading nook so I could whittle down my “to be read” list. Julie referred to my books as literary porn. (Now, people proudly refer to it as faerie smut. Whatever it’s called, it’s good.) The house also had a massive kitchen where Julie could practice her culinary skills. It looked a little old and fairly run down. But the price was right for two broke college girls, and it was close enough that we didn’t have to pay for a plane ticket. The only word I can think of to describe it is: idyllic. The next day, we packed our bags, hopped into my Toyota Celica, and headed to the mountains.

The drive was easy. We listened to music. I don’t know why, but one of Julie’s favorite things was to blast the car heat and roll the windows down. Her hair blew in the wind out of the corner of my eye. She sang along to that Rihanna song, “Disturbia.” I remember thinking that it was important that I remembered Julie happy.

I didn’t know why then. I do now.

Trees loomed, casting black shadows across the forever long dirt driveway. The darkness swallowed my bouncing high beams. Pot holes the size of corgis marred the road. Julie and the Celica groaned in unison when I hit a particularly big one. Water splashed up the passenger side, spraying Julie’s arm with viscous ochre mud. She didn’t complain though. Instead, she just rolled up the window, and wiped her arm on her pants.

The cabin was deceptive. From the outside it looked like a one-story ranch home with an inset front porch and a tattered American flag hanging limply from its holster. But the inside was actually massive. A complete basement was built into the hill it sat on and the whole thing overlooked a lake whose banks extended deep into the forest beyond. The house was obviously old. Musty liked an overly-packed used bookstore and in one of the far corners I heard the distinctive drip. drip. drip. of a faucet. I wondered if the drip was intentional. Low temperatures were a common occurrence in the Olympics and flowing water meant the pipes were less likely to freeze.

We declared our rooms by dropping our suitcases in them. The drip continued as we explored, and even though I checked all the usual suspects—sinks, bathtubs, showers, etc I couldn’t find the leak. The sound echoed throughout the house, and I wondered if I’d be able to sleep.

Julie made dinner—pesto and cheese ravioli with sun-dried tomatoes, my favorite. I opened a bottle of Pinot Noir and grabbed my book. In no time, I was curled up in the reading nook, sipping wine and living my best life. Julie’s banging around in the kitchen blocked out the drip, which meant I could actually focus on the smut. After about an hour, dinner was ready.

We ate and chatted about the house. Now that the cooking noise had died down, I could hear it again. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Julie sipped on her wine as she eyed the lake behind the house. It had been too dark to really see it when we got there. The reflection of the moon quivered across the water as a gust of wind blew across the surface. The house shifted as if uncomfortable. I’d be uncomfortable too, if I had to stand up to this weather, I thought.

Maybe the house had been uncomfortable that night. Maybe it knew what was going to happen.

“How do you feel about cold plunges?” Julie asked, looking through the floor-to-ceiling window in the dining room.

I followed her gaze. The hemlocks and spruce trees towering around the house swayed in the wind. Their branches whipped. Needles swirled on the back porch and occasionally pinged into the window—tiny missiles performing a pointless assault. A wooden dock stretched into the glistening water. Water lapped at the planks.

Goosebumps lifted the hairs on my neck and arms, forcing me to shiver. “Hard pass.” I blew on a steaming ravioli before shoving it in my mouth.

Julie narrowed her eyes at me.

“I don’t do lakes,” I said over a mouthful.

She scoffed. “What do you mean, you don’t do lakes?”

“Lakes are where leeches live.” I nibbled on a tomato. I still remember how it tasted, sweet with just a little bit of tang. It wasn’t tomato season in Washington anymore, but we’d still managed to snag a few stragglers from the local market on the way up.

Julie cocked an eyebrow and asked, “Leeches? Really?”

“You know, the little parasites that”—I readied my best Dracula impression—“suck your blood.” I slurped my wine to really drive the point home.

My friend rolled her eyes.

I dropped the impression. “My blood belongs in my body, not in some worm.”

“It’s too cold for leeches.”

“Then it’s too cold for me.” I took another bite.

“Will you at least come outside and scope it out with me?” she asked.

I’ve been described as a “lovable curmudgeon” by more than enough people to know I had a special knack for being a buzzkill. Julie’s fallen face and slumped shoulders told me I was already dampening the fun, cabin vacation vibes. I glanced at the clock on the wall. We’d only been at the house for a few hours—a new party pooper record.

Another gust of wind blew. Somewhere, the house creaked as it shifted again. Something plinked against the metal roof.

I looked up, listening. “It’s raining.” I tried not to whine, but I’m sure I did—at least a little. “How about tomorrow?

Julie was the kind of person to run into the rain instead of away from it. She danced in puddles, splashing, reveling in the mud and muck and never let a little chill bother her. Me, on the other hand: being comfortable and cozy was all I ever wanted.

She opened her mouth to argue, but I cut her off with a swipe of my fork. Bits of basil clung to the tines for dear life. “I promise.”

She broke off a piece of garlic bread and dragged it in the pesto, dredging for ravioli and cheese detritus. “Tomorrow,” she agreed, and took a bite.

Julie wanted to watch an M. Night Shyamalan movie. The one with Mark Wahlberg and Zooey Deschanel. I’m not a fan of scary movies, but I’d already disappointed her once that night, so I agreed—it’s shit, by the way.

We watched the movie, drank too much red wine, and called it a night around midnight that night. My mattress wrapped around me like a comforting hug. Pleasantly buzzed, I pulled the sheets up to my chin, closed my eyes, and waited for sleep to take me.

Drip.