The campfire crackled a vibrant gold, flickering beneath the light of the crescent moon. Mark sat across from me, illustrating another of his fantastical tales of terrifying creatures that stalked the night, and merfolk hiding in the ocean, dragging unprepared fishing boats down into the depths of the sea. I was a biology teacher living in Boston. I didn’t believe in fairy tales.
Mark reached over the fire and tapped my shoulder. I jumped, and he burst into laughter. “A little nervous, are we ? Well, let’s add to that.”
I snorted disbelievingly. “Like a little ghost story is going to scare either of us? Be realistic.”
But Mark ingored me, instead drifting once again into the realms of the supernatural. “There is an old legend. And old, old legend, gathered here at this very lake,” he narrated with fluid hand gestures that, to be perfectly frank, did not emphasize his words how he expected them to. “The Midnight Rower.”
I raised one eyebrow. “And who might that be?”
Mark smiled eerily. “See, that’s the thing. We don’t know who, or even what is the Midnight Rower.” He should have known that grammatical errors in his sentences would not spark fear in the warm glow of our fire. “It just is. It stands on its boat made of the twisted branches of the old willow tree down Marbury Bend. His paddle is the embalmed paw of a bear, and he rows this lake through the night, snatching the unsuspecting off of remote shorelines. And once you’re snatched, then you are the Rower.”
“Oh, please,” I scoffed. “This sounds like a children’s game.”
“It is spotted only at precisely midnight,” he continued, disregarding my comment. “On nights like this one.”
I gaped. “You want to see the midnight rower? It doesn’t exist.”
“It does!” he insisted forcefully. “And I am going to catch it!”
I shook my head. “You’re insane.”
“It exists,” he snarled. “And you just watch me come back with the Rower in my net. And if it snatches me, then you will be sorry.”
I couldn’t put up with another minute of arguing with Mark over something so pointless, so unbelievably ridiculous.“Fine,” I snapped. “You go sit by the lake until until your lips turn blue, waiting for a mythical creature to show itself to you. I don’t care. I’m going to bed.” I doused the fire with my water bottle and stormed into the cabin. Mark’s cabin.
Is he right? I asked myself once I was snuggled in the warm blanket of the guest bed. Am I cruel to let him sit out there alone? But I dismissed my guilt and slipped into a troubled sleep.
The next morning, I tugged a sweater over my head and went outside to find Mark. I was looking forward to the opportunity to tell him, “I told you so,” and I repeated the words in my head. But when I neared the lakeside, Mark was nowhere to be seen.
“Mark!” I called. No answer. The morning mist was thick around the lake. It encircled the trees, an impenetrable fog, socking me in along the shoreline. “Mark!” That was when I saw it, bobbing against the sandy pebbles that had been smoothed by eons of lake water. Mark’s baseball cap. I picked it up and brushed the sand off of it. “Mark!” I called a third time. But without a reply, the next people I called were the police.
A year passed. Mark was never found. I carried on with my life, but people could tell I was grieving. Either that, or I was cowering. I couldn’t tell which. I went up to the lake again, just for the sake of old memories. I wanted to settle my mind; even Mark’s body in a coffin would have put me at rest. Anything to explain that night. The sunset was beautiful, reflected off the deep blue alpine water. I stood on the shore, watching the trees turn to silhouettes in the impending darkness.
Then I spotted a familiar figure brushing the water, about half way across the lake. “Mark!” I shouted gleefully. The crack in my voice revealed my shock. The figure drifted a bit closer. It was Mark; it had the same brown eyes and choppy dark hair. But the eyes were more vengeful, hungry, raging at me, his hair intertwined with algae. And he was floating. Floating on a boat made of the twisted branches of a willow tree, with a stiff, embalmed bear paw in his hand.
Mark reached over the fire and tapped my shoulder. I jumped, and he burst into laughter. “A little nervous, are we ? Well, let’s add to that.”
I snorted disbelievingly. “Like a little ghost story is going to scare either of us? Be realistic.”
But Mark ingored me, instead drifting once again into the realms of the supernatural. “There is an old legend. And old, old legend, gathered here at this very lake,” he narrated with fluid hand gestures that, to be perfectly frank, did not emphasize his words how he expected them to. “The Midnight Rower.”
I raised one eyebrow. “And who might that be?”
Mark smiled eerily. “See, that’s the thing. We don’t know who, or even what is the Midnight Rower.” He should have known that grammatical errors in his sentences would not spark fear in the warm glow of our fire. “It just is. It stands on its boat made of the twisted branches of the old willow tree down Marbury Bend. His paddle is the embalmed paw of a bear, and he rows this lake through the night, snatching the unsuspecting off of remote shorelines. And once you’re snatched, then you are the Rower.”
“Oh, please,” I scoffed. “This sounds like a children’s game.”
“It is spotted only at precisely midnight,” he continued, disregarding my comment. “On nights like this one.”
I gaped. “You want to see the midnight rower? It doesn’t exist.”
“It does!” he insisted forcefully. “And I am going to catch it!”
I shook my head. “You’re insane.”
“It exists,” he snarled. “And you just watch me come back with the Rower in my net. And if it snatches me, then you will be sorry.”
I couldn’t put up with another minute of arguing with Mark over something so pointless, so unbelievably ridiculous.“Fine,” I snapped. “You go sit by the lake until until your lips turn blue, waiting for a mythical creature to show itself to you. I don’t care. I’m going to bed.” I doused the fire with my water bottle and stormed into the cabin. Mark’s cabin.
Is he right? I asked myself once I was snuggled in the warm blanket of the guest bed. Am I cruel to let him sit out there alone? But I dismissed my guilt and slipped into a troubled sleep.
The next morning, I tugged a sweater over my head and went outside to find Mark. I was looking forward to the opportunity to tell him, “I told you so,” and I repeated the words in my head. But when I neared the lakeside, Mark was nowhere to be seen.
“Mark!” I called. No answer. The morning mist was thick around the lake. It encircled the trees, an impenetrable fog, socking me in along the shoreline. “Mark!” That was when I saw it, bobbing against the sandy pebbles that had been smoothed by eons of lake water. Mark’s baseball cap. I picked it up and brushed the sand off of it. “Mark!” I called a third time. But without a reply, the next people I called were the police.
A year passed. Mark was never found. I carried on with my life, but people could tell I was grieving. Either that, or I was cowering. I couldn’t tell which. I went up to the lake again, just for the sake of old memories. I wanted to settle my mind; even Mark’s body in a coffin would have put me at rest. Anything to explain that night. The sunset was beautiful, reflected off the deep blue alpine water. I stood on the shore, watching the trees turn to silhouettes in the impending darkness.
Then I spotted a familiar figure brushing the water, about half way across the lake. “Mark!” I shouted gleefully. The crack in my voice revealed my shock. The figure drifted a bit closer. It was Mark; it had the same brown eyes and choppy dark hair. But the eyes were more vengeful, hungry, raging at me, his hair intertwined with algae. And he was floating. Floating on a boat made of the twisted branches of a willow tree, with a stiff, embalmed bear paw in his hand.
Claudia.VII
CammyS
Ellie M.
Join the Discussion
This article has 7 comments. Post your own!