The Lake of Drowned Pines

The day was October 17th, 2023, and I had always been drawn to the forgotten corners of the Pacific Northwest. My sister-in-law, Mara, and her husband, Theo, had booked a weekend at the old Greer Lodge, a remote resort on the shores of Tarn Lake, a place rumored to be haunted by the logging crew that died in a flash flood a century ago. I tagged along, hoping to capture something on my camera. We arrived as the sun was sinking behind the mountains, the lake’s surface like black glass, and the massive pines that ringed the water stood like silent sentinels.

The lodge itself was a sprawling, timbered structure with a sagging porch and windows that seemed to watch us. The caretaker, an old man named Silas, handed us the keys with a warning: ‘Don’t go down to the shore after dark. The pines down there are drowned, and they don’t like the living.’ We laughed it off, but his eyes were dead serious. That night, after unpacking, we sat on the porch with hot cocoa, and Mara took a few photos of the moonlit landscape. I was telling a ghost story when she suddenly gasped. ‘Look at this,’ she said, zooming in on her camera screen. In the reflection of the lake, just beyond a fallen pine, there was a face beneath the water, pale and bloated, its mouth open as if it had been screaming.

The next morning, we went down to the shore to investigate. The air was cold and still, and the water was murky, but through the surface we could see the twisted shapes of submerged trees, their branches like grasping hands. I snapped a photo of the spot where Mara had seen the face. When I reviewed the image, I saw not just one face, but several. First, a gaunt man’s face, his eyes hollow and dark, his cheeks sunken, staring up from beneath the water. Second, a woman’s face, her hair waving like seaweed, her mouth stretched in a silent howl. Third, something that was not human—a creature with a serpentine body and a spiked tail, its spine visible through its translucent skin, its eyes glowing like embers. And fourth, a child’s face, wide-eyed and terrified, its mouth open in a mid-scream.

The images haunted me. I couldn’t shake the feeling that they were not just reflections but something more, something trapped. That afternoon, I decided to go back alone, hoping to find a rational explanation. As I stood at the water’s edge, the lake was perfectly calm, but I felt an overwhelming dread. I leaned over, trying to see deeper into the water. That’s when I noticed something odd: among the drowned pines, there was a row of wooden crosses, half-submerged, marking what looked like graves. I waded in, the cold water biting my skin, and discovered that the crosses were actually old, and their wood was carved with initials. They were the markers of the logging crew, but they were not the only ones. There were more recent ones, and on one, I saw the name ‘Silas’.

I heard a branch snap behind me. I turned and saw Silas standing on the shore, his face ashen. He said, ‘You should not have come down here. They see you now.’ I backed away, but the water felt thick, like grasping mud. Suddenly, a pale hand erupted from the lake and grabbed my ankle. I screamed and pulled free, stumbling onto the shore. Silas was still there, but his expression was not one of anger but of sorrow. ‘They were my friends,’ he said. ‘They died out there, and I’ve been keeping them company. Now they have you too.’ I looked at my ankle; there was a red mark, like a burn, in the shape of a hand.

That night, we tried to leave, but the road out was blocked by a fallen tree. We were trapped. As darkness fell, I saw shadows moving at the edge of the property, and the air filled with a low moaning that seemed to come from the lake itself. Mara and Theo believed me now, but it was too late. When I looked out the window, I saw the faces from my photo, pressed against the glass, their mouths open, their eyes pleading. And then I realized: they weren’t trying to scare us away. They were trying to warn us, to tell us what was coming. But there was no escaping what was already inside the lake—and inside me.

Days have passed, and though we eventually escaped, I can still feel the cold water in my dreams. I have not been able to get rid of the mark on my ankle, and sometimes, when I look into a mirror, I see a faint reflection of the lake, and the faces are watching me, waiting. They want me to return, to join them in the silent depths, where the drowned pines reach up through the darkness. Maybe one day I will, if only to hear what they are trying to say.