The Ledger of the Red Lake

My company had expanded its operations into the remote corners of the country, and as a junior auditor, I was often sent to assess new branches. This time, my colleague Rohan and I were dispatched to a small town in the western ghats of India, a place called Kurseong, not the hill station, but a dusty settlement near a vast, unnatural lake. The locals called it the ‘Red Lake’ because of the algae that turned its surface a rusty hue in the monsoon.

We arrived on a Tuesday evening, the last bus having deposited us at the edge of the town. Our pre-booked lodge was a crumbling colonial building, its paint peeling like sunburnt skin. The landlady, a gaunt woman with eyes that seemed to look through us, handed us a brass key and warned us, ‘Don’t leave the windows open at night. The lake mist brings things.’ We dismissed it as local folklore, but after a restless night filled with the sound of dripping water and distant, rhythmic thuds, we were eager to start our work.

The company’s branch was a tin-roofed structure on the lake’s shore. The previous manager had vanished a month ago, leaving behind a half-finished ledger, its pages covered in a script that shifted before our eyes. Rohan, ever the pragmatist, decided to cross-check the inventory. I was tasked with reconciling the financial records. As I delved into the ledgers, I noticed that every entry for ‘supplies’ was marked with a small, hand-drawn symbol—a circle with a wavy line through it, like a stylized wave. When I asked a local worker about it, he paled and refused to speak, muttering about ‘the accounting of the drowned.’

The next day, we decided to follow the source of the supplies. The ledger indicated a warehouse on the far side of the lake. We borrowed a rickety boat and rowed across. The water was eerily calm, and the algae seemed to pulse with a life of its own. As we approached the opposite shore, we saw it: a structure half-swallowed by the lake, its wooden pillars blackened with age. Inside, we found not supplies but hundreds of clay pots, each sealed with wax. Rohan broke one open, and a viscous, crimson liquid oozed out, smelling of copper and salt. Tied to each pot was a label with a name and a date. The latest was of the missing manager.

That night, back at the lodge, I couldn’t sleep. The ledger lay open on my table, and as I stared at the columns, the figures began to crawl like ants, rearranging into a message: ‘The lake must be repaid.’ A cold draft swept the room, and I saw the window was ajar, the mist curling in like fingers. The thudding sound from the night before grew louder, now synchronized with my heartbeat. I heard a splash, and then a wet, dragging sound on the wooden floor. I turned to see a figure, black and dripping, standing in the corner. It raised a hand, and I saw the symbol—the wave—branded on its palm. It pointed to the ledger and then to the lake.

I woke the next morning drenched in sweat, the ledger closed. Rohan was gone. His bed was empty, and the sheets were wet, marked with a red stain. I ran to the lake, my heart pounding. The boat was gone. On the shore, I found a clay pot, fresh, with Rohan’s name on it. The worker who had refused to speak was there, his face gaunt. He whispered, ‘The lake has its books. Every debt is collected.’ I looked at the lake, and for a moment, I thought I saw the water ripple into a shape—the giant, open ledger of the lake, its pages being turned by unseen hands.

I never reported what I saw. I told the company that Rohan had quit. But some debts can’t be hidden. I have the ledger now, and every night, I hear the thuds. The entries are changing, and a new name appears in the column of supplies. It is mine. And so I write this, sitting on a train away from that cursed place, but I know the lake’s accountant never forgets a balance. The final entry will be made, and the lake will collect its due.