The Road to Kettle Lake

The wind bit through my leather jacket as we climbed the gravel road toward Kettle Lake, a place I’d sworn by for years. My friend Elara sat snug in the sidecar, her eyes hidden behind dark glasses, her scarf whipping like a flag. The air was sharp for late spring, a stubborn chill that clung to the shadows under the pines. I glanced at my watch: 12 degrees. I smiled. This was the trip we’d been planning for months, the first camp of the season, and I was eager to show her the perfect spot by the water’s edge, where the fire pit was already ringed with stones from countless seasons past.

We’d been on the main highway for about an hour when I spotted the bike in my mirror. An old Honda, its engine a familiar whine, trailing us at a steady distance. Elara noticed too, leaning forward with a squint. ‘That’s a ’92, I think,’ she said. I nodded, not really caring. The road bent, and we lost sight of it for a while, but when we pulled into a roadside diner for coffee, Elara grabbed my arm and pointed. There, in the gravel lot, sat the same Honda, its gas tank covered in faded stickers—cats in tiny sailor suits and oversized helmets, a classic bosozoku style that seemed out of place here.

‘That’s the same one!’ she hissed. ‘I remember the cat stickers.’ I frowned. We’d taken a shortcut through the old logging road, and there was no way that little Cub could have kept up, let alone passed us. ‘Maybe there are two cats,’ I said, but she shook her head. ‘No, I saw the chipped mirror and the dent in the fender. Same bike.’ I shrugged it off, paid for the coffee, and we hit the road again. But as we continued, the Honda appeared in my mirror again, closer this time, hugging the curves with an almost unnatural precision.

We reached the campground as dusk was settling, the lake a sheet of black glass. I set up the tent while Elara gathered kindling, and we built a fire that crackled and popped, sending sparks into the darkening sky. The air grew colder, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones, and I pulled my jacket tighter. That’s when I heard it—the faint, high-pitched whine of a small engine, winding up the access road. I looked at Elara, and she was already staring down the path. The Honda appeared, headlight off, and rolled to a stop just at the edge of our firelight. The rider was cloaked in a heavy poncho, helmet visor down, completely still.

I called out a greeting, but the rider didn’t move. Elara leaned closer to me, her voice low. ‘There’s something wrong with the sound.’ I listened. The engine was still idling, but it had a weird harmonic, like a voice humming along with it. The rider then raised a hand, pointing a finger at our fire, then dragging it slowly across their throat. My blood went cold. Elara gasped. I shouted, ‘Who are you?’ but the rider just sat there. Suddenly, the engine revved, and the Cub lurched forward, circling our camp at a distance, kicking up dust. It did this three times, each lap tighter, and I swear I heard laughter mixed with the whine of the engine.

Then it stopped, and the rider dismounted. As they approached, the firelight caught the hem of the poncho, revealing trousers soaked in dark liquid. They stopped at the edge of the light, and I could see their hands—pale, with long fingers, nails cracked and black. Slowly, they lifted the helmet, and I saw a face that was not human. The skin was stretched taut over too-wide a grin, with eyes that were pits of black, and when they spoke, the voice came not from their mouth but from all around us, as if the lake and the trees were echoing it. ‘You found me,’ the voice said. ‘You brought a friend. Good.’ I felt a cold hand on my shoulder, but I was alone. Elara was standing, frozen, staring at the thing.

The rider then turned and walked to the lake, their body dissolving into the mist that rose from the water. When they vanished, the Honda started up on its own, drove into the lake, and sank with a hiss. Elara and I stared at each other, and without a word, we packed up the tent, threw our gear in the sidecar, and rode out of there, not stopping until we hit the highway. But as we sped away, I checked my mirror one last time, and I saw, on the rear fender of my bike, a small, wet sticker of a cat in a school uniform, smiling at me with black eyes.