Capítulo 15: Chapter 15
George hated it there. The stupid lake, the stupid woods, the stupid rules his parents kept throwing at him. He was sick of it all.
He didn't care about the warnings. He didn't care about the stupid stories the older kids told, about the boat that took people. It was just another rumor to him. A way for the old folks to make the place seem more interesting than it was. Everyone knew that.
He stepped off the shore, his sneakers hitting the wet wood of the dock. The boat was sitting there, still as stone. The kind of boat you'd expect to see in old pictures. A little rowboat, dark green paint peeling off. A long, narrow body that looked like it belonged in a time before his. He knew he shouldn't mess with it, but, hell, why not? The whole thing was probably just some junk.
He pulled the boat into the water, felt the little jolt when it hit. It moved, creaking like an old man waking from a nap.
He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. "You don't scare me," he muttered, climbing in. He grabbed one of the oars, pushing away from the dock. The boat drifted out a little further.
Nothing happened. The lake was calm, the forest behind him just a series of trees standing like dead soldiers. The water lapped quietly against the boat's sides, and the smell of dirt mixed with the faint hint of fish in the air. It didn't feel right, but George couldn't put his finger on it. He shrugged.
A few minutes passed.
Then the boat jerked.
Like a hand grabbing it from below.
George gritted his teeth. "Stupid thing's probably just stuck."
He tried again, pushing the oar through the water harder. It didn't budge. His grip tightened, knuckles white. Sweat crawled down his neck. The boat jerked again, this time more violent, making his heart stutter in his chest. Something was wrong.
The trees at the edge of the lake creaked. There was a sound, a crack, deep within the woods. The kind of sound that didn't belong. George froze, looking back toward the shore. But there was nothing there. Not a damn thing.
The boat rocked back and forth, slowly at first. Then faster. Too fast. George's mouth went dry. He yanked the oar again, but now it wouldn't move. It stuck like it was glued there. The boat jerked once more.
A soft whisper. Almost like a voice, but it didn't have words. It was cold. Deep. The kind of cold that made his skin crawl.
George spun around. Nothing. Not a sound.
His breathing became shallow. Panic. He should have listened. His brain screamed for him to get out. But his body wouldn't move. He didn't even feel the oar slip from his hands, didn't feel the boat tip slightly as if something below was pulling him in.
And then... the water.
It broke.
Something reached up from below.
Cold fingers. The kind that shouldn't exist. Gripping him. Pulling him under. His chest tightened.
"NO!"
The boat went over with a violent snap, and the water swallowed him whole. He kicked, but the fingers—too many fingers—were everywhere. Clutching at his legs. His chest. His neck.
It was too late.
They wanted him. And the lake? It didn't want to let go.
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