“Beware of the old lake, it’s bottomless.”
The words of the old folks echoed within me.
As a child, I had listened to them. I was absolutely terrified of the little lake, which lay like a pitch-black clearing in the middle of the forest. I was afraid of the lake’s edges, surrounded by sharp, thick reeds; I was afraid of the dense trees around the lake and the heavy branches that stretched their arms down over the murky water.
My stomach ached in the winters when my schoolmates ventured out to ice skate on the frozen water, especially as the ice only got darker the closer you got to the center of the lake.
When I returned to my hometown a few years ago after several years abroad, it took a long time before I wanted to approach the lake again.
But as the years went by, it became easier to go near it, as I grew older and became more calm and rational, and as my interest in fishing grew.
It was very rare for anyone to venture out on the lake, and the fishing was relatively good. Mostly, I caught perch and bream in my nets, but on a few occasions, I caught pike. It was also said that there were eels in the lake, but I never saw any signs of them.
My grandfather and his drinking buddies had called it ‘The Old Lake.’ In hindsight, I thought that was strange. Aren’t all lakes old?
And this idea that it would be bottomless, that was just something people said when they didn’t have the facts. Nothing could be bottomless; somewhere down there, there was a lakebed, it’s as simple as that.
In other words, I felt relatively calm when I decided to row out on that November day. I had had a gnarly week at work, and now I looked forward to letting a relaxing afternoon of fishing dissolve my stress knots and budding ulcers.
I had decided to, as my grandfather used to call it, “funfish”.
That means going out on the lake in a boat and to fish with nothing but a regular fishing rod. Just a float, a sinker, and a hook, nothing special like lures or even a bait.
This strategy is perfect for those who don’t want to catch any fish. I just wanted to sit there for a few hours and watch the float bob up and down. Maybe have a couple of beers in the boat, and then walk the two miles to my cabin with a relaxed mind. No fish to clean or cook, no hassle. On the other hand, there would be no gourmet dinner for my cat, Milton, but he would have to bear it.
The mist lay like a blanket over the forest. Rainwater still dripped from the needles and leaves onto the moss below, creating a symphony of wet thuds. A slight chill seemed to approach me with a gentle breeze, and with that wind came the musty smell of the lake.
I’ve never had anything against that smell, but after the rainy night and morning, it had intensified even further. It was the smell of almost stagnant water, of living and dead plants, of age and darkness.
At that moment, I had a thought of turning back. No fishing, just sit down in my armchair with Milton in my lap, pour myself a glass of wine, perhaps watch a movie. Maybe it was stubbornness that led me closer to the lake, where I walked with my fishing rod in hand. Stubbornness and the idea that some old superstition certainly wouldn’t change my plans.
The forest was silent. No birds or animals could be heard. hardly even a gust of wind. Apart from my creaking rubber boots, the stillness was overwhelming. It was as if the air trembled with soundlessness.
And then it lay before me. Like a soft, black floor in the middle of the forest, where the pale gray sky sent streaks of silver across the surface. The Old Lake.
The smell became even more distinct to me, much stronger than I had ever felt it before, as if it penetrated my nostrils.
But it wasn’t just the moisture in the smell that affected me. It was something else.
Something ancient. Waiting.
The feeling of being watched grew stronger the closer I came to the water, and once again, the desire to turn back took hold of me.
But I continued, and soon I stood at the water’s edge. The lake even looked larger now as it spread out.
I untied the knot that secured my grandfather’s old rowboat, and with a light push, I set it into the water. I accidentally stepped wrong, and I felt cold water close around my boot-clad foot. It might have been pure imagination, but I also thought I felt something else in the water. A pulse? Like heartbeats coming from deep below the surface. I decided to ignore the feeling and continue. A few seconds later, I was in the boat, and a few light strokes later, the rowboat glided out onto the lake.
As soon as the float hit the smooth water, I felt a calmness settle over me. The anxiety I had felt on the path down to the lake was gone, and my gaze fixated on the float, and I entered the meditative state that had drawn troubled souls to fishing for millennia. Hours passed. The three beers I had packed in my backpack were consumed slowly, and with each sip, I sank deeper into the calmness and relaxation that I now felt my body so strongly yearned for.
Just as planned, I didn’t catch any fish at all, but after three hours, my body began to protest the uncomfortable sitting position and at the same time, I slurped down the last drops of beer. I was about to pull up the float when I felt it.
A tug on my fishing rod. A tug from below. From the lake.
My initial reaction was joy. That reflexive joy all fishermen feel when they’ve caught something. But quickly, that reaction was replaced by unease.
I had been sitting there for hours without seeing even a ripple on the water, without hearing any splashing from the reeds—no signs of life.
Moreover, as I mentioned earlier, I had no bait on the hook, and whatever had bitten down there was big. Too big to swim so close to the surface, too big to be fooled by a naked hook.
But it wasn’t just that something was weighing down the float and the line. Now, the feeling I had when I had stepped into the cold water returned. It felt like my fishing rod was trembling. Not visibly, but I could swear I felt faint pulses from the rod.
A profound fear seized me, but out of sheer old habit, I began to pull the rod upward.
I met resistance. Whatever had bitten the hook was fighting back.
The thought of just letting go of the rod and sacrificing it to the lake crossed my mind of course, but pride and curiosity took over, and I continued my struggle with whatever was now under the water.
It was clear that I was stronger than whatever was beneath my rowboat, and as time went by, my catch came closer.
Finally, I saw the surface start to ripple, and I could see something dark and shiny below the water. A second later, the fish slapped its tail, creating a dull splash.
For it was clear that it was a fish. A perch, even.
A wave of relief washed over me, and I chuckled a bit as I thought about how scared and irrational I had just been. I was still surprised that I had caught it with a baitless hook, but stranger things has happened.
With one final tug, the fish left the water, and I lifted it into the boat with ease.
However, it was at this moment that the smile faded from my lips, and the feeling of relief was extinguished.
Because what lay before me was perhaps a fish, but definitely not a common perch.
The creature wriggling in front of me was quite large, maybe ten inches long and reasonably chubby. But its color was unlike anything I had ever seen.
It was pitch black. Not the dark green that often transitions to black as in most perch, but completely black, like the scales of a snake.
Moreover, the fish’s eyes were abnormally large, disproportionate to its body, and its black pupils were surrounded by a pale, bloodshot white. In a panic, the black pupils moved around in the eyeball, as if my catch was searching for something with its gaze.
Its mouth was also black, and behind the open lips, I could see sharp ivory-white teeth, much larger than anything I had seen on such a small fish before.
I’m not sure what I was thinking; I should have thrown it back into the water. But instead, I grabbed one of the oars and gave the fish a good blow to the head with the end of the shaft. Its tail stopped flapping, and I leaned back in the boat.
Now I noticed how tired I was, and how empty my mind was after the struggle with the fish. I had probably also become a little tipsy after those three beers.
Without really thinking about what I was doing, I started rowing back to the reedy shore. The black fish lay beside me with its bloodshot eyes seemingly staring up at the gray darkening sky.
I noticed how I repeatedly glanced down at it, finding it difficult to tear my gaze away, and a few times, I had to adjust my course because, in my absent-mindedness, I was rowing in the wrong direction.
An uneasy feeling filled me, like when you lie awake at night and can’t sleep because you’re thinking about a sad memory or lost love.
Why didn’t I just throw the fish overboard? I can’t explain it. Why didn’t I just get in the car and drive to town, book a room at the small hotel, and spend the rest of the evening eating junk food and watching TV?
Why did I put that fish in a bucket and took it back to the cabin? Why did I bring it into the house?
The sight of it, lying there on the kitchen table with an old newspaper beneath it, made me feel sick. It seemed larger now than it had in the boat. Perhaps it was the yellow light from the kitchen lamp, but the fish also appeared even blacker, as if it radiated pure darkness. Was it really dead?
I sat down in the kitchen chair. Outside, the autumn darkness had settled like a wet blanket over the cabin. I cautiously picked up the knife I had laid out earlier. The fish was in front of me, black with giant bloodshot eyes, with its small pupils gazing upward.
I placed my hand on it, the fish was ice-cold.
My hand trembled as the blade approached the fish’s tail. Why would I even bother gutting it? There was no way I would want to eat it.
The moment the blade touched the fish, I saw something out of the corner of my eye, outside the window. My entire body jerked, and I looked outside. It was dark out, really dark. The first thing I saw was just my own pale face reflected in the window. I saw myself sitting there with the knife and my hand on the black fish. But after a couple of seconds, my eyes adjusted, and I could see out into the autumn night.
And far off, down by the lake, I saw something that made my heart skip a beat.
A light.
Not the light of a lantern or a flashlight, this was something else. It was a small, round light, blue, cold and perfectly still.
I turned to check if there might be something in the cabin causing a light reflection on the window when my gaze immediately snapped back to the fish.
Fear had now truly taken hold of me. I could swear that for a millisecond, the fish’s small pupils were directed at me, while the sharp white teeth were exposed behind its open mouth.
It must have been my imagination, right? Was it the cabin’s light playing tricks on me? I shivered all over.
I didn’t dare turn my back on the fish again, so I took a few steps back and looked outside once more. There was no doubt about it. There was a flickering little blue light somewhere out there. I stared at the light, I don’t know for how long.
Then, I understood everything.
For the first time in several hours, I felt completely calm, and a soft smile spread across my tired face. I walked over to the kitchen table and placed my hand on the fish once more. It wasn’t cold anymore. I saw the pupil twitch, and my smile grew wider.
I lifted it up and headed out the cabin door, not even bothering to close it. It didn’t matter anymore.
My cat Milton bolted out of the door and ran into the forest as if he was trying to get as far away from the lake as he could. He knew.
With determined steps, humming an unknown tune, I walked barefoot on the wet gravel road and onto the path leading down to the lake. Far in front of me, that cold blue light was still visible. Everything was so clear to me now.
The fish now felt almost warm in my hand, and I could feel it making gentle, small twitches that traveled up my arm. Even though it was pitch black in the spruce forest, I could almost see and feel those large eyes staring at me.
My bare feet sank into the moss as I took step after step closer to the light, and eventually, I could see the lake in front of me. Silent and dark. In the middle of the lake, just below the surface, I could see the faint blue light.
The rowboat was there, but I didn’t care about it.
Instead, I held the fish tightly and stepped into the cold water. Slowly, I began to wade in. The smell from below, the damp and musty odor, reached my nostrils.
“Beware of the old lake, it’s bottomless.”
The words echoed within me. As the bottom disappeared beneath my feet and I started swimming, and the fish, still in my grasp, became even more restless.
“Almost there,” I whispered, and a trickle of murky lake water entered my mouth, making me cough.
The light came closer and closer.
Soon, I was right above it. I was filled with warmth and calmness. I let go of the fish, and it quickly disappeared beneath me.
And then came the moment I had been waiting for.
Long cold, slimy fingers gently gripped my ankle. The grip wasn’t tight or violent, but more like a caress. An icy caress that, effortlessly and without resistance, slowly pulled me downward.
The last thing I saw was the dark November sky.
The last thing I felt was the bottomless lake enveloping me and the ancient water filling my lungs.