There’s a place on Lake Huron, where the dark blue water sings to young women. It is said that if you walk the shores of Lake Huron at night, the spirit of a young girl who lost her betrothed to the darkness of the great lake’s depth will call to you until you meet her at the bottom of her watery grave. It is said that she herself made this journey into the cold lonesome waters of Lake Huron, on a crisp November night. The Witch of November had claimed another seaworthy ship, and by extension, the young girl.
Now, I’d never believed in the Witch of November, or that this girl had really met her end by the waters of Lake Huron. Regardless of my beliefs before, I do believe in the witch of November now, and I believe she’s different than any of the forlorn souls of those left behind could have ever guessed.
Growing up in a place like Michigan, death is a normal part of life. People freeze to death alone in their homes every winter. Many have collapsed while standing on the assembly line, making your cars. And many more have perished on our Great Lakes. It seems like a thing of the past to be lost in these bleak waters, but you’d be surprised.
Two years ago, I moved away from my lakeside home after something unthinkable happened.
At the time, I was seeing a man, Doug, who worked with my father on a surveying team. They’d go out on the lake every day, and report the conditions to a database for larger boats. It was an early November day, around eight in the morning, when heavy gales descended upon their boat. A storm ensued, and by the end of it, all that was left was an unused life jacket and a lifeboat ripped in half by the waves.
I moved away to bury my grief in the moment, and adventure. It wasn’t until a family friend contacted me, asking me to come home to look after my mother and younger siblings, that I returned. Time had changed me, made me stronger and less self-absorbed. I took this return to my loved ones, and to the shores of the lake that had destroyed my family, as the next great challenge. If only I knew what a challenge it would be.
My days were a lot different than before I left. I filled them with cooking and cleaning for my family. At the end of the day, I would find myself sitting by the water, staring out at its seemingly endless volume.
Somewhere between the finality of the depths staring back at me, and the absence of a greater power giving meaning to my loss, a monster began to form.
The monster was grief, the widow’s wail in the night, calling to her man forever compressed within icy waters. She was a force I would wrestle with on a cold November morning.
It was almost the anniversary of my family’s tragedy, and I had put the little ones to bed early. I sat on the shore, this time accompanied by my mother. We were sharing drinks, and stories of the men that had left us behind.
The sun began to set, and my mother excused herself to go back into the house and tuck in for the night. This left me alone, staring into the darkening visage of Lake Huron. Its deep blue waters licked the shore before me, erasing the mosaic of the sand before it had laid out. I stared, musing at the futility of the lives spent on these shores until the sun had long since gone down.
I was staring down at my boots when I felt the wind start to pick up, and rip at the many layers I had on. I settled further into the wool blanket I draped around my shoulders. I leveled my gaze to the water before me and saw something stirring in the distance.
A thick waft of fog was rolling above the water line. I was transfixed on the development, following it intently with my eyes. The fog rolled onward, toward the shore and subsequently, me. The subject of my gaze was misty and white. There was a swirling quality about it, and I could now see that there was an object at the center. A familiar surveying boat was at the center of this fog, and accompanying it was a familiar sense of dread.
My throat was thick with a sob that threatened to break as I watched the boat drift solemnly across the bleak water. Almost unconsciously, I found myself standing. Then, with one slow shuffle after another, I was descending into the frigid water before me. The prick of the nearly freezing water didn’t register as tears began to fall freely from my eyes.
Before I registered what was happening, I was waist-deep in dark, cold water, and wading toward the all too clear image of the ship that haunted me. Finally, I stopped in my tracks as my brain caught up with my body. What I was seeing was impossible, and what I was doing was ridiculous. I couldn’t swim right up to a boat that couldn’t possibly be there.
I stopped in my tracks and took in my surroundings, trying to ground myself and process what I was seeing. I looked all around me, and then I looked to the water right in front of me. There, in the water right in front of me, was the dark shape of a woman in the water. She was staring up at me like an unnatural reflection in the water, but it wasn’t a reflection of me. It was a woman with slick, oily skin as dark as night, hollow black holes for eyes, and long braided hair. Her mouth was agape, in a kind of silent scream. I began to back up, looking between the boat and the woman. When I moved, her gaze followed, and the image of the ship flickered.
A whimper of fear escaped me, and I turned around to book it out of the water. As soon as I turned my back to the sight before me, I felt cold wet hands wrap around my midsection. All of a sudden, I was being pulled back into the water.
A force beyond my comprehension was pulling me back into the water, pressed against my form and breathing a cold breath against my bare neck. Her breath was rancid, and the air was foul. The body pressed against mine was thin and frail, thus exhibiting unnatural strength. Overpowering me, the thin arms pulled me beneath the surface of the water.
When my head went below the icy water, my body tensed up and released a burst of energy. I was suddenly kicking and screaming for freedom. When I opened my mouth, cold water filled my mouth and then my lungs. Now fully panicked, I twisted my body to face this terror that had pulled me under. Seeing her under the water, she looked completely different. Her skin was no longer slick like oil, but instead smooth and youthful. Where she had displayed hollow caskets for eyes before, she now had intense deep brown eyes. The woman’s hair was also done in beautiful black braids that floated around her like the wings of an angel. Clad in a pure white dress that looked right out of a history book, she did resemble an angel. However, her face was twisted in a mask of hatred as she clawed at me and continued to try and pull me under with her.
I felt myself getting dizzy as my lungs begged for mercy, and I knew I had to act. The woman went to grapple with me again, and when she did, I pressed my fingers into her eyes.
I pressed as hard as I could, as if I was pressing ice out of a freezer tray, and I heard a sick pop. The woman tried to scream, but I couldn’t hear anything under the water. I kicked away from her and pulled myself up to the surface, gasping for air. I oriented myself towards the shore, and shed the wool blanket I carried with me so it wouldn’t hold me down.
I crawled desperately to shore and stuck a finger down my throat, forcing myself to heave up lake water. When I could feel myself regaining full facilities, I turned around to look at the scene I had left behind. There was no fog, no ship. But there was a dark oily mass, with hollow pockets for eyes, bearing into my soul, head barely bobbing out of the water.
I scrambled inside, locking every door and window twice.
The next day, I had a long talk with my mother about letting go, and we decided to move inland. I’ve had enough dealings with the Witch of November.