I never imagined myself living in a place like Phoenix. It’s pretty much the exact opposite of the town where I grew up. Blackwater, Minnesota is my hometown. It’s a tiny place, difficult to even find on a map. There’s a diner, a tire shop, and a lake, Blackwater Lake. The climate is pretty much the exact opposite of Phoenix. Winters are cold and brutal. Summers are surprisingly humid. And it rains. It rains a lot.
I always enjoyed summers in Blackwater. Usually, I spent my summers getting into trouble with my older brother, Eric. On particularly hot days we’d hang out down by the lake. It wasn’t a particularly impressive lake. It was slimy, green, and always managed to smell bad. Reeds grew across the bottom, and rather than sand, underneath the reads was muck that would get stuck between your toes. In the middle of the lake, was a large rock, sticking up out of the water. It wasn’t much, but it would cool you off on a hot summer day.
Sometimes my uncle and dad would start a fire down by the shore. We’d roast hot dogs over the open flame. My Uncle Ron was a natural storyteller. After dinner, Eric and I would always beg him to tell stories. He’d have us hanging on his every word, telling us about some monster that lived in the woods. Eric was four years older than me, and would tease me for getting so scared. I’d try and act brave, try pretend like I was scared, but inevitably, that night, I’d want to sleep in Eric’s room with him.
One of our favorite stories was about how Blackwater got its name. Uncle Ron would always save it for last. He always timed it perfect, just after the bright red of the sunset had faded into the deep purple of evening. The fire would be almost gone, just a few glowing red embers casting their shadows around our little camp site on the shore. He’d scoot his chair close to the edge of the dying fire, letting the smoke and dim light shine up on his face. Then, he would say:
“Should I tell you how Blackwater got its name?” And of course, we would always scoot in closer and nod our heads enthusiastically. Then, he would begin.
“Some places in America have old names, names given to them by the Native Americans. When the settlers came, they took the names along with the land. Blackwater took its name from the natives too, but it isn’t an old name.
Settlers first came to this place in the early 1800’s. It was called, the Land of Springs. The Native Americans who lived here were nomadic, and were friendly to the settlers. They told them though, if they were to share the land, they had to respect it. The lake, they said, had a spirit. That spirit was good and pure. Impure, unclean men had no business in disturbing the spirit that dwelt there. The chief of the tribe told them that they were not to disturb the lake. Take water from the river, take water from wells, but leave the lake be.
At first, the settlers had no problem with this. As they built their houses, they dug wells, they’d found water and seemed to have plenty of it. For awhile, things were good. Then, one day, the chief told them that his people were going to leave for awhile, travel south. He told them they would return, to take care of the land. Soon after the natives left, the settlers’ wells went dry. They needed water to plant their crops. They could make their way to the river, but the river was miles away. The lake was right here. So, they took water from the lake.
When the chief and his people returned, they were furious. Somehow, the chief knew that the settlers had taken water from the lake. He lead his people in an attack against the settlement. Well, the settlers were armed to the teeth. They had enough guns to supply a small army. So that’s what they did. There was a battle, and the settlers won.
The defeated chief, with his dying breath, warned the settlers that they would regret disrespecting the spirit of the lake.
But the settlers weren’t just content to kill the tribe’s warriors. No, they went to the nearby village. They burned down tents, they massacred everyone they came across. Then, they heaped their bodies in a pile and burned them. 52 men, women, and children were killed that day. They say that the smoke was visible from neighboring settlements.
But that’s not the end of it. Blackwater was still the Land of Springs.
Well, one day, a group of soldiers was traveling through the area. They’d been fighting with the Dakota and rode up on the settlement looking for supplies. They say they were still outside of town when the smell hit them. They didn’t find anyone in town. At least, they didn’t find anyone alive. What they did find were the bodies. Bloated, pus-filled, decaying bodies covered in algae and seaweed scattered throughout town. Some were laying dead in the street, others on the floor of the saloon, they found some laying in the fields where they’d been working.
They had a medic examine them. They’re eyes, noses, and mouths oozed smelly, black pus. If you poked or prodded them, more would ooze out. Finally, the medic determined what had killed them. They’d all drowned, the entire town. The soldiers thought it must’ve been the Dakota. Perhaps they’d drowned them all and left the bodies as some kind of warning. Then, the soldiers went to the lake, and they found her.
Sitting in the middle of the lake, on the rock, was a young girl. They never figured out her name, because she’d essentially become mute. She’d lost her ability to speak, except for two words. Fifty two. She said it over and over again. No matter what the soldiers said or did, she just kept saying it.
‘Fifty two. Fifty two. Fifty two.’
The girl died shortly after that. She refused to eat. She just kept repeating the number over and over again. The soldiers believed the land had been cursed, and as a warning, they named the lake and this area Blackwater, as a warning to others. Of course, over time, the story was forgotten. More settlers moved in, built homes, started a town. But the name stuck. Only a few people remembered parts of the story, even fewer remembered the whole thing.
Still, they say, if you stand on the shore of the lake late at night, you can hear the girl whispering the numbers.
‘Fifty two. Fifty two. Fifty two.’”
By then, the fire would’ve gone out. Dad would dump some water on the ashes. We would pack up and go home. Sometime in the night, I would wake up and feel scared. I’d sneak down to Eric’s room and get into bed with him. He’d grumble and try to push me out, but eventually, he’d relent. Laying there, curled up next to Eric, hiding under the blankets, I always swore I could hear it. Just barely audible, I was sure I could hear that ghostly voice whispering, “Fifty two. Fifty two. Fifty two.”
No matter how scared I was, I always asked my uncle to tell that story. Now, I wish I hadn’t. I wish I never heard that story.
It was summer time. My brother had just graduated from high school. In just a few months he would be going off to college, so we were trying to spend as much time together as possible. We were sitting on the shore of the lake. It was hot and we had been swimming.
“Do you think you could make it to the rock?” Eric asked me. I was only 14, and not very strong. Still, I wanted to believe I could, especially if Eric wanted to try.
“Probably.”
“We’ve never been out there. Let’s try! I’ll race ya!” A race, even better. Eric always won these sorts of things, but I lied to myself, telling myself I might have a chance.
I hit the water with a splash and took off. The water was green and stagnant, it felt slimy against my skin. Eric was a few feet in front of me. From the shore, the rock didn’t look so far away. But now that I was in the water, trying to get to it, it felt nearly impossible to reach. My arms were getting heavy, but I had tunnel vision. I kept pushing. Finally, I was coming up out of the water. My lungs were heaving. My whole body was sore. I slipped as I stood up onto the rocks and lifted my hands into the air. I had made it. I had beat my brother.
As I looked around, something felt off. Eric wasn’t on the rock. But it seemed like Eric wasn’t in the water, either. There were other people, splashing and playing in the lake, but they were much closer to shore. For a second, I thought I’d see him waving from back across the lake. Maybe he had turned back and let me swim out on my own. Maybe he was playing some sort of prank. But I didn’t see him anywhere.
Panic set in, and I was back in the water. The lake was deep out there, and the murky water made it nearly impossible to see. Keeping your eyes open underwater stung, and I couldn’t do it for more than a few seconds. I traced back our path that we’d swam out to the rock. Toward the bottom of the lake, I could see a shadow. Eric!
I swam to the surface and took huge gulps of air before diving back down toward him. I felt around near the bottom of the lake. I could feel his body. All around him were the thick weeds that covered the bottom of the lake. Frantically, I pulled at him, tried to heave him up, but he was so much bigger than I was. Then, there was a tugging sensation. As I tried to pull him free from the reeds, something else was tugging against him. It was impossible to make out, but something was down there. Something was holding onto him.
My mind went to the girl, the entire drowned town. This lake had a spirit. The old chief had said so, my uncle had told us that story our whole lives. This lake was cursed. I pulled and pulled, refusing to let the lake take my brother. But it was no use. I wasn’t strong enough. My lungs burned as I clung desperately to what little air I had left. Looking up, I could see the light shining down from the surface of the lake. Whatever had him, whatever was down there in the murky darkness, refused to let Eric go.
So I let go.
They called it a freak accident. Rescuers were able to retrieve his body. The coroner said he must have had a cramp or muscle spasm, something that stopped him from swimming. Once he got tangled in the weeds, he couldn’t break free and drowned. Everyone tried to console me, they tried to tell me that by the time I got there, it was too late. They said it wasn’t my fault. But I knew it was. I knew I couldn’t save him.
We buried Eric a week and a half after his high school graduation.
I always maintained my story. Even when my parents told me I was wrong. Even when my dad told me to drop it. Even when Uncle Ron tried to tell me that he’d made that story up to scare us as kids. I knew what really happened. I know that the lake took him.
A few weeks after Eric passed, a big storm came through. I was laying on my bed in my room, just staring at the ceiling, listening to the thunder and the rain. I didn’t feel like doing anything. I didn’t feel anything. I was empty. I couldn’t save Eric. He’d protected me his whole life, and when he’d needed me most, I couldn’t protect him.
The wind picked up and rattled my window. A flash of lightning cut the sky, and lit up the backyard for an instant. I got out of bed and went to the window to watch. There was another flash. The rain was coming down hard, turning the back yard into a giant mud puddle. The trashcan had blown over and trash bags scattered across the yard. There was a person-
There was a person.
There, in the darkness, I could just barely make out a figure standing in our back yard. I pressed my face into the window, trying to see out through the rain. There was another flash of lightning. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, and yet there was a part of me that did want to believe. Standing down in the back yard was my brother.
I raced down the stairs and, not bothering to put on any shoes or a raincoat, I burst into the back yard. Even in the summer, the rain was cold and wet. Everything was so loud. The sounds blended together in one big cacophony like an angry white noise.
“Eric!” I called, “Eric, is that you?” I yelled and yelled, louder and louder. He was out there, I had seen him. I walked around the back yard, calling for him. Stepping the wrong way in the mud, I lost my footing. With a loud squelch, I landed in the mud puddle. As I stood up, I saw him. There, standing before me in the storm, was Eric.
He looked like something out of Uncle Ron’s stories. His skin looked ashen and loose, his eyes were sunken, and he looked bloated. Black goo leaked out of his eyes, his nose, and his mouth. As the rain pounded down around us in the darkness he just stood there, watching me. I was frozen in place. I didn’t know what I’d been expecting, not this. Certainly not this.
“Eric?” I said, trembling. Then, he moved. His movements were stiff, rigid, and it looked like he had to strain his whole body to move. There was a cracking noise as he moved toward me. His eyes met mine, never looking away. They were blurry, foggy, empty, dead.
I fell to my knees.
“Eric! Eric I’m so sorry! I’m sorry I couldn’t save you! Please forgive me.” His mouth opened slightly so that I thought he might say something. But instead of words, that black goo poured out of his mouth. Just behind him, I could make out another figure. She was dressed like an extra from Little House on the Prairie. Her features were the same as Eric’s and she made the same jerking motions as she moved toward me.
The girl. The girl from the rock.
The two of them stood over me. I stared up at them like a trapped animal. Unable to do anything else, unable to fully process what was happening, I just kept blubbering over and over again, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
There was a great cracking sound, and the girl’s jaw unhinged like a serpent. Black goo spilled out of her like vomit, dribbling onto her clothes. Her breath was labored and wheezing. There was a gurgling noise, and I soon realized she was trying to speak to me. Her teeth clacked together, as though she were just figuring out how her jaw worked. Then, she knelt down next to me.
I tried to look away. I didn’t want to see them, didn’t want to see the thing that had taken my brother or what he had become. It didn’t matter. I could smell her. Her breath was like rotting fish. Her wheezing was audible even through the rain. And then she spoke. She stood just above me and rasped into my ear.
“Fifty two.”
I don’t remember my parents finding me the next morning, or the ride to the hospital. The doctor explained that some confusion was common with what I was going through. Even though it was summer, the wind and rain had been enough to cause my body temperature to drop. The doctor said it was good that I’d gotten there so quickly.
I tried to explain to my parents what had happened, but they wouldn’t listen. They were scared, and they were hurt, and for a moment they were afraid they might lose me too. I felt guilty, but I had seen them. I had seen Eric and the girl.
My parents took me to therapy. I continued to see Eric and the girl every time it rained. Sometimes they would just stare into my windows. Other times they would wander around outside the house, pacing, waiting for me to come out. Their strange lurching motions terrified me and I’d normally hide somewhere when they did that. In the beginning, my therapists said things like “processing emotions” and “grieving.” Over time they started to use words like “post-traumatic stress” and “personality disorder.” They wanted to put me on medication. I refused.
Over time, I came to accept it. Somehow, Eric and I had become a part of the curse. I’d managed to escape it for the time being. But it still wanted me. Every time it rained, I would see them.
So, when I was 18, I applied to colleges in Arizona. I needed to get away from the rain, get away from my brother. The desert seemed like a perfect place to do that. After I graduated, I got a job in Phoenix.
My parents blame themselves. They think they just never got me the right help after Eric died. I don’t know what kind of help they could’ve gotten me. We still talk on zoom pretty often, but I live in Phoenix now.