The Curse By The Lake

————-Authors Note—————

Welcome, dear reader, to a chilling tale born from the depths of my own restless nightmare. Within the haunting mist of a dark, fog-drenched lake, a short song awaits, echoing themes of abuse, cursed existence, revenge, and hope. Prepare yourself for a journey through shadows and malevolence, as this story unveils unsettling nightmares and leaves an indelible mark upon your soul.

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THE CURSE BY THE LAKE

There were three brothers, Samuel, Arthur, and Thomas, bound by blood and burdened by the same baleful birth. Born beneath the pale moonlight, they were begotten by a mother whose life was lost in the throes of childbirth’s cruel grip.

The folk of the forsaken lake town of Corsi whispered of a curse that clung to the brothers, a curse woven by the threads of their mother’s tragic demise. Yet, in an era when the birth of three hale and hearty triplets was a rarity, supernatural forces were not to blame. Instead, they were ensnared in the clutches of a more mundane but no less malignant curse—their detestable father.

Jerrick Nothmen, a wealthy landowner who amassed his fortune through the construction of stately abodes by the bewitching lake aramont, had never intended to sire three sons. His ambition was to rear a solitary heir, one who would carry forth the family name. Thus, when fate bestowed upon him the unexpected gift of triplets and claimed his cherished wife, the flames of his heart twisted into seething anger, extinguishing any flicker of love or compassion that may have lingered. Not that he had been a benevolent man before.

Those under Jerrick’s employ trembled in trepidation, for his wrath was a tempest, swift to strike even at the slightest slip. Once, in the midst of a biting winter’s chill, while repairs on the row houses were underway, a dock worker dared to refuse venturing onto the treacherous ice to retrieve wayward tools that had slipped from his grasp and skated beyond reach. The ice, a fragile sheet barely an inch thick, threatened to shatter beneath the weight of any creature, yet Jerrick was insistent. With his cane as his scepter of command, he struck the hapless man relentlessly, until the wretched soul begrudgingly ventured onto the ice, seeking respite from further lashes.

As Jerrick bellowed his abuses, the worker stepped onto the ice, only to succumb to the clutches of a watery tomb, frozen and unforgiving. No search was conducted, no effort exerted to recover the lifeless form; it was deemed a futile expenditure of time. The cane, an emblem of Jerrick’s presence, announced his arrival with a resounding thump against the floor. Its body, painted in matte black, bore the likeness of a particularly malevolent raven, its polished brass head gleaming with malice. It was through the raven’s beak that Jerrick dispensed the cruelest of torments.

Pain, a perverse pleasure, was Jerrick’s sustenance, and the agony he beheld as the triplets ripped his wife apart filled him with a sickening delight that would repulse even the vilest of creatures. This perverse joy persisted through the screams and convulsions until the midwife and doctor, with solemn countenances, conveyed the grim tidings that his wife would not survive the harrowing birth. His sole inquiry lingered in the air, a despairing plea: “How, in God’s name, am I expected to tend to three infernal beings?”

His actions following the chilling arrival of the children mirrored that of a prison warden. He kept them locked away, concealed from the world, permitting only a nurse to attend to their needs. Handsomely remunerated, she cared for the trio as if they were her own, for they might as well have been. During their tender years, when natural curiosity overpowered them, Jerrick would inflict brutal punishments upon them, wielding his cane as an instrument of torment.

One fateful night, as a tempestuous storm held all within the confines of the Nothmen mansion, the hired nurse—her name forgotten by Jerrick, leading him to spew a derogatory epithet reserved for a female canine—devised a game to assuage the children’s fear of the thunder’s menacing growls.

Games were Annabelle’s forte, and though her name eluded Jerrick’s memory, it resided firmly within the hearts of the three boys. Her name symbolized kindness and beauty in their desolate, wintry world—Annabelle, an ethereal embodiment of warmth.

At the age of twenty-three, Annabelle, unable to bear children of her own, dedicated her life to nurturing the offspring of others. The radiant smiles the triplets bestowed upon her brought her more joy than all the golden treasures she received for her services combined. Annabelle cherished the triplets, and they, in turn, adored her. Amongst the trio, Samuel, the most inquisitive of the pack, struggled to articulate her name, opting instead for “Angel.” And indeed, in the eyes of the three, she embodied the celestial grace of an angel. Her hair, a resplendent sight amidst the predominantly brunette tresses of the local women, cascaded like a golden sunset, radiating celestial light on the most auspicious of days. Her smile possessed the power to melt even Satan’s heart, and her voice, soft yet tinged with a husky timbre, evoked a sense of warmth and security. She was truly a divine emissary, sent by God Himself to this forsaken land, tasked with caring for these accursed children.

On this tempestuous night, bathed in the flickering glow of candlelight, Annabelle initiated her game with the boys—a whimsical rendition of hide and seek, infused with a twist. Annabelle would conceal herself within the vast expanse of the mansion, and the boys would endeavor to find her. Given the mansion’s sprawling dimensions, Annabelle had to provide hints, indicating traces of her whereabouts through her melodious songs. Her singing voice, capable of traversing great distances, possessed an otherworldly allure, surpassing even her regular tone, as if plucked from the celestial choir itself.

“As you voyage the vast seven seas, I shall patiently await, wait for thee, and only grace you with my smile once your quest to find me is complete,” sang Annabelle, her voice weaving through the air like a siren’s call.

The boys reveled in this enchanting game, tirelessly scouring the halls and chambers for the captivating Annabelle. Upon discovering her hiding place, all four would collapse into fits of joyous laughter, illuminating the darkness that shrouded the dwelling. Yet, no amount of laughter could penetrate the stony heart of the loathsome man they reluctantly acknowledged as father.

Jerrick begrudgingly tolerated this game, dismissing it as yet another frivolous pastime, an unworthy indulgence of the idle children. Oh, how he despised them, his own flesh and blood, whom he kept solely to perpetuate his venomous lineage. “You are turning these boys into worthless buffoons!” he would scream at Annabelle, his words lashing out like a whip, causing tears to well in her beautiful blue eyes. Nevertheless, Annabelle stood resolute, unyielding in her conviction. “Children have the right to revel in their innocence, Mr. Nothmen,” she insisted. “How else shall they come to know the essence of true joy?” In response to her audacious defiance, Jerrick struck her thrice with the raven-headed cane—once for her impudence and twice for good measure.

Annabelle bore these abusive acts with a heavy heart, recognizing them as the price she had to pay to bestow upon these boys the love their mother had been denied the chance to give. For three long years, she struggled, while the boys reveled in the brief moments of innocent joy she could provide. Nevertheless, in the face of this adversity, Annabelle drew upon a strength that could have moved mountains. For women, as she knew, were far stronger than the men who dealt in hatred.

Tonight, with the storm raging outside, pummeling the mansion with rain and wind, causing the timbers to creak and groan as if the very spirits of the dead were awakening to bear witness to the living, Annabelle summoned that strength, unbeknownst to her, for the last time. Jerrick, as usual, occupied his wingback chair by the roaring fireplace, his glass of cognac in hand. His patience frayed by the incessant singing, he deemed it a pointless annoyance. “It isn’t even a proper song,” he grumbled, every word of that infernal rhyme like a hammer striking a nail. The laughter, especially, irked him, for if there was anything Jerrick loathed more than wasting time, it was laughter.

“What good was it to spend one’s time on this earth, laughing and making noise like a bleeding moron?” he pondered, occasionally vocalizing his thoughts. His irritation soon escalated into anger as he sat, hunched by the fire, Annabelle’s voice grating against his darkened, hate-filled ears. A bolt of lightning illuminated his face, which twisted from a stony frown into a corrupt, drunken grimace.

His lips parted, a snarl escaping like a sentinel hound guarding its prize. In a fit of fury, he flung the cognac, its crystal vessel colliding with the tiled hearth, shattering into shimmering shards and showering the wooden floor with its rich contents. Seizing his cane, he rose with purpose, a tempest of murderous wrath brewing within him, and embarked on a path toward hapless Annabelle.

Unbeknownst to the boys, their father had descended into a loathsome abyss of inebriated ire, poised to unleash a savage assault upon their innocent heads should they cross his path. Fortunately, they sought refuge, shielding their faces in their arms, their voices counting to one hundred in the safety of the dining area, far removed from Annabelle’s whereabouts. She, cleverly concealed in her chosen sanctuary, mused on her ingenuity, anticipating the arduous search the boys would undertake in their quest to discover her in the labyrinthine attic. When they finally stumbled upon her, she envisioned laughter and embraces, perhaps descending to the kitchen where she would conjure a delectable treat before bedtime approached. And at the hour of slumber, she would regale them with their cherished bedtime story, a tomb woven with tales of valiant knights, formidable dragons, and fair maidens. Peering from her covert position behind a weathered armoire, her ears caught the creak of the attic stairs.

“Surely they have not yet unearthed my secret haven; my hide-and-seek skills must be faltering,” Annabelle whispered to herself, her voice a melodic hush, while her heart sang a song of hope. The creaks grew louder, their resonance deepening, surpassing the weight of a mere child. Rising from her concealment, she beheld the visage of her employer, contorted in a grotesque grimace.

Lightning split the sky, illuminating his countenance, his eyes ablaze with a crimson inferno, as if the very fires of damnation possessed him. Annabelle sensed an unfathomable and irreparable wrongness, and all she could do was unleash a piercing scream that echoed through the air. The raven, like a harbinger of doom, relentlessly pecked at her skull, driving agony into her being with each brutal strike. Her vision obscured by the veil of her own blood, her once-golden tresses now drenched in scarlet, she plummeted to the floor, time stretching mercilessly in her tormented mind, awash with pain and bewildering disarray. As the crimson tide spread, allowing her a glimpse of her assailant, she beheld his twisted smile, reveling in his sadistic dance, thrusting the raven down repeatedly until the light of life faded from her eyes. Amidst the rain and gusting wind, Jerrick callously forced Annabelle’s lifeless form, laden with a weight of a sack of bricks, into the unforgiving depths of the lake.

The boys, forever bereft of finding Annabelle, were banished to their beds after enduring the sting of the cane upon their tender flesh, denied both a treat and the solace of a bedtime story. Jerrick maintained his facade, weaving a tale with practiced ease: “The girl must have sought more prosperous employment elsewhere, perhaps offering her serenades in the brothels,” he would smugly declare to those who dared to inquire. The prevailing consensus settled upon the notion that the poor girl, unable to endure further abuse, had vanished from their midst. Heartbroken, the boys found themselves adrift in a world devoid of Annabelle’s tender presence, left to navigate the frigid emptiness and endure the wrathful drunken tirades of the malevolent jailer they were compelled to call father.

Thus, life trudged on for several desolate months, Jerrick’s hollow existence continuing unabated, his heart encased in stone, content in his role as a merciless slayer. However, the harmony of his twisted reality was shattered when strains of singing pierced the air once more.

One still night, the boys had succumbed to slumber, their innocent dreams shielding them from the looming malevolence that swirled within Jerrick’s mind. Clad in his opulent bed robes, he reclined by the crackling fire, a glass of cognac in hand, entranced by the flickering flames that danced and wove their ethereal tapestry. Dark thoughts had plagued him in recent days, contemplating the notion of selecting only one son as his rightful heir. As he refilled his glass, determination solidified like ice in his veins, resolving to drown the two he deemed unworthy, submerging their insignificant bodies within the depths of the forbidding waters. A wicked delight surged within him, envisioning the life force drain from their vexing little forms. With a twisted grin, he settled back into his seat, swiftly downing the cognac in one audacious gulp. Yet, his mirth evaporated abruptly when it came.

Barely a whisper carried upon the wind, its tone sweet yet haunting, distant as if emanating from the very shores of the lake.