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The Mystery of Branson Glen by Lelia Thomas
There were no birds singing in Branson Glen that afternoon. A stillness had settled over the forest and lake. Being the end of October, many of the glen’s creatures had begun migrating south, taking their now larger families with them, as well as their howls and calls. It was so silent that it scared Kate slightly, so that she looked over her shoulder several times before coming to the lake.
She had not been here for many years, and it had not been as cool the last time. When had it been? July, perhaps August. Her mind had been kind enough to let her forget some things. It had been hot, though, she knew, even into the night. She could remember the stench of sweat and the buzz of mosquitoes.
No breeze disturbed the water, and few fish made kiss rings at its surface. The air felt crisp, as though winter were clawing away at autumn, soon to draw the life out of everything around her. Branson Glen became a haunting, depressing place in wintertime, and so she was glad she only felt the coming of winter now, than all of winter itself.
Taking a deep breath, she slipped out of her shirt and pants, and then her underwear. It felt primal to stand like that, exposed to nothing but nature, an unforgiving entity known to restore and destroy many that crossed its path. Kate wondered how many had stood naked before its beauties and horrors in the past; she wondered how many stood as she did then.
She breathed hard until she got used to the water. It was colder to the rest of her body than it had been to her fingers or toes.
When the water reached her waist, she let herself sink in completely, her black curls floating above, slithering on the surface like a tangle of snakes.
Underwater, fish darted away from her hands as she stroked back and forth. There was a fold-away picnic chair at the lake bottom, as well as a few mobile phones and a colorful, burst beach ball. Kate imagined the children that might have played with it–a girl and a boy, teenagers perhaps. Their relentless teasing, which had surely only ever been about puppy love, had led to the beach ball’s popping. She imagined the distant sadness and disappointment that might have been felt, a remnant of childhood emotions upon the sight of a broken, much-loved toy.
She swam upward when her lungs began to protest. Breaching the surface, her pale skin contrasted starkly against the green-black water, with its reflections of the surrounding trees. Her face was wet, and she was crying, despite herself. Neither time nor her mind had erased all memories.
The sun was setting, and as the glen became colder, so too did the lake. Kate’s teeth chattered, and her wrinkled fingers felt stiff, but she stayed, both adoring and despising the many thoughts that raced through her head as she floated.
Her parents would be wondering where she was, and she was sure she had heard her phone vibrate from the shore numerous times since getting into the water. She had told them she would come home for the weekend, and a small part of her felt guilty for having turned her commitment into a lie. She hadn’t planned to be here, crying and floating on the cold water, but she had taken the left turn on her way home, not the right, and so here she was. No one would think to find her here, not after everything she had been through and not after she had led everyone to believe it was a pain of the past.
After some time, there no way of knowing how long she had been at the glen. The stars told her it was night, but they were silent otherwise. It could be minutes or hours until sunrise; she could not be quite sure. Nature had little sense of time, and so it gave her little indication of it. However, she thought it was maybe near midnight when she saw the four lights in the west. And even after years of having therapists tell her it had been two cars that night long ago, she knew the lights did not come from any car–not then and not now.
Branson Glen felt colder still, as it had felt hotter then. She saw one of the many-armed creatures bend in the distance, a silhouette before the bright lights. It touched the water, and immediately she felt a shift, a violent jerk at the very atoms that made up the lake. They were so powerful, that not even nature could control them.
She remained as still as she could, though her body rocked back and forth. She had stopped crying when she saw the lights. The dried tears made it feel as though she had a mask on, and yet only once had she felt so real. There were no clothes here, and there were no lies.
Kate did not regret taking the left turn as she was forcefully drawn under. Her black curls were the last to be taken, and they slithered on the surface like a tangle of snakes.
Details
My first short story in a long while. I like to give my readers the chance to make the story fit to their lives and meanings, so I rarely give out too much information about what I was thinking when writing my pieces. However, I will say that it is about making choices that are true to yourself, so that you will have few (and hopefully no) regrets.
I also hereby declare that I think I am officially the first person to refer to the ripples caused by fish “kiss rings.” So there. I’m proud of that one.