Fear is all around us

Carlisle Pond

That infernal sound wakes me once again. At first I can't place it as I ascend from the murky depths of sleep. Then I hear it again as the fog is clearing – the familiar honking of a car horn.

"Not again," I murmur and turn over to face my wife, June, who is also stirring awake.

"What is it, Adam?" she whispers to me in a dry, hoarse voice.

"More pesky kids, I'm sure." I slip out from under the covers and proceed to the window facing the pond. I step behind the lace curtain and separate the blinds at eye level. There is a car about 50 yards away, turning around on the dirt road on the other side of the pond. Within seconds its taillights fade away in a dust cloud and finally disappear altogether behind the trees that line the front of our property.

I drop the blinds and curtain and make my way over to the nightstand next to my side of the bed to pick up my wristwatch. At the press of a button, its face glows, telling me it's 2:37 AM. I lie back down on my side of the bed, the spot still warm.

"All of this nonsense because of some stupid urban legend," I say in a frustrated and resigned tone. I feel June's hand rub my shoulder in that consoling way that I love so much about her. She always manages to keep me calm in times like this. I continue to mull over the events in my head until I finally find sleep again.

– – – – –

In 1983 there was an incident that took place on our property. We didn't live here at the time, and when we first moved in, we had no idea how much things would escalate regarding the infamy of this land. You see, we live in the old farmhouse out on Route 41. Yes, THAT farmhouse. Back when this was a thriving farm, it was owned by the Carlisle family. They had moderate success with it for many years, but began to experience a gradual decline in the late '70s. The farm soon began operating in the red, and the 1983 incident was the final nail in the coffin, so to speak.

On that fateful night in August of 1983, a pair of teenage lovers found their way onto the farmland – to the pond, to be exact. They were there for a bit of harmless fun, no doubt. Maybe a bit of drinking – maybe a bit of smoking – maybe a bit of making out or skinny dipping. Whatever it was, it didn't end well. Both of them somehow ended up drowning in the pond. Their bodies were recovered, but the investigation never determined why they had drowned.

Many rumors began to form as to how they'd died. These encompassed everything from a supernatural entity in the pond that would pull swimmers under the water – to a mysterious whirlpool that would suck people down – to aliens that had crash landed on the farm and were drowning people. If one could dream it up, it became a theory – and the weirder the better.

This is where the urban legend comes in. I don't know how or when it started, or by whom, but supposedly if you drive to the end of the dirt road on our property at night, right up to the edge of the pond with your headlights shining out over the water, and honk your horn three times, you will see an apparition of the two teens that drowned floating above the water – almost as if they were walking on top of the water.

Over the years it has become a popular activity born out of dares, hazing traditions and just plain boredom to attempt this nonsensical ritual in the hopes of catching a glimpse at the dead lovers over the water. Much to my and June's dismay.

– – – – –

I spend the morning standing out on the dock that overlooks the pond, hot coffee in hand. My breath is visible in front of me in the brisk air of late autumn. The trees on the other side of the pond look beautiful this time of year, especially when accented by the fog lingering above the water's surface. The flaming leaves of orange, red and yellow appear to rise up from the dense, opaque air. I hear footsteps as June joins me on the dock with her coffee.