The amber light of a kerosene lamp casts long shadows across the attic floorboards. Outside, the wind moans through barren November trees as Elizabeth Hayes carefully opens the weathered leather trunk she discovered in the corner of her grandmother’s attic.
The metal clasps creek with age, surrendering to reveal a collection of sepia toned photographs and yellowed papers, fragments of a forgotten past. This house has belonged to the Hayes family for four generations. Elizabeth narrates, her voice soft yet unwavering. “When my grandmother passed last month, I inherited not just the Victorian home that has stood on this land since 1897, but all its secrets, too.” Her fingers trace the dustcovered edges of a photograph album.
The leather binding is cracked, the gold lettering faded to near invisibility. She lifts it gently, as though handling a fragile bird, and sets it on her lap. “I never knew much about my family’s history,” she continues. Grandmother was always protective of the past.
“Some stories are better left untold,” she would say whenever I asked about the old portraits that lined our hallway. Elizabeth turns the first page of the album. The photographs inside are arranged with meticulous care, names and dates inscribed in elegant cursive beneath each image. Most are formal portraits. Stern-faced men in high collars, women in corseted dresses, children sitting unnaturally still for the long exposure times. But one photograph stands out.
Tucked between two pages, almost as if hidden, is a picture unlike the others. Not a formal portrait, but a candid scene. A family picnic beside a lake. The date inscribed below reads, “Summer outing, June 14th, 1901. I recognized my great-grandparents immediately, Elizabeth says, pointing to a handsome couple seated on a checkered blanket.
Thomas and Margaret Hayes. He was a successful banker in the county and she came from old money in Boston. They were the pillars of local society. The couple is surrounded by picnic accutraments typical of the era. A wicker hamper, china plates, crystal glasses for lemonade, and what appears to be a small silver samavar for tea.
Thomas wears a light summer suit with a boater hat tilted at a rakish angle while Margaret’s white lawn dress and parasol gleam in the sunlight. But it’s the children in the photograph that draw Elizabeth’s attention. Four of them arranged in a loose semicircle around their parents.
Two boys in sailor suits, a girl in a pinn dress with a large bow in her hair and a fourth child partially obscured by shadow standing slightly apart from the others. This is where things get strange. Elizabeth whispers, her finger hovering over the fourth child’s face. According to all family records, my great-grandparents only had three children.
William, born 1892, James, born 1894, and Charlotte, born 1897. She reaches for a family Bible resting nearby, its leather binding cracked and worn. Opening it to the family record pages, she traces her finger down the carefully inked entries. Thomas Hayes, born May 3rd, 1868. Margaret Blackwood, Hayes, born December 19th, 1872. Married April 11th, 1891.
Children: William Thomas Hayes, born February 2nd, 1892. James Edward Hayes, born September 17th, 1894. Charlotte Margaret Hayes, born July 30th, 1897. Three children, Elizabeth says, only three. Yet here in this photograph taken in 1901, there are clearly four. Who is this fourth child? And why is there no record of their existence? The camera pans closer to the photograph, focusing on the fourth child, a girl of perhaps eight or nine years, standing slightly apart from the others.
Her face is partially in shadow, but something about her stance, the way she holds herself, suggests she doesn’t quite belong. I might have dismissed it as a visiting cousin or a friend’s child, Elizabeth continues, but look at this. She turns the photograph over. On the back, in the same elegant handwriting, are the words Thomas, Margaret, William, 9, James, 7, Charlotte, 4, and Elellaner, 8, Ellaner. Elizabeth repeats the name slowly.
There is no Elellaner in any family record. No birth certificate, no death certificate, no mention in letters or diaries. It’s as if she existed only in this single moment. This one summer day in 1901, Elizabeth rises from her seat and moves to the attic window. Outside, twilight deepens the shadows across the expansive grounds of the Haye estate.
In the distance, she can see the same lake from the photograph, now partially hidden by a century’s growth of willows. “I needed to know who Ellaner was,” she says. “What happened to her? Why was she erased from family history? I had no idea that my search would uncover a tragedy so profound that it fractured my family for generations.
The scene shifts to the local county archives, housed in a neo gothic building of red brick and stone. Elizabeth sits at a wooden table surrounded by leatherbound volumes of birth records, death records, newspaper archives, and church registries. I started with the obvious, she explains, leafing through a volume of birth records.
If Eleanor was approximately 8 years old in 1901, she would have been born around 1893. But there’s no record of Margaret Hayes giving birth that year. She moves to the death records next. I thought perhaps Eleanor died young, a common tragedy in those days. Childhood mortality rates were devastatingly high. Dtheria, scarlet fever, influenza, any number of diseases could claim a child’s life with terrifying swiftness.
But the death records yield nothing. No. Elellaner Hayes died in the county between 1893 and 1901. No child matching her description was buried in the local cemetery. I widened my search, Elizabeth continues. Church records, school enrollments, newspaper mentions of family events, nothing.
It was as if Elellanar had never existed at all, except in that one photograph. The camera focuses on Elizabeth’s face, determination etched in the set of her jaw as she scans page after page of faded records. And then I found something, not about Eleanor directly, but about the day that photograph was taken, June 14th, 1901. She places a yellowed newspaper on the table. The headline reads, “Tragedy at Willow Lake.
Child drowns during family outing. The article doesn’t name the Hayes family specifically, Elizabeth says, her voice tight with emotion. Privacy was more respected then, especially for prominent families. But the details match, a family picnic at Willow Lake on that exact date, a child’s drowning despite desperate rescue attempts.
She reads from the article. Despite the father’s heroic efforts to save the child, the waters of Willow Lake claimed a young life yesterday afternoon. The family, prominent members of local society, request privacy in their time of grief. Funeral arrangements will be private. Elizabeth looks up, her expression troubled.
But if a haze child drowned that day, which one was it? William, James, and Charlotte all lived well into adulthood. I have photographs of them throughout their lives, records of their marriages, their children, their deaths at ripe old ages. It couldn’t have been one of them. She pauses. Unless Unless it was Elellanar.
But that still doesn’t explain why there’s no record of her birth or her death. Why she was erased so completely that even her drowning wasn’t officially documented as a Haze family tragedy. The scene shifts again. Elizabeth stands on the shore of Willow Lake at dusk. The water a sheet of burnished gold in the setting sun.
The same lake where the picnic took place. Where a child might have drowned over a century ago. I needed to understand what happened here. She says, “I needed to know who Elellanar was and why her existence was scrubbed from family history.” She turns to face the camera directly.
That’s when I decided to seek out the last living person who might know something. My great aunt Charlotte’s daughter Vivian, my grandmother’s cousin, now 92 years old and living in a nursing home across the state. The nursing home is a modern building, all plate glass and neutral colors. But Vivian Mercer’s room is a shrine to the past.
Antique furniture brought from home, walls covered with family photographs, shelves lined with leatherbound books. Viven herself is a tiny woman, bird boned and fragile, but her eyes are sharp with intelligence. So, you found the picnic photograph, she says without preamble when Elizabeth shows it to her. There’s no surprise in her voice. Only resignation. I always wondered if it survived the fire.
What fire? Elizabeth asks. The one my mother said in 1931, Vivien replies calmly. In the garden behind the house, she burned every photograph, every letter, every diary entry that mentioned Elellanar. She thought she got them all. So Eleanor was real. Elizabeth breathes. Who was she? What happened to her? Vivian’s gnarled fingers trace the outline of the fourth child in the photograph.
Elellanar Hayes, born October 31st, 1892, 8 months after William. Twins, you see. twins, Elizabeth echoes. But there’s no record. Because they didn’t want there to be, Vivian says simply. My grandfather, your great greatgrandfather Thomas, made sure of it. Paid officials to look the other way to create records that showed only Williams birth. Eleanor was a secret.
But why? Why would they hide her very existence? Viven’s eyes grow distant. You have to understand the times. The Hayes family was prominent, respected, and Eleanor was different from the beginning. Born with a call over her face, which the midwife saw as an omen. She didn’t cry when she entered the world, my mother told me.
Just stared with those strange knowing eyes. Different how, Elizabeth presses. She knew things, Vivien says softly. Things she shouldn’t have known, things that hadn’t happened yet. Started speaking in full sentences before she was two. would stare at empty corners and laugh at nothing.
Would tell visitors details about their private lives that a child couldn’t possibly know. Elizabeth frowns. That doesn’t seem reason enough to erase a child from history. It wasn’t. Not at first. They kept her hidden as much as they could. Private tutors instead of school, limited social engagements, explanations that she was delicate or nervous when she did appear in public, but they didn’t deny her existence.
Not until after what happened at the lake. Vivien falls silent, her roomy eyes fixed on the photograph. What happened at the lake, Vivien? Elizabeth asks gently. The picnic was my mother’s idea. Viven says at last. Charlotte was just four then. You understand? She wanted a special day with cake and games and a boat ride. It was supposed to be perfect.
The weather was beautiful, warm, but not hot. With just enough breeze to keep the mosquitoes away. She takes a shuddering breath. But Elellanar had been difficult that morning. She’d woken screaming from nightmares three nights in a row. Kept talking about the lady in the lake who was calling to her.
“My grandmother wanted to postpone the picnic, but my grandfather insisted they proceed.” “We can’t let her control our lives with her fancies,” he said. “So they went to the lake,” Elizabeth prompts when Viven falls silent again. “Yes.” Viven nods. Everything was fine at first. They ate lunch. cold chicken, deileled eggs, cucumber sandwiches, lemonade, and a sponge cake with strawberry preserves.
William and James played quits while Charlotte napped under the willows. Ellaner sat by herself, making a daisy chain and singing softly. Vivien’s voice drops to a whisper. That’s when the photographer arrived. He was new to the area, going from estate to estate, offering his services. Outdoor photography was still something of a novelty then.
My grandparents decided to have a family portrait taken to commemorate the day. The photograph I found, Elizabeth says. Yes, they arranged themselves just so. My grandmother fussed with everyone’s clothing, making sure they looked perfect.
The photographer had just set up his camera when Ellaner suddenly stood up and said clear as day, “She’s coming for me now. The lady in the lake.” A chill runs through the room despite the summer heat outside. “What happened next?” Elizabeth asks, though part of her doesn’t want to know. The photographer took the picture. That picture you have there. As soon as the flash powder ignited, Ellaner turned and walked straight into the lake.
No hesitation, no fear. Just walked in, her good shoes and white dress and all, as if someone was calling her name. My grandfather went in after her, of course, tore off his jacket and dove in. He was a strong swimmer, had been on the rowing team at Yale. But by the time he reached the spot where she’d gone under, there was no sign of her.
It was as if the lake had swallowed her hole. They searched for hours, called in men from neighboring estates, dragged the lake bottom. Nothing. Elellanar was gone. Elizabeth sits back, stunned, and then they erased her. Pretended she never existed. Vivien nods slowly. My grandfather made a decision that day. He believed.
truly believed that there had been something unnatural about Elellanar, that she had been touched by something beyond understanding. He couldn’t bear the questions, the gossip, the possibility that people might think there was something wrong with the Hayes bloodline. So, he used his influence, his money to erase her, removed her birth record, made sure there was no death certificate, swore the family to secrecy. The newspaper reported only that a child had drowned, no names given.
He even told the younger children, James and Charlotte, that they’d never had a sister named Elellanar, that any memories they might have of her were just confused dreams. But the photograph survived, Elizabeth says. Yes. Viven size. My mother, Charlotte, found it years later, hidden in my grandmother’s jewelry box after she died.
It triggered memories she’d been forced to suppress. She confronted my grandfather, who by then was an old man consumed by guilt. He finally told her everything. That’s when she tried to burn all evidence of Eleanor. No, Vivien shakes her head. That came later after what happened to her son. My brother, what happened to him? Elizabeth asks, a sense of dread building.
Richard was 8 years old in the summer of 1931, Viven begins, her voice trembling slightly. The same age Elellanar had been when she drowned. Mother had kept the photograph, you see. Kept it hidden, but couldn’t bring herself to destroy it. Richard found it one day became fascinated by the little girl in the picture.
The aunt he’d never known existed. He started having dreams about her. Said she was calling to him, asking him to come play with her by the lake. Mother was terrified, but father dismissed it as a child’s imagination until the morning they found Richard’s bed empty and his window open.
They found him by the lake, Elizabeth guesses, walking into the water just as Eleanor had 30 years earlier. Father managed to reach him in time, thank God. But Richard was different afterward. Distant, would stare at nothing for hours, would talk about Eleanor as if she were still alive, still waiting for him. That’s when mother burned everything connected to Elellaner or thought she did.
She was trying to protect Richard, to sever whatever connection had been established. It seemed to work. Richard recovered, grew up, married, had children of his own, but he never went near Willow Lake again. None of us did. Elizabeth sits in silence, trying to absorb everything she’s heard.
And you believe what? That Elellaner’s spirit remained in the lake. That she tried to call Richard to her. Vivien gives her a long, measuring look. I believe there are things in this world we can’t explain. Things that exist in the margins between what we know and what we fear. I believe Eleanor was special in ways my grandparents couldn’t understand.
And that fear made them do terrible things, not just to her memory, but to themselves. The guilt destroyed my grandfather. He drank himself to death by 1933 and the fourth child in the photograph. Elizabeth asks that is Eleanor. Yes, Vivien confirms. The last image of her ever taken just moments before she walked into the lake.
Elizabeth looks down at the photograph again, studying the fourth child’s face more carefully. There’s something unsettling about her expression. Not quite a smile, not quite a frown, but a look of expectation, as if she’s waiting for something only she can see. “Thank you for telling me this,” Elizabeth says finally. “I needed to know.
” Vivian reaches out suddenly, her bony fingers closing around Elizabeth’s wrist with surprising strength. “Why?” she demands, her eyes suddenly fierce. “Why did you need to know? Why did you go looking for her?” Elizabeth hesitates. I I’ve been having dreams since I moved into the house. Dreams about a little girl calling my name from the lake.
I thought they were just stress dreams from dealing with grandmother’s estate. But then I found the photograph. Viven’s face goes slack with fear. You need to leave that house. She whispers urgently. Sell it. Burn it. I don’t care. But get away from Willow Lake.
Elellanor has been waiting a long time for someone from the family to come back. Someone who can hear her. You think she wants to harm me? Elizabeth asks, trying to keep her voice steady. I think she’s been alone for over a century. Viven replies. I think she’s angry at being forgotten, being erased. And I think she’s patient. Very patient. Elizabeth returns to the Haye house as nightfalls.
The old Victorian looming against the darkening sky like a ship about to set sail. The windows are dark. She left in such a hurry that morning that she forgot to set the timer on any lights. As she pulls into the long gravel driveway, her headlights sweep across the front lawn, briefly illuminating what looks like a small figure standing beneath the ancient oak tree.
Elizabeth slams on the brakes, her heart hammering, but when she looks again, there’s nothing there, just shadows, she mutters to herself, just the wind moving branches. Inside, the house is silent except for the normal creeks and size of a century old structure settling for the night. Elizabeth turns on lights as she goes, banishing shadows, trying to ignore the prickling sensation between her shoulder blades, the feeling of being watched. In the kitchen, she sets her bag down and notices something odd.
A trail of small wet footprints on the hardwood floor leading from the back door toward the stairs. Child-sized footprints as if made by someone who had been walking in decoed grass. “Hello,” she calls, her voice sounding thin and frightened even to her own ears.
Is someone here? No answer comes, but upstairs she hears the unmistakable sound of a door slowly opening. Hinges creaking in the stillness. Fighting every instinct, telling her to flee, Elizabeth follows the wet footprints up the stairs. They lead directly to the attic door, now standing a jar, though she distinctly remembers closing it that morning.
The footprints continue up the narrow attic stairs, growing fainter with each step, as if whoever made them is slowly drying off. At the top of the stairs, they disappear altogether. The attic is exactly as she left it, the trunk open, the photograph album on the small table, the family Bible beside it, except the album is open to a different page now.
And there in the center is a photograph she’s certain she didn’t see before. It shows Willow Lake in winter, its surface frozen over. Standing in the middle of the ice is a small figure in a white dress, too distant to make out clearly. The handwriting beneath it reads simply, “She waits.” December 18th, 1901.
6 months after the drowning. 6 months after Elellaner disappeared. Elizabeth’s hands shake as she closes the album. “This isn’t real,” she says aloud. “This can’t be real.” From somewhere outside comes the sound of childish laughter, faint but distinct.
Elizabeth moves to the attic window, drawn despite her fear. Below the moon has risen, casting silver light across the grounds and turning Willow Lake into a mirror of quicks. There at the edge of the lake stands a small figure in a white dress. Even from this distance, Elizabeth can see that she’s looking up at the attic window, looking directly at her.
Slowly, deliberately, the figure raises one hand in greeting or beckoning. “No,” Elizabeth whispers, backing away from the window. “No, this isn’t happening.” She rushes down the attic stairs through the house, pausing only to grab her car keys. Outside, the night air is unnaturally cold for summer.
Her breath fogging in front of her face as she runs to her car. The engine turns over once, twice, but doesn’t catch. Elizabeth slams her hands against the steering wheel in frustration and fear. Start. Damn you. From the corner of her eye, she sees movement.
The small figure in white now standing at the edge of the driveway, watching her with unblinking eyes. Moonlight reveals her face clearly for the first time. A girl of eight or nine in an Edwwardian white dress. Her hair in ringlets tied with a ribbon. She would be beautiful if not for the total stillness of her posture. The unnatural pour of her skin and her eyes. Her eyes that seem to hold the cold depths of Willow Lake in their gaze.
Eleanor, Elizabeth whispers, and the name hangs in the air between them like frost. The girl smiles then, a sweet, sad smile that transforms her face from something uncanny to something merely tragic, a lost child alone in the dark. “You know my name,” she says, her voice high and clear in the night air. “No one has said my name in such a long time.
” Despite her terror, Elizabeth feels a stab of pity. “I know what happened to you,” she says. “I know about the picnic, about the lake.” Eleanor’s smile fades. They forgot me, she says simply. They let me drown and then they forgot me. They pretended I never existed. They were afraid. Elizabeth offers though she knows how hollow the excuse sounds.
They didn’t understand. Neither did I. Eleanor says, “I didn’t understand why the lady in the lake wanted me. But I do now. She was lonely, you see. She’d been alone in the lake for so long, watching families picnic on her shores, watching children play in her shallows. She wanted a child of her own.
“What, lady?” Elizabeth asks, trying to keep Elellanar talking while she frantically tries the ignition again. The engine remains stubbornly silent. The one who’s been there since before the house was built, Elellanar replies matterofactly. “The one who calls to special children. Children who can see things others can’t. Children like me.” She takes a step closer to the car.
“Children like you, Elizabeth.” A chill that has nothing to do with the unseasonable cold runs down Elizabeth’s spine. “I’m not a child,” she manages to say. “But you were,” Eleanor counters. “You were a child who saw things, who knew things, a child who was told her imaginary friends weren’t real, who was given medicine to make the bad dreams go away, a child who learned to pretend she was like everyone else.” Elizabeth stares at her in shock.
“How do you know that?” “Because she told me,” Eleanor says. the lady in the lake. She sees everything that happens near her waters. She’s been watching you since you moved into the house. She’s so glad you’ve come home. The engine suddenly roars to life, making Elizabeth jump. Without hesitation, she throws the car into reverse and backs down the driveway, gravel spraying.
In her rear view mirror, she can see Eleanor standing exactly where she left her. That same sad smile on her face, one hand raised in farewell. Elizabeth doesn’t slow down until she reaches the highway. Only then does she pull over, her hands shaking too badly to drive safely. She fumbles for her phone, dialing Vivien’s nursing home.
“I need to speak with Vivian Mercer,” she tells the night nurse who answers. “It’s an emergency.” “I’m sorry,” the nurse replies, her voice gentle. Mrs. Mercer passed away about an hour ago, peacefully in her sleep. Elizabeth thanks her numbly and ends the call. An hour ago, just about when Elizabeth was arriving back at the Haye house, just when she first saw Elellaner standing under the oak tree, she spends the night in a roadside motel, sleeping fitfully, dreams filled with dark water and a child’s plaintiff calling. In the
morning, she does the only thing she can think to do. She calls a realtor and arranges to put the Hayes house on the market immediately. “I won’t be returning to the property,” she tells the surprised realtor. “You can handle everything. just sell it as quickly as possible. But Miz Hayes, the realtor protests, it’s a beautiful historic home on lakefront property.
It could sell for much more if you were willing to wait for the right buyer. I don’t care about the money, Elizabeth says firmly. Just sell it. And one more thing, make sure the new owners know that the lake is dangerous. That children should never swim there unsupervised. She hangs up before the realtor can ask any more questions.
Then she books a hotel room in the city and tries to put Willow Lake and the Haye house and Ellaner out of her mind. But she can’t stop thinking about the photograph. That impossible photograph showing four children when there should have been only three. The photograph that captured Elellanar’s last moments among the living.
Just before she walked into Willow Lake at the call of something ancient and patient and hungry. 3 days later, the realtor calls with surprising news. An offer on the house, full asking price in cash. A young couple with three children looking for a country retreat. They fell in love with the place immediately. The realtor gushes, especially the lake. The children were so excited about swimming and boating this summer. Elizabeth’s blood runs cold.
Did you tell them about the lake being dangerous? Well, I mentioned that it’s quite deep in the middle, the realtor says, sounding confused. But it has a lovely gradual slope from the shore. Perfect for children. The oldest is eight, I believe. A little girl who was particularly enchanted by the place.
Said she felt like she already knew it, like she’d been there before. Isn’t that sweet? Tell them no, Elizabeth says sharply. Tell them I’ve changed my mind. The house isn’t for sale. But Miss Hayes, we’ve already accepted their offer. There’s a signed contract. You can’t just I’ll buy it back. Elizabeth interrupts. Whatever it takes. That family cannot live in that house.
Their children cannot swim in that lake, especially the 8-year-old girl. Do you understand me? There’s a long silence on the other end of the line. Ms. Hayes, the realtor says finally, her voice concerned. Are you feeling all right? Is there something about the property you haven’t disclosed? Because legally, I’ll be there tomorrow, Elizabeth cuts her off. Don’t finalize anything until I arrive.
She drives through the night, arriving at the hay house just as dawn is breaking over Willow Lake. The mist rising from the water gives it an otherworldly quality as if it exists halfway between reality and dream. The realtor is waiting for her along with the young couple, the Millers who have purchased the house. They look confused and a little annoyed at being called to this early morning meeting. Ms.
Hayes, the realtor begins, these are the Millers. As I explained on the phone, where are your children? Elizabeth interrupts, looking around frantically. Mrs. Miller frowns. At our hotel with my mother. It’s barely 7:00 a.m. Miss Hayes. We wouldn’t bring them to a business meeting at this hour.
Good, Elizabeth says, relief flooding through her. That’s good. Listen to me very carefully. You cannot buy this house. It isn’t safe for your family, especially your children, especially your daughter. The Miller’s exchange concerned glances. Mr. Miller steps forward, his expression a mixture of confusion and growing anger. What exactly are you saying? Ms.
Hayes. If there’s something structurally wrong with the house that you haven’t disclosed, “It’s not the house,” Elizabeth says desperately. “It’s the lake. There’s something in it. Something that calls to certain children. Children who are sensitive, who see things others don’t, like your daughter.” “How do you know anything about our daughter?” Mrs.
Miller demands, her face paling. The realtor mentioned she was 8 years old that she felt a connection to this place. Elizabeth explains quickly. Please believe me. I wouldn’t be doing this, risking a lawsuit, risking you thinking I’m crazy. If it wasn’t important, if it wasn’t life or death. This is ridiculous, Mr.
Miller says flatly. We have a signed contract. The house is ours. Then don’t let your children near the lake, Elizabeth begs. Especially your daughter, especially alone. I think we’re done here, Mr. Miller says, turning to the realtor. Please have your lawyer contact ours. We’ll be pursuing all legal remedies if Ms.
Hayes attempts to back out of our agreement. They leave. The realtor shooting Elizabeth a look that clearly questions her sanity before hurrying after them. Elizabeth is left alone, standing in the driveway of her ancestral home. The weight of a century’s secrets pressing down on her. She knows what she has to do.
If she can’t stop the Millers from moving in, if she can’t protect their children from whatever lurks in Willow Lake, she’ll have to confront it herself. End it somehow. Elizabeth spends the day in the county archives again, searching for any information about Willow Lake before the Hayes family built their home beside it in 1897.
What she finds chills her to the bone. Newspaper articles from 1872 described the drowning of a young woman, Mary Blackwood, in the then unnamed lake. She had gone ice skating alone on a December day and fallen through thin ice. Her body was never recovered despite extensive searching. Blackwood, Elizabeth whispers, the name igniting recognition. Margaret Blackwood Hayes.
My greatg grandmother. Mary must have been a relative of hers. Further research confirms it. Mary was Margaret’s older sister who drowned 5 years before Margaret married Thomas Hayes. The lake had been part of the Blackwood family property for generations before Margaret brought it to her marriage as part of her dowy.
The lady in the lake, Elizabeth murmurs. It’s been Mary all along, calling to children in her own family. First Eleanor, then Richard, now the Miller girl. And me, she thinks, but doesn’t say aloud. She’s been calling to me, too, in dreams. Ever since I moved into the house. Night has fallen by the time Elizabeth returns to the Haye house.
The windows of the great Victorian mansion are dark, the only light coming from the full moon overhead, turning Willow Lake into a silver mirror. Elizabeth walks slowly down to the shore, the same spot where the family picnic took place in 1901, where Elellanar walked into the water and disappeared. The same spot where Elellanar appeared to her just days ago.
“I know you’re here,” she calls out, her voice steady despite her fear. “Both of you, Mary, Elellanor, I know what happened.” For a long moment, there’s nothing but silence and the gentle lapping of water against the shore. Then, a ripple appears in the center of the lake, spreading outward in concentric circles, though there’s no wind to disturb the surface.
From the water rises a figure, a woman in a long white dress, her hair streaming wet around her pale face. She doesn’t walk on the water so much as emerge from it, as if the boundary between water and air means nothing to her. You know my name, she says, her voice like the whisper of water over stones.
After all this time, Mary Blackwood, Elizabeth says, you drowned here in 1872. You’ve been in the lake ever since. Mary inclines her head slightly, acknowledging the truth of this. I was forgotten, too. She says, “My sister married and took a new name. Built a house by my lake, but never spoke of me.
Never told her children about their aunt who died here. So you took her child, Elizabeth says, anger rising through her fear. You called Ellaner to you and let her drown. I did not take. Mary corrects her gently. I invited. She came willingly. Special children always do. They understand loneliness in a way others don’t. She was 8 years old. Elizabeth protests. She couldn’t have understood what she was doing. Yet she did, comes another voice.
And Elellanar steps out from behind a willow tree. In the moonlight, she looks solid, real, not the spectral figure Elizabeth saw days ago, but a flesh and blood child in a white pinn dress. Only her eyes reflecting the moonlit lake suggest she is something other than human. I knew exactly what I was doing, Elizabeth. I chose to go to her.
Why? Elizabeth asks, unable to comprehend how a child could choose her own death. Because I didn’t belong here, Elellanar says simply. Not in this world, not in that family. Father was ashamed of me. Mother was afraid of me. William and James avoided me. Only baby Charlotte would play with me.
And even she would cry sometimes when I told her things I’d seen. She steps closer, her small face solemn. Mary understood. She’d been different too in life. That’s why she drowned. She walked onto the ice deliberately, knowing it was too thin, because she couldn’t bear to be different anymore. But she regretted it.
Elizabeth realizes looking at the woman standing on the water. That’s why she calls to children like you. She’s lonely. Yes, Mary admits. Death is long and the lake is silent. I watched my sister’s family grow and thrive beside my waters, and I envied them their companionship. When I saw Elellanar, a child with gifts like mine, a child who could see me and hear me, I called to her. And now you’re calling to the miller’s daughter, Elizabeth says.
Another 8-year-old girl who’s special, who sees things others don’t. She hears me, Mary confirms. As you did when you were her age, as you do now, I won’t let you take her, Elizabeth says firmly. I won’t let you drown another child. Mary’s expression hardens, the water around her beginning to churn. You cannot stop what has already begun.
The child dreams of me, she will come to me as Elellanar did. Unless you release them, Elizabeth counters. Unless you let Elellanar go, let her find peace. Let yourself find peace. There is no peace for those who are forgotten, Mary says bitterly. Only the endless silence of the lake. Then I will remember you, Elizabeth promises. Both of you. I’ll restore Elellanar to the family history.
Make sure everyone knows she existed. I’ll find Mary’s grave and mark it properly. I’ll make sure no one forgets either of you again. Elellanar looks up at Mary. A wordless communication passing between them. It’s not enough. Elellanar says finally. Memory fades. Records are lost. People move on. What would be enough? Elizabeth asks desperate now. What would allow you both to rest? Justice, Mary says simply.
Acknowledgement of the wrong done to us. Elellaner’s father erased her from existence out of shame. My sister never spoke my name again after I drowned. Let our parents think it was an accident rather than a choice born of despair. And how can I provide that justice? Elizabeth asks. Thomas and Margaret Hayes are long dead.
So are their children and their children’s children. No one alive remembers what happened to either of you except you. Eleanor points out. You know now you can be our voice. Elizabeth hesitates sensing a trap but unable to see it clearly. What exactly are you asking me to do? Tell our story.
Mary says make a record that cannot be erased or forgotten. Ensure that the truth lives on after we are gone. Gone where? Elizabeth asks. If I do this, if I tell your story, will you both move on? Leave Willow Lake? Stop calling to children? Mary and Elellanor exchange another look. Some silent communication passing between them.
Yes, Mary says finally. If our story is told truthfully, if our existence is acknowledged, we will find peace. And the Miller girl, you’ll leave her alone. She will hear me no more, Mary promises. Nor will any other child, so long as our story endures. Elizabeth takes a deep breath considering it seems too simple, too easy.
What kind of record do you want me to make? A book, a memorial, something that cannot be easily destroyed or forgotten, Eleanor says. Something that will reach many people, that will live on. And suddenly, Elizabeth understands what they’re asking for. A film, she says. You want me to make a film about what happened here? About both of you. Mary smiles and there’s something hungry in it that makes Elizabeth’s skin crawl.
Yes, a film with that title you already thought of. This 1901 picnic shows four children. The parents only had three living. Elizabeth stares at her in shock. How do you know about that? We know your thoughts when you’re near the lake. Elellanar says matterofactly. We know you’ve been planning to make films about unsolved historical mysteries. This can be your first. It’s true.
Elizabeth had been developing ideas for a documentary series before her grandmother died and she inherited the Hayes house, but she’d never spoken of it to anyone here. Had never written down that particular title. If I make this film, she says slowly. If I tell your stories truthfully, you’ll both find peace. You’ll leave Willow Lake and everyone around it alone.
We give you our word, Mary says solemnly. Complete the film, share it with the world, and we will trouble this place no more. Elizabeth looks from Mary to Ellaner, weighing their words, searching for the trap she still feels must exist. I’ll need time, she says finally. Research, interviews, production.
It could take months. We have waited decades, Mary says. We can wait a little longer, but the Miller family moves in next week. Their daughter will be playing by the lake, swimming in its waters. Our patience has limits. I understand, Elizabeth says. I’ll begin immediately. But while I’m working on the film, you must leave the Miller girl alone.
That’s my condition. Agreed, Mary says after a moment’s hesitation. So long as we see progress. So long as we know you haven’t forgotten us again, I won’t forget. Elizabeth promises. I’ll tell your stories, both of you. The figures of Mary and Elellanar begin to fade, becoming translucent in the moonlight. We will be watching. Mary’s voice whispers as she sinks back into the lake. Always watching.
Elellanor remains a moment longer, her small face solemn. “Be careful,” she says, her voice barely audible. “The lady in the lake doesn’t always tell the truth. Then she too is gone, leaving Elizabeth alone on the shore of Willow Lake, the weight of her promise settling around her like a shroud.
The following months are a blur of activity. Elizabeth moves into a small apartment in town, close enough to work on her film, but far enough from Willow Lake to sleep without dreams of dark water and calling voices. She monitors the Miller family from a distance, relieved to see their children playing safely.
No sign that the 8-year-old daughter is being called to the lake. She throws herself into research, tracking down distant relatives of the Hayes family, combing through archives, consulting historians of the period. Slowly, painfully, she pieces together the story of Elellanar Hayes and Mary Blackwood, separating fact from legend, truth from ghost story.
The truth, as it emerges, is both simpler and more complex than the tale Mary and Elellanar told her by the lake. Mary Blackwood did indeed drown in the lake in 1872, but newspaper accounts suggest it was a genuine accident, a young woman skating alone, thin ice, a tragic misstep.
Her sister Margaret was devastated by all accounts, and spoke of Mary often throughout her life, keeping a portrait of her in the Hayes family home and naming her only daughter, Charlotte Mary, in her honor. and Elellanar Hayes did exist. Elizabeth finds proof in a small private cemetery on what was once Hayes land, a tiny gravestone, weathered but legible. Elellanar Victoria Hayes, October 31st, 1892, June 14th, 1901.
Our beloved daughter of such is the kingdom of heaven. But the circumstances of her death, the reasons for her near erasure from family records remain murky. Elizabeth finds hints in letters, in diary entries, in the marginelia of family bibles. Elellanar was different, yes, perhaps what modern medicine would diagnose as neurode divergent or psychically sensitive in the rigid society of 1901. Such difference was often hidden, misunderstood, feared.
Her drowning at the family picnic was reported in local papers as a tragic accident. The subsequent erasure of her existence came not from her father, but from later generations. From Charlotte, who as an adult seemed determined to forget she’d ever had a sister, who burned photographs and letters, who never spoke Elellanar’s name even to her own children? Why? What had Charlotte been trying to protect her family from? The ghost of her sister? The shame of a family secret? Or something else entirely? As fall turns to winter,
Elizabeth finds herself drawn back to Willow Lake despite her misgivings. The Haye house stands empty. The miller’s purchase fell through after Elizabeth’s warnings, and no other buyers have emerged. The great Victorian mansion watches over the lake like a sentinel, windows blank and accusing.
It’s December 18th, the date on that second photograph Elizabeth found in the attic. She waits. December 18th, 1901, the anniversary of something significant. Though Elizabeth hasn’t been able to determine what, the lake is partially frozen, a ring of ice around the edges, while the deeper center remains liquid, dark water moving sluggishly beneath the thin crust. Elizabeth stands on the shore, camera in hand.
She’s been filming all day, establishing shots for her documentary. Scenes of the house, the grounds, the lake itself. I know you’re watching, she says aloud. I’ve kept my promise. I’m making the film. I’m telling your stories. The winter air is still no response forthcoming from the lake or the shadows beneath the willow trees.
Elizabeth feels a prickle of unease. In all these months, she hasn’t seen Mary or Eleanor again, though she’s felt their presence at times. A cold spot in a warm room, a reflection in a window that doesn’t match her own. The sense of being watched when she’s alone. The Miller girl is safe, she continues.
All the children who live near the lake are safe. I’ve kept my end of the bargain. Still nothing. Elizabeth sigh, her breath fogging in the cold air. She’s about to turn back to the house when she notices something in the center of the lake. A dark shape beneath the thin ice moving slowly toward the shore.
Elizabeth raises her camera, zooming in on the shape. At first, she thinks it’s a branch or debris pushed by underwater currents. But as it nears the edge of the ice, she recognizes the form of a human figure. A woman in a long dress moving beneath the frozen surface as easily as if swimming through open water.
Mary Blackwood emerges at the shoreline, ice cracking and reforming around her as she rises. She looks solid in the winter light. No longer the spectral figure Elizabeth saw in summer, but a woman of flesh and blood, pale and cold, but present. You’ve returned, Mary says, her voice as chill as the December air. On this day of all days, “What happened on December 18th, 1901?” Elizabeth asks, still filming the photograph in the attic, the day Charlotte saw me, Mary interrupts.
6 months after Ellaner joined me in the lake, Charlotte was playing on the ice. Against her parents wishes, of course, the ice cracked. She would have drowned, too, if not for the groundskeeper who heard her screams. But before he reached her, she saw something beneath the ice. Mary continues, “She saw Eleanor and me reaching up for her, welcoming her.
She was only four, but she remembered. She remembered for the rest of her life. That’s why she tried to erase Eleanor.” Elizabeth realizes she was afraid not of her sister’s memory, but of what her sister had become. What you made her become. Mary’s expression hardens. I gave Eleanor peace, a place where she belonged, where she was understood.
I would have given Charlotte the same gift if not for interference. You would have drowned her, Elizabeth says flatly, lowering her camera. Like you tried to drown Richard 30 years later. Like you wanted to drown the Miller girl. They were special. Mary insists. They could see what others couldn’t. They were lonely in your world.
As I was, as Elellanor was, “So you offer them death as an alternative?” Elizabeth asks, anger rising. “That’s not a gift, Mary. That’s murder. It is rescue, Mary counters. From a world that fears difference, that punishes those who see too much, know too much. A world that hasn’t changed so very much since 1872 has it. Elizabeth, you of all people should understand.
You were such a sensitive child, seeing things others couldn’t see, knowing things you shouldn’t know until they medicated you, therapized you, normalized you. Elizabeth stiffens. How do you know about that? Mary smiles. cold and knowing. Eleanor told me she’s been watching you since you arrived. She knows what you’ve discovered in your research.
She knows what you’re planning to do. And what am I planning to do? Elizabeth asks carefully. Exercise us, Mary says simply. Use your film not to tell our story, but to banish us, to bring us peace by forcing us to leave the lake, to cross over, as you call it. It’s not far from the truth. As Elizabeth’s research progressed, as she uncovered the real stories of Mary and Ellaner, she’d begun to suspect that her film might indeed serve as a kind of exorcism, a setting right of old wrongs, a correction of the historical record that would allow these restless spirits to finally move on. Would that be so terrible? Elizabeth asks. To find real
peace, real rest instead of haunting this lake for eternity, drowning children to ease your loneliness. We are not lonely anymore, Mary says. We have each other. We have the lake. And soon we will have you. A chill that has nothing to do with the December cold runs down Elizabeth’s spine. What do you mean? Did you think we didn’t know your true purpose in coming here today? Mary asks, her voice almost pitying.
Elellanar saw it in your mind. The final scene of your film. You standing on the frozen lake describing what happened to Elellanor. What happened to Mary? the dramatic conclusion to your documentary. Elizabeth takes a step back. It’s true. She had planned to film herself on the lake to create a powerful visual parallel to the story she was telling, but she’d abandoned the idea when she saw how thin the ice was, deciding to shoot from the shore instead.
I have no intention of walking on the ice, she says firmly. I’m not that foolish. Perhaps not willingly, Mary concedes. But you will come to us, Elizabeth, one way or another. The ice is thin. A misstep. A moment of imbalance. Accidents happen so easily on winter lakes.
“Is that what you’re planning?” Elizabeth asks, trying to keep her voice steady. “An accident? I plan nothing,” Mary says mildly. “I merely observe what is already written. You will come to us, Elizabeth, today. Your film will remain unfinished, your warning undelivered, and we will continue as we have for over a century.” Eleanor. Elizabeth calls suddenly looking around for the child’s ghost.
Elellanor, are you here? Is this what you want, too? A flicker of movement near the willow trees draws Elizabeth’s attention. Elellaner stands there, half hidden by the drooping branches, her expression troubled. Elellanar doesn’t get to choose, Mary says, her voice hardening. She belongs to me now, to the lake. As you will. That’s not true, Elizabeth counters, addressing Eleanor directly. You always have a choice, even now. Don’t listen to her, Elellanor. Mary says sharply.
Remember what happens to those who leave the lake. Remember what it cost you last time, Elellanar flinches, and Elizabeth sees a flash of something, a memory not her own, of pain and darkness and bitter cold, of a child’s spirit trying to break free of the lakes’s pull, trying to move on, only to be dragged back by something ancient and powerful that lived in the deepest part of the water. She’s trapped you.
Elizabeth realizes all these years she’s kept you bound to the lake. To her. You’re not her companion, Elellanar. You’re her prisoner. Enough. Mary’s voice cracks like icebreaking, and the surface of the lake begins to shudder and split. You know nothing of what binds us, of what we are to each other. I know that Elellanar was an innocent child, Elizabeth says, standing her ground despite her fear.
A child you called to the lake and drowned. A child you’ve kept trapped in death for over a century. That’s not protection or friendship. That’s cruelty. Elellanar, she continues, addressing the child’s ghost directly. You don’t have to stay here. You can move on. Find real peace. Your family mourned you. I found your gravestone.
They didn’t erase you out of shame. Charlotte tried to forget you because she was afraid of what had happened to you, of what she saw beneath the ice that December day. Elellaner steps out from beneath the willow trees, her small face troubled. She saw me reaching for her, she says softly. But I wasn’t trying to pull her under. I was trying to warn her, to save her.
I know, Elizabeth says gently. You’ve been trying to save all of them, haven’t you? Richard, the Miller girl. Me. You appear to us not to lure us to the lake, but to warn us away from it. Elellaner nods, tears shimmering in her eyes. But she always knows. She whispers, glancing fearfully at Mary. She sees through my eyes, hears through my ears.
I can’t break free of her. You can, Elizabeth insists. Both of you can, Mary. You’ve been holding on to this lake, onto Elellaner, onto your anger for too long. You don’t have to be the lady in the lake anymore. You can let go. Move on to what? Mary demands. And beneath her anger, Elizabeth hears genuine fear. What awaits me beyond the lake? Judgment, punishment, oblivion.
At least here I exist. Here I am remembered, if only through fear. You’ll be remembered through my film, Elizabeth promises. Both of you will. Not as monsters or vengeful spirits, but as people who were misunderstood in life and in death. People who deserve to be known for who they really were. She takes a cautious step closer to the water’s edge.
Mary Blackwood, who loved skating on winter lakes and watching summer sunsets, who wrote poetry no one ever read, who felt things too deeply for the world she lived in. Mary’s expression waivers. Surprise and uncertainty replacing anger. Elellanar Hayes. Elizabeth continues. Who saw what others couldn’t see. Who knew what others couldn’t know.
Who tried to warn her sister to protect her even from beyond death. Ellaner moves closer. Hope dawning in her eyes. Let me tell your real stories, Elizabeth pleads. And then let yourselves find peace. Real peace. Not this endless haunting. For a long moment, the winter air is still. The only sound, the creaking of ice on the lake.
Then Mary speaks, her voice softer than before. You cannot know what awaits us, she says. What if there is nothing? What if we simply end? Then at least it’s a choice you make, Elizabeth says gently. Not an eternity trapped by the circumstances of your death, not an endless cycle of loneliness and rage and innocent children drawn to their deaths. Mary looks at Elellanar, something like remorse crossing her face.
I never meant to trap you, she says. I was so alone for so long. I know, Elellaner says, and there’s a wisdom in her child’s face that transcends her years. But we can’t stay here forever, Mary. We can’t keep calling children to the lake. It has to end. Mary turns back to Elizabeth, her expression unreadable. Finish your film, she says. Finally.
Tell our stories as they truly were, not as ghost tales or warnings. Show us as we were in life. I will, Elizabeth promises. Every detail I’ve learned, every truth I’ve uncovered, the real Mary Blackwood, the real Elanar Hayes. And then, Mary asks. And then it’s up to you, Elizabeth says simply. Stay or go. Haunt the lake or find what lies beyond it.
But leave the children alone. All of them. Mary is silent for a long moment, looking out over the partially frozen lake that has been her home and prison for over 150 years. Then she nods once, a gesture of such profound weariness that Elizabeth’s heart aches despite everything. Finish your film, Mary repeats.
We will be watching. She sinks back into the lake, the ice closing over her without a sound. Ellaner remains a moment longer, her small face solemn. Be careful, she warns again. The lady in the lake doesn’t always tell the truth.
Then she too is gone, fading like mist in morning sun, leaving Elizabeth alone on the shore with her camera and her promise. The film takes another three months to complete. Elizabeth works obsessively, tracking down every scrap of information about Mary Blackwood and Ellanar Hayes, interviewing distant relatives, consulting historians and paranormal researchers alike.
She edits until her eyes burn, crafting a narrative that is both historically accurate and deeply human. This 1901 picnic shows four children. The parents only had three living premieres at a small independent film festival in spring. It’s an immediate sensation. The haunting story of Mary and Eleanor striking accord with audiences and critics alike. Streaming services engage in a bidding war for distribution rights.
Elizabeth Hayes becomes an overnight success in documentary film making, but she takes no pleasure in her newfound fame. As winter melts into spring and spring warms into summer, she waits for some sign from Willow Lake. Some indication that Mary and Eleanor have seen the film, that they approve, that they have found peace. None comes. The lake remains still and silent, reflecting cloud and sky without revealing its secrets.
The Haye house sells finally to an older couple with no children, no young souls to tempt the lady in the lake. On the anniversary of the picnic, June 14th, Elizabeth returns to Willow Lake at sunset. The new owners have renovated the Haye house, painted it a cheerful yellow, planted flowers along the drive, but the lake remains unchanged, ancient and patient beneath the summer sky.
Elizabeth stands on the shore at the exact spot where Elellanar walked into the water in 1901, where Elizabeth herself stood last December, making promises to ghosts. “I kept my word,” she says aloud. I told your stories, both of you. The real stories, not the ghost tales. The lake offers no response. Its surface untroubled by even a ripple. Are you still here? Elizabeth asks.
Or have you moved on? Found peace? Again, silence. Not even the whisper of wind in the willows. Elizabeth sigh, unsure whether to feel relief or disappointment. Perhaps it worked. Perhaps her film truly did bring peace to Mary and Ellanar, allowing them to leave Willow Lake after so many years. Perhaps they’ve gone to whatever awaits beyond this world, whatever comes after a century of haunting.
Or perhaps they’re simply waiting, watching, patient, as only the dead can be. Elizabeth turns to leave, and that’s when she sees it. A small figure standing beneath the willows, partially hidden by shadow, her heart leaps to her throat, Elellanar’s name on her lips. But it’s not Elellanar.
It’s a living child, a girl of perhaps eight or nine in a summer dress watching Elizabeth with curious eyes. Hello, the girl says. Are you the lady who made the movie about the ghosts in the lake? Elizabeth nods momentarily speechless. The girl looks so much like Elellanar, the same delicate features, the same thoughtful eyes that for an instant she wonders if the past has somehow folded back on itself. My grandparents bought the yellow house. The girl continues coming closer. They’re visiting today.
I’m not supposed to come down to the lake alone, but I wanted to see where it happened. Where Eleanor walked into the water. It’s not safe for you to be here alone, Elizabeth says, finding her voice at last. The lake is very deep, and the shore can be slippery. The girl smiles, a smile too, knowing for her years.
I’m not alone, she says simply. And I know how to swim. Ellaner taught me. A chill runs through Elizabeth despite the summer warmth. What do you mean Ellanar taught you? Elellanar Hayes has been dead for over a century. The girl looks at her with something like pity. Not dead, she corrects. Just waiting.
She waited so long for someone who could help her. Someone who could tell her story right. And now, Elizabeth asks, her mouth dry with sudden fear. Now that her story has been told, the girl’s smile widens and in her eyes Elizabeth sees the reflection of deep water. Now she can rest, she says. Now they both can.
They wanted me to thank you before they go. Go where? Elizabeth manages to ask. The girl looks out over the lake, her expression suddenly distant. Beyond, she says vaguely. Where the lake ends. Where the light begins. She turns back to Elizabeth. They won’t trouble the waters anymore. Won’t call to children. You’ve set them free. Relief washes over Elizabeth so profound she feels her knees weaken. Good. She whispers.
That’s good. The girl nods, satisfied, then turns to go. She’s several steps away when Elizabeth calls after her. Wait, what’s your name? The girl looks back over her shoulder and for an instant, just an instant, her face seems to shimmer between two realities. A living child of the present and a ghost child from 1901.
“Ellaner,” she says, her voice echoing strangely in the summer air. “My name is Ellaner.” Then she’s gone, running up the slope toward the yellow house. a perfectly ordinary child on a summer evening. Yet, as Elizabeth watches her go, she can’t shake the feeling that something of the lake, something of its secrets and sorrows, has gone with her.
Above Willow Lake, the first stars of evening appear in a darkening sky. The water lies still and peaceful, reflecting their distant light. Whatever dwelled in its depths, whatever haunted its shores, seems finely at rest. Elizabeth takes one last look at the lake, at the yellow house on the hill, at the place where generations of her family lived and died and kept their secrets. Then she turns away, leaving Willow Lake and its ghosts behind.
A story told at last, a promise kept. In the shallow waters near the shore, something stirs briefly. A ripple, a whisper, a farewell. Then the lake is still again, holding its secrets close, waiting for the next storyteller to