This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/NoooNotTheLettuce on 2024-11-12 08:56:46+00:00.
Jake’s grandparents owned a lake house his family shared, and after we graduated high school, Jake decided it’d be fun to spend a weekend there with a few friends. It was our way of celebrating graduation before we all went our separate ways for college. Jake’s parents agreed, so it was just the six of us, ready for a relaxed weekend by the water.
I arrived a bit late on Saturday, just in time to catch the end of a swim before we set up a fire pit as the sun went down. Jake had raided his grandparents’ fridge and got us a few drinks, and before long, we were joking, sharing stories, and enjoying the night.
As it got later, the atmosphere shifted when my friend Sam suddenly glanced toward the lake. Just off the shore, we noticed a man in a small, weathered fishing boat. He was sitting completely still, watching us. There was no sound of a motor, no fishing gear, nothing to explain why he was there. It was as if he’d drifted in from the darkness. We stared, uncertain, until finally, without a word, he turned on a motor and disappeared back into the night.
Once he was gone, we joked to relieve the tension, calling him the “lake peeping Tom” and laughing about how strange it was for him to be out alone in the dark like that. Soon, we forgot about him and went back to our conversation.
But a while later, we heard water splashing and the hum of a small motor. We all looked over, and sure enough, the man was back. He was closer this time, his blank face half-hidden by shadows, but his eyes were locked on us.
Finally, Sam called out, “Hey! Do you need something?”
The man stopped, silent, and slowly lifted a hand in a wave. Then he smiled—a thin, unsettling smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
Jake stood up and shouted, “You need to get out of here! This is private property.”
The man didn’t respond. He just stood there, staring, before slowly shaking his head as if in warning. The gesture sent a chill through us, and we decided enough was enough. Grabbing our stuff, we quickly put out the fire and hurried inside, locking the doors behind us. Most of us went upstairs to get a better look, hoping he’d finally leave.
From the window, we scanned the lake, thinking he was gone—until one of our friends pointed toward the shore. He was still there, gliding along the edge of the property, his gaze never leaving the house. It was like watching an animal circle its prey.
We went downstairs, debating whether to call the police, and rushed back up to check on him. He’d slowed down now, drifting closer. Then he bent down, picking something up, and we all froze. It was an old, silver harpoon. He lifted it, letting us see it clearly. There was no doubt anymore; he was threatening us.
Jake immediately dialed 911. I stayed at the window, watching him. The man started twirling the harpoon between his fingers like a baton, his face blank. When Sam whispered, “Oh, my God,” I looked back and saw the man had tied his boat to the dock. He was stepping out, walking toward the house.
Tap-tap-tap.
A gentle knock on the door, almost polite. Then, in a low, almost friendly voice, he called, “Hello? Can I come in? It’s cold out here…”
We didn’t move, didn’t answer.
The knock came again, soft, insistent. “Please let me in. I just want to talk…”
Slowly, he moved around the house, dragging the harpoon along the path, tapping each window, each door, his voice circling us. “Won’t you let me in? I promise I won’t hurt you…”
Through a crack in the curtain, I watched as he finally started walking away. He was halfway down the path to the dock when he stopped and turned around. He stared at the house, his eyes cold, a too-wide smile stretching across his face.
Then, without warning, he raised the harpoon and threw it. It struck the side of the house with a sickening thud, embedding itself into the wood so hard that the end of it was still vibrating.
We stumbled back from the window, our hearts pounding. Outside, he chuckled—a soft, eerie laugh that faded into the night as he climbed back into his boat and drifted away.
He circled the house a few more times, slower now, as if savoring each moment. Finally, he turned and vanished into the darkness, the hum of his motor growing fainter until there was only silence.
The police found nothing. No boat, no footprints, no sign of anyone on the lake. But the harpoon was still there, buried in the wall. They took it as evidence, but even after it was gone, none of us could shake the feeling he was still out there.
That was the last time I went to that lake house. As far as I know, he’s never come back, but I’ll never forget the way he circled the house, the hum of his motor, the scrape of that harpoon, or his soft voice asking to be let in.