This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/IamHereNowAtLeast on 2024-11-22 05:38:04+00:00.
Our life at Lake St. Gallen was everything we had wanted.
Or so I kept telling myself...
David and I moved here two years ago, retreating from the chaos of city life to the quiet solitude of a cabin in the woods. The lake stretched like a dark mirror to the edges of our property, bordered by towering pines and the rustling silence of the forest. We were one of eight cabins dotted around the lake, each separated by enough land to make you feel utterly alone.
David took to the lifestyle instantly. He spent mornings down at the dock fishing, his silhouette blending with the mist that hovered over the water.
I preferred the cabin, where sunlight poured through the kitchen windows as I sipped coffee and read all the books on my once ever-growing list.
There was a permanence here, a sense of stillness I hadn’t felt in years. I loved the way the seasons transformed the lake... the fiery leaves of autumn reflected like a painting on the water, the brittle stillness of winter mornings when the lake turned to ice.
Our neighbors were essentially ghosts.
Most of the cabins belonged to city people like us, but they came only for the occasional weekend. For long stretches, it was just David, me, and the occasional visit from Naya.
Naya was a cleaner that came recommended to us by the cabin's previous owners.
She came once a month, her long dark hair streaked with gray, her sharp eyes taking in everything. She was Ojibwe and rarely spoke in English, moving through the cabin like she belonged to a different world. Her movements were deliberate, almost ritualistic.
One day while finishing up, she unexpectedly made us tea. A strong chamomile that she very enthusiastically served to David and me.
“A holiday tea to celebrate my heritage,” she said with a big smile.
David thought it was a quaint bit of local culture, but it unsettled me. There was a gravity to Naya’s presence, something unspoken that clung to her like smoke. I didn’t ask questions. I just drank the tea, the bitter warmth spreading through me like a balm.
That night was awful.
I remember the date, November 23rd, because it happened to be my birthday.
Instead of celebrating, David and I spent the night drenched in sweat, feverish and disoriented. The nausea came in waves, and my head throbbed with a pressure that felt like it might split me in two. David joked the next morning that it must have been something we ate, or maybe the sudden cold snap. I wanted to believe him. But something about it didn’t feel right.
By the second November, I started to notice the pattern.
It began with the cleaning. Naya showed up unannounced on Friday, the 24th, even though we told her we didn't need any help in November. She moved through the cabin with a kind of frenetic energy, scrubbing every surface, burning herbs until the air was thick with their earthy sharpness.
And then she served us the same tea.
I remembered the smell... chamomile... mixed with something else... something chemically.
“A holiday tea to celebrate my heritage!” she said again, her smile tight, her eyes holding mine for a beat too long.
There was something majorly off, something about the way her fingers lingered on the rim of the cup as she handed it to me. David took his with a grin, swallowing it in one gulp. Not wanting to seem ungrateful, I took a sip of mine.
The sickness hit that night. Hard.
I woke in the dark, my limbs heavy, my head spinning.
Beside me, David was passed out, his breathing deep and even, but I couldn’t move. It was as if my body had been pinned to the bed, trapped under an invisible weight. Panic surged through me, my heart pounding as I struggled to cry out, but no sound came.
Then I heard it.
A low, mournful wail echoed across the lake, a sound so alien it made my skin crawl. It wasn’t the cry of an animal or the wind through the trees. It was something alive, something ancient. The sound grew louder, vibrating through the walls of the cabin, seeping into my bones. I wanted to look, to see what was out there, but my body refused to obey. My eyes, fixed on the window, caught the faintest shadow... a tall, gaunt figure standing just beyond the glass.
Its face was wrong. Hollow. Its eyes were voids, blacker than the night. I felt it staring at me, its gaze piercing through my skull. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. All I could feel was the pull. An invisible force urging me to step outside, to leave the safety of the cabin.
The wail crescendoed, a terrible, keening sound that rattled my teeth.
And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it vanished.
The next morning, I was convinced something was deeply wrong. I began asking questions around the lake, but no one wanted to talk about Naya.
The other cabins stayed dark through most of the month, their occupants vanishing like clockwork. When I mentioned the tea, the sickness, their faces paled.
One woman, her voice barely above a whisper, said, “Just drink it. Don’t ask why.”
It was Naya herself who finally gave me the truth, though she did so reluctantly. I think the neighbors had mentioned to her that I was asking around.
“The tea keeps you safe from the taking,” she said one afternoon, her eyes fixed on the lake. “It is a family recipe to bind you to your body. Keeps the spirit from taking you.”
“What spirit?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
Her gaze shifted to me, hard and unyielding.
“The old spirit of the lake,” she said. “It wakes on the third weekend of November. It comes to those who are strong, those who are vibrant. It needs to consume them to sustain itself.”
“And the tea?” I pressed.
She hesitated. “It makes you weak. Undesirable.”
The words hung between us, heavy and awful. I thought of the sickness, the way it left me hollowed out, and I realized what she meant.
She was poisoning us... on purpose.
“The spirit looks for the healthiest among us, those with strong bodies and strong spirits. It needs a sacrifice, and it takes the ones who seem most vibrant. By poisoning you, I make you look weak, unworthy of its attention. I know the sickness is painful, and I am truly sorry for that, but it is the only way to keep you safe. To make you seem undesirable to the spirit.”
"You do this for -"
"Every resident here. My family has not lost a human to the taking in 26 years. The spirit feeds on animals through the night. Though my mother worries it is growing impatient for a strong human sacrifice."
I looked at her, the weight of her words sinking in. The way the other cabins always seemed dark throughout November, the way the lake seemed to hold its breath. It all made sense now, the unspoken understanding that everyone here shared, the reason no one was ever outside that night.
“Thank you,” I said finally, my voice trembling. “For keeping us safe.”
Naya nodded, her expression softening, but there was something in her eyes—something haunted.
The third weekend of November is in just a couple days.
This morning, I looked out at the water, its surface calm and still, knowing we have the right person looking out for us. But I can’t shake the feeling of dread that clings to me like a second skin.
I know what’s coming. I know the sickness will hit, and I will spend the night writhing in pain, fighting the urge to step outside.
I will drink the tea. I will let Naya do what she must, her bundles of sage and sweetgrass filling the air with their sharp, earthy scent. I am grateful for her protection, for the knowledge that she and her family have kept the spirit at bay for nearly three decades.
And I will pray that, this year, the spirit finds David and I as undesirable as before.