Percy had been around the campfire, he had the younger campers crowded around. The fire crackled low as shadows danced across the circle of campers, and Percy Jackson leaned forward, his sea green eyes glinting in the orange light. “So,” he began, voice dropping to a dramatic whisper, “they say there’s a spirit that haunts the old canoe lake, a son of Poseidon who failed his quest whom body was put in the ocean, as he must return to the sea, no one knows who killed him, but what someone did see was his body underneath a tree, no pulse and dried blood soaking his clothes. On moonless nights, you can still hear the water rippling even when the lake’s still, like something’s moving just beneath the surface.” The younger campers huddled closer, eyes wide. “Some say if you stare too long into the water, he’ll drag you under because he’s still looking for someone to take his place.” A twig snapped in the woods, and half the circle jumped. Percy smirked. “Or maybe,” he said, flashing a grin, “it’s just the naiads messing with us again.”