✦ “The Thing in the Water” ✦

The lake was disgusting. That was Robin’s official stance.

Lake Lover’s Point had turned into a graveyard for soda cans, broken beer bottles, cigarette butts, and weird greasy patches that shimmered like oil slicks. It reeked faintly of algae, sweat, and a little something metallic—like the lake itself remembered what happened last summer and was still bleeding it out.

But Vickie wanted to stargaze. So Robin brought her here, promising it was peaceful. Romantic. Definitely not haunted by high school trauma or toxic sludge.

Only, Vickie had bailed last minute with a migraine. And Robin, stubborn and unreasonably caffeinated, had stayed. Alone. Blanket, cooler, and all.

She sat on the worn dock, her legs dangling over the edge, flashlight off, moonlight silvering the water. The lake whispered. Insects hummed. The world breathed.

And then something moved beneath the surface.

Robin leaned forward. “Probably a fish,” she said aloud. “Or like…a raccoon. That swims. They swim, right?”

A hand broke the surface.

A hand. Long-fingered. Webbed.

Robin didn’t even scream—just flailed backward, crashing into the cooler. Water splashed hard as something emerged, dragging itself up onto the dock with the grace of a ghost and the weight of something very, very real.

She stared. Mouth open. Mind blank.

The creature was… female. Humanoid, mostly. Her skin glistened green-blue under the moon, slick like kelp but iridescent, too. Her hair hung in algae-colored sheets, knotted with leaves and river weed. Her mouth—sharp-toothed, eel-slick—curled into a scowl as she sniffed the air.

“Ugh,” the creature groaned, shaking out her arms. “I smell like Miller Lite and urine.”

Robin blinked. “Are you…a mermaid?”

The creature glared. “Do I look like I sing in clamshell bras?”

Fair point.

“Right. Okay. So… what are you, exactly?”

“I don’t have a name you could pronounce,” she said with a dismissive wave, using a discarded t-shirt to scrub at her slimy forearm. “But this form suits me for now. You can call me whatever you want.”

Robin stood cautiously, heart hammering. “You…came out of that water. Like, by choice?”

“I was summoned,” the creature said bitterly. “Some idiot kids tried to make out while playing with lake salt and a broken protection circle. Classic mistake. One of them offered a Cheeto as tribute.”

“Oh my god.” Robin wiped a hand down her face. “This town never stops.”

She sniffed again. “I haven’t been summoned in seventy years. The last time I was here, this lake was still pure. Spring-fed. There were sturgeon the size of wagons.”

“And now?”

“Now it tastes like regret and Axe body spray.”

Robin snorted. “Yeah, that tracks.”

The creature sighed, deflating slightly. Her voice softened. “I just want to be clean again.”

Robin hesitated, then offered the towel she’d brought for swimming. “You could try the campground showers? They’re gross, but like…less gross than this lake?”

The creature considered her. “You’re not afraid of me?”

“I’ve fought demogorgons. And shared a locker room with middle school boys. You’re fine.”

That earned a faint, gurgled laugh. She took the towel delicately, as though unused to kindness. “You’re strange.”

“You’re…glistening. So we’re even.”

They walked—well, she glided—up the dirt trail toward the camp showers. Robin tried not to stare too hard. For all her creature-ness, she moved like poetry in slow motion. Her skin shimmered like moonlight on tidepools. She hummed under her breath, something ancient and lilting.

At the showers, Robin helped her figure out the knobs.

The water came on with a sputter. The creature stepped under the stream and hissed, shoulders slumping in something close to relief.

“Ohhh, chlorinated bliss.”

Robin sat on the bench nearby, watching the mist swirl. “So… you going back to the lake?”

She shook her head. “I think I’ll rest. Find a storm drain. Wait for the old currents to come back. You can’t make a home in rot.”

Robin nodded, understanding more than she expected.