I
The lady in the lake, they call her.
The old lake cottage sits a few feet back from the water, a cobbled path flanked by thistles and dandelions on both sides leading from the water's edge through the rocky grass to the door. Known about since at least the late 1800s, its paint job remains stark white and immaculate, like the ageless skin of the lady herself.
Outside, thigh-deep in the lake's water and among reeds, stands a girl in a white dress with pale skin and brown hair. She doesn't have a name — not one people call her, anyway. Nobody's ever seen her move, or do much or anything. A silent monument with a story yet to be told — my next headline, I hoped.
My research started in the library, as always. A quaint old building, the kind of brutalist structure that must have turned heads for its modern aesthetic back in the 60s, now only standing out for how quickly a big block of concrete shows its age. Inside, the 30-something librarian stared and sized me up — no respect for journalists — but reluctantly pointed me in the direction of Local History.
You never know who you're going to meet in a library, so it's important to be armed, especially with garlic. A poster on the wall read: "Loss of life is not the responsibility of the Fogston Public Library. Any life lost will be attempted in good faith to be returned at the Lost Property desk, but we can make no guarantees." I ignored it.
In the Local History section, which was larger than one might expect for a town of this size, sat an old lady with an antique green dress, eye makeup, and graying natural hair, waiting for her computer to load. In the fisheye reflection of the curved old computer screen, she seemed to watch me through my reflection. Politely, I pretended not to notice.
Suddenly very aware of myself and the abraisive sound of my boots on the blue library carpet, I made a dash for the relevant shelf and popped out a book. It didn't matter what — anything to look like I was reading.
Behind the book was an eyeball connected to a face with green eyeshadow. Oh, bother.
"Don't pick that one. It's empty," she started, "I've still got to write that one."
Sure enough, I flicked through the pages and every single one was empty, save for the first page, with one sentence: On the 20th of June, 2015, a peculiar incident took place. That was today's date.
"How can you be so sure that a peculiar incident is about to take place?" I asked. She smirked, jubilantly stepping out from behind the bookshelf and joining me in front of the architectural volumes. "When's the last time a peculiar incident didn't take place?"
I slid the volume back and sat down beside the woman, trying my best to stay focused.
"I'm looking for information about the lake cottage in the outskirts of town," I said, lowering my voice to a whisper. "The white one, reportedly pristine with… a woman associated with it."
The lady's face lit up like a sodium lamp. "Oh!" She clasped her hands together, controlling her ardent enthusiasm. "The lake cottage! That's just fantastic. People always start with the gates or the gulls, but things like these are much more interesting."
"I assure you I've written more than enough pieces on the gates and the gulls."
A heavier, dustier volume with parched and cracked skin in hand, she sat down and briefly swiveled in her computer chair. As I planted myself in the adjacent seat, she handed me the old book.
As she flicked through pages marked with coloured post-its and notes in various scripts and languages, she tapped her finger thrice on a diagram. "See here, we have the original boundary of the property. Located on the western edge of the lake, it was a pretty good deal for prospective homeowners on account of all the objects that used to wash up there."
Sliding up her finger, she pointed to a second location with a pencil circle around it. "In 1902 the property was moved about 20 meters inland. Nobody quite agrees on why, but the official story is to avoid flooding. Unofficially…" She smiled. "I suppose it's your job to find out."
"Anyone lived there recently?" I asked.
"That depends. What does it really mean to live?" she replied, brightly as the sun. "It has a history of… Paternal ties."
I raised an eyebrow. "Paternal?"
"Oh!" She waved her hand in dismissal. "You know, inheritance and whatnot. Everyone wanting their piece of the patriarch's pie, as it were. Very common stuff in this field…"
I flicked to the next page, and found a grainy photograph from the 1920s, showing off the cottage looking exactly as it does now. I couldn't tell you how many times I'd seen it driving in and out of town.
"I think I'll go out and gather some photos of the house, see how it's holding up," I said as I shut the book with care. "How about we meet up again tomorrow?"
The woman paused.
"Tomorrow's Father's Day," she said.
"Surely you can't be serious?"
In Fogston, Father's Day is not an optional affair. Less of a celebration, more of a civic duty — you simply attend. Or you'd better have a hell of an explanation. I'd been explaining for years, either with a simple shrug or a more intricate lie.
"I've… got deadlines coming up."
She tilted her head, and for a moment I could swear she was looking right through me. Then it was gone.
"Oh! Well, never worry — history will still be here on Monday!" she sing-songed. "I've always loved that about it, so very patient a thing."
"…Right." I hesitated. "But I never caught your name?"
She didn't answer, rather glancing down at the book under my hands. The spine read: Property Surveys and Architectural Amendments of Fogston, 1890-1922 by Temitope Adabayo.
"Sorry. Temi… topey? Is that it?"
She laughed it off. "Just call me Temi, like everyone else. What about you, then? Have you got a name?"
"Eleanor," I replied. I thought that settled it, but her expression expected more.
"But… you can call me Elle."
Temi smiled, clearly now satisfied. "Well then, Elle," she smiled, "Try not to get stuck in the mud before Monday."
I nodded, and left the library straight away. I didn't make eye contact with anybody else, as is recommended in the public library.