Deep Water: Chapter 2

Middlelake was a modest town, small enough for Douglas to bike home rather than wait for his parents to swing by with a ride. At sixteen, he technically could have been driving around like his bud Skiddie, except his parents were refusing to budge on the car front. Their opinion was that if he wanted one, he could buy it himself.

So Douglas rode his bike through the afternoon sunshine, grateful that the phantom rain seemed to have vanished. Doctor Padderon’s office was in what passed for the downtown of Middlelake, a few blocks of scattered businesses and assorted services like the doc. Supposedly, the downtown had once been a thriving hub of community and commerce, but there were so many legends of Middlelake’s heyday, Douglas was never sure how much was true.

The way people told it, before the Havis Bottling Tragedy, symphonies played on every corner and the streetlights were made from precious gems. Not that most of the town had been around to see those days anyway. That had been in the time of Douglas’s great-grandparents, long before the family transferred to Middlelake for one of his dad’s jobs.

From the downtown, Douglas wove out past the ravine, and soon the town’s eponymous lake was glittering on his left. While the large body of water sat near the center of town, it was actually several miles east of the true middle. The name came from a modest island in Stermon Lake’s center with another lake sitting in its middle, turning the whole thing into a land donut.

Of course, that bit on the island hadn’t always been a second lake, as the town’s annual heritage festival insisted he learn.

Working his way around, Douglas soon passed the high school. He’d been hoping to make practice, but the lack of shrieking whistles told him long before arriving that it was too late. Biking onward, he turned for home, making his way along the winding roads of his quiet town.

The ride was going so well, until he turned onto Dipping Lane. As the name implied, there was a sizable drop in the middle of the road, causing an almost constant buildup of water. When Skiddie had first gotten his truck, he’d raced down Dipping Lane so often to make water-wings the Sheriff had planted a deputy on the road just to start writing him tickets.

What was usually between a few inches to a foot of clear water looked to be muchdeeper than normal. Douglas estimated it would cover his whole bike and possibly even his torso. Yet the amount of water without a recent rain was only one of the concerning elements.

More worrisome was that the water was dark. Black, like the currents which had dragged at Douglas, pulling him into the depths as he struggled to rise. Endless night seemed to be closing in, when he finally spotted the bright light flickering in the distance. He swam for it, churning the water as he fought to get close-

The unexpected honk from behind nearly sent Douglas toppling off his bike. Spinning around, he found Skiddie and Curt grinning at him from within Skiddie’s fancy, over-sized pickup. Heart hammering, Douglas looked back down Dipping Lane, only to find a few inches of clear water sitting in the center. Exactly what he would expect for this time of year.

Skiddie hit the horn again before leaning out the window. “You getting in or what?”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Douglas tossed his bike into the back of Skiddie’s truck and jumped in on the passenger’s side, after Curt graciously hopped the center console and slid into the back. “How you doing?” he asked as Douglas clicked his seatbelt on.

“He’s doing better than us. Somebody didn’t have to run laps this afternoon,” Skiddie pointed out.

“We had to run laps because you told Coach you’d pissed in his coffee,” Curt reminded him. “You spun a whole elaborate story about all the ways you could have done it before lying and saying you’d actually done one.”

“He called me unambitious. Well, I had the ambition to make sure he never enjoys a cup of coffee with a full surety there’s not piss in it.”

The stupid conversation was a balm for Douglas, who’d been a bit too in his head as of late. He watched carefully as Skiddie blasted through the ever-present puddle, sending bits of perfectly normal water spraying out. Because that’s all it was, all it ever had been. Just water. His brain had experienced a near-drowning, and was having flashbacks associated with the horrific event, and terrible as it was Douglas reminded himself that it was perfectly normal.

Everything was normal and fine.

That was the mantra he repeated to himself as Skiddie drove out to Sawburg’s Diner, where the trio often pissed about buying only coffee and holding a table for hours. Today they were just in for a quick bite, as Skiddie was ravenous after practice and Curt put down a fair bit of food too. Douglas ate with them, though not nearly as much, knowing his parents would be expecting him for dinner. Hanging out with his friends while grounded was already asking for trouble, though he did have the doc’s note demanding her get some time outside as a handy excuse.

Eventually, the afternoon veered toward evening, and Skiddie drove Douglas home. He waved to Skiddie and Curt as the pair headed off to Curt’s place, which was much closer to Skiddie’s. Luckily, he beat both of his own parents home, sparing himself a lecture on what “punishment” was supposed to mean. At dinner, he passed on Dr. Padderon’s assessment, and while his folks still appeared concerned, neither was inclined to argue with the opinion of a professional.

Seeing them not object was a large relief for Douglas, who feared some sudden obstacle would arise. Football was the last step to getting things truly back to normal, and a piece of Douglas knew the hallucinations would stop as soon as he got back on the field. It had to work, there was no other option.

Satisfied with the day, and actively putting Dipping Lane out of his mind, Douglas grabbed an incredibly fast shower, never letting the thin streams of water pool into something with depth, before settling in for bed that night. He’d just closed his eyes when the sound reached him.

Drip

Grunting, Douglas threw the covers off and went to check the shower. Nothing. He moved on to look over his bathroom faucet, finding no leak there, and eventually went on to the kitchen. All of them were dry, yet he heard the sound everywhere he went.

Drip

Drip

Ultimately, Douglas settled on using a pair of earplugs from his mom’s box in the kitchen, the orange one’s she used at the shooting range. With them blocking his ear-canals, Douglas laid back down into bed, determined to get a good night’s rest.

Drip

Flipping over, Douglas screamed into his pillow so the noise wouldn’t wake his parents.