"Waiting" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
“First comes the light, then the silence, then the loss.” ~White Harbor proverb
Morning broke bright and deceptively clear, the kind of spring day that should have carried promise. Sunlight poured over the Upper Peninsula, the air smelled of thawing earth, and above White Harbor the tall white pines stirred in the breeze, whispering softly to one another like a congregation at prayer. Yet beneath the birdsong, unease pressed down on the village, a weight no warmth could lift.
Everyone had heard Matthew Carlson’s screams the night before. By dawn, the story had run ahead of him: how the boy claimed a pale hand had risen from the lake’s glow, how it reached for him, how he stumbled back weeping and inconsolable. His mother barred the curtains, his father refused to let him out of the house, but the tale already belonged to the whole town.
At first, some tried to laugh it off—“a child’s fancy,” they said, “spring mischief.” But even as they spoke, their voices wavered. Mothers kept children inside. Dogs whined when led near the strand. Fishermen stood on the docks with nets in hand and did not launch their boats. Even the gulls seemed restless, circling but refusing to land on the water.
By noon the tavern was filled, though it was too early for drink. The old men sat in their corner, voices low, smoke curling above them.
Henrik said, “It always starts with the young. The lake shows itself first to children. They’re tender, unguarded. Easier to touch.”
Paulsen shook his head. “Not always. Don’t forget Caleb Dorn. He was thirty-two when the glow called him.”
“Caleb was a fool,” muttered Lars, though his eyes were tight. “He mocked it, and the lake don’t suffer mockery.”
A hush fell, each man chasing the memory of other names, other years. Annie Larkins. Caleb Dorn. The lumber crew that vanished in ’89. Always after the glow. Always after the whispers.
By evening, shutters were drawn early. Lamps flickered behind curtains though the sky was still streaked with daylight. The white pines groaned as the wind stiffened, their needles hissing like voices. And then it came—the sound that froze every household:
Three slow knocks.
Not on a door, but from the docks. Wood on wood, hollow and deliberate, echoing across the water.
The town held its breath. No one moved. No one dared.
Silence.
Then, again—three knocks, louder this time. The sound reverberated through the narrow streets, rattling windowpanes, trembling in the floorboards beneath their feet. Children whimpered. A lantern slipped from someone’s hand and shattered on the tavern floor.
Inside the tavern, glasses quivered on the tables. Henrik’s hand tightened around his whiskey until the glass cracked and bled amber across his knuckles. Paulsen’s lips moved soundlessly, repeating a prayer half-remembered from his mother. Lars leaned forward, whispering with dread:
“That’s no hand of man. That’s the lake knocking. Once for warning. Twice for naming. The third…” He did not finish.
Silence again. A long, aching pause. People began to breathe once more, relief thin and shaky.
And then it came a third time—three booming strikes, louder than before, as if the very lake itself had learned to knock. The sound rolled through White Harbor, pressing against their chests, vibrating in their teeth.
Then nothing.
No wind, no gulls, no sound but the faint hiss of the pines. And that silence—the silence after—was worse than the knocking. It was not the stillness of peace, but the stillness of a hunter holding its breath. Something was out there waiting…waiting as a stalker waits for its prey.
Out beyond the harbor, the glow pulsed steady as a heartbeat, patient, certain. And everyone in White Harbor knew: the lake had announced itself. It was choosing.
~Wylddane
Morning broke bright and deceptively clear, the kind of spring day that should have carried promise. Sunlight poured over the Upper Peninsula, the air smelled of thawing earth, and above White Harbor the tall white pines stirred in the breeze, whispering softly to one another like a congregation at prayer. Yet beneath the birdsong, unease pressed down on the village, a weight no warmth could lift.
Everyone had heard Matthew Carlson’s screams the night before. By dawn, the story had run ahead of him: how the boy claimed a pale hand had risen from the lake’s glow, how it reached for him, how he stumbled back weeping and inconsolable. His mother barred the curtains, his father refused to let him out of the house, but the tale already belonged to the whole town.
At first, some tried to laugh it off—“a child’s fancy,” they said, “spring mischief.” But even as they spoke, their voices wavered. Mothers kept children inside. Dogs whined when led near the strand. Fishermen stood on the docks with nets in hand and did not launch their boats. Even the gulls seemed restless, circling but refusing to land on the water.
By noon the tavern was filled, though it was too early for drink. The old men sat in their corner, voices low, smoke curling above them.
Henrik said, “It always starts with the young. The lake shows itself first to children. They’re tender, unguarded. Easier to touch.”
Paulsen shook his head. “Not always. Don’t forget Caleb Dorn. He was thirty-two when the glow called him.”
“Caleb was a fool,” muttered Lars, though his eyes were tight. “He mocked it, and the lake don’t suffer mockery.”
A hush fell, each man chasing the memory of other names, other years. Annie Larkins. Caleb Dorn. The lumber crew that vanished in ’89. Always after the glow. Always after the whispers.
By evening, shutters were drawn early. Lamps flickered behind curtains though the sky was still streaked with daylight. The white pines groaned as the wind stiffened, their needles hissing like voices. And then it came—the sound that froze every household:
Three slow knocks.
Not on a door, but from the docks. Wood on wood, hollow and deliberate, echoing across the water.
The town held its breath. No one moved. No one dared.
Silence.
Then, again—three knocks, louder this time. The sound reverberated through the narrow streets, rattling windowpanes, trembling in the floorboards beneath their feet. Children whimpered. A lantern slipped from someone’s hand and shattered on the tavern floor.
Inside the tavern, glasses quivered on the tables. Henrik’s hand tightened around his whiskey until the glass cracked and bled amber across his knuckles. Paulsen’s lips moved soundlessly, repeating a prayer half-remembered from his mother. Lars leaned forward, whispering with dread:
“That’s no hand of man. That’s the lake knocking. Once for warning. Twice for naming. The third…” He did not finish.
Silence again. A long, aching pause. People began to breathe once more, relief thin and shaky.
And then it came a third time—three booming strikes, louder than before, as if the very lake itself had learned to knock. The sound rolled through White Harbor, pressing against their chests, vibrating in their teeth.
Then nothing.
No wind, no gulls, no sound but the faint hiss of the pines. And that silence—the silence after—was worse than the knocking. It was not the stillness of peace, but the stillness of a hunter holding its breath. Something was out there waiting…waiting as a stalker waits for its prey.
Out beyond the harbor, the glow pulsed steady as a heartbeat, patient, certain. And everyone in White Harbor knew: the lake had announced itself. It was choosing.
~Wylddane
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