The year was 1914, and the train rumbled through the night, its iron lungs spewing plumes of sooty smoke that obscured the constellations from view. Aboard the car sat Randolph Carter, a man of science haunted by the whispers of a forgotten age. His destination: Morrison’s, a popular summer resort with a grand sunset view, perched on the shores of Chateaugay Lake, a weekend retreat for the weary denizens of New York City.
Randolph had heard rumors of the place, whispers of a gateway that had been breached, of entities older than time that stirred beneath the placid surface of the lake. He dismissed them at first, attributing them to the overactive imaginations of weekend bards, but something, a cold tendril of dread, snaked its way into his gut, urging him to investigate.
Morrison’s was everything an escape from the city should be. The grand wooden structure, all gables and wraparound porches, loomed against the twilight sky, its windows glowing a warm, inviting orange. The scent of pine and damp earth filled the air, a welcome change from the ever-present coal dust of New York. Yet, there was a hollowness to the merriment spilling from the windows, a forced quality that set Randolph on edge.
The lobby was a cavernous space, its high ceiling lost in shadows. A massive stone fireplace dominated one wall, its maw filled with unlit logs. The air hung heavy with the cloying scent of pipe tobacco and something else, something deeper, metallic and alien. The patrons, usually a boisterous bunch, seemed subdued, their eyes filled with a vacant terror.
Randolph found his room, a spartan affair overlooking the lake. The once pristine wallpaper was now marred by brownish stains that resembled nothing he had ever seen before. An unsettling chill emanated from the floorboards, a coldness that seeped into his bones. As he tried to settle in, a rhythmic drumming echoed from the floor below, a sound like a thousand slimy bodies pulsing in unison.
Sleep, when it came, was a fitful affair. Randolph dreamt of writhing tentacles and glistening eyes, of a monstrous intelligence that hungered for the world above. He woke with a gasp, bathed in a sickly green luminescence that emanated from the lake. The drumming had grown louder, a steady, maddening beat that threatened to shatter his sanity.
Driven by a morbid curiosity, Randolph ventured down to the source of the sound. The grand ballroom, once a venue for lively soirees, was now a scene of unspeakable horror. A monstrous entity, half-octopus, half-man, pulsed in the center of the room, its glistening hide reflecting the unnatural green light. Tendrils lashed out, snatching hapless victims from the half-awakened guests, stuffing them into its gaping maw.
The guests, once filled with terror, were now strangely subdued, their faces vacant, their eyes glazed over. A horrifying realization dawned on Randolph – the entity wasn’t just feeding, it was taking control. These weren’t empty husks, they were puppets, their minds enslaved by the creature from the depths.
Panic seized Randolph. He knew he had to flee, to warn the outside world of the horror that lurked beneath the placid surface of Chateaugay Lake. But the creature’s gaze fell upon him, and a cold, insidious voice echoed in his mind, promising power, promising knowledge of things man was not meant to know.
Randolph staggered back, his mind reeling. The drumming intensified, a maddening chorus that drowned out his thoughts. In that moment, a terrifying choice presented itself: succumb to the creature’s maddening whispers, or fight…
What mysteries of Chateaugay Lake haunt you?