Mystical Lake Menace: Beware, this tale explores Chateaugay’s strange creatures and haunting melodies, blending eerie Irish folklore and dark romance that might leave you questioning reality—and your playlist.
“The course of true love never did run smooth.” – A Midsummer Night’s Dream
Ah, love—sometimes it visits us as softly as a lover’s whisper, and other times it arrives like a wraith, drifting through the mists of Chateaugay Lake. And, in the summer of 1923, it came not as a mere whisper, but as a twisting, dancing figure—gracefully dark, and thoroughly perplexing. But was it love that took the form of the enigmatic foreign visitor, Aengus Scratchheart, or was it something altogether more sinister?
The tale begins on a languid summer evening at Morrison’s at Upper Chateaugay, a popular haven for those seeking both solace and diversion amid the verdant beauty of the Shatagee Woods. Our guest, Scratchheart, arrived with the manner of a man who knew both the art of music and the darker arts of subtle manipulation. His clothes were effortlessly stylish—tailored with such precision that even the pine trees of the woods might have whispered in approval. But it was his vinyl records, made of a strange shimmering material, which caused the most stir among the gathered crowd.
Rumors of Aengus’s unearthly ability to blend songs from the past, present, and future had spread, but nothing could prepare the locals for his performances. With every track, the very air seemed to warp—time itself bent to the gentle hum of his turntable, leaving the barroom frozen in a mixture of longing and nostalgia. Indeed, his skill was so refined that even the stoic Nathaniel Collins, Chateaugay’s most seasoned guide, had been known to indulge in a wistful sigh, his leathery hands trembling as the melodies swept through him.
But it was not just the music that held the crowd captive—it was the strange occurrences that began to follow Scratchheart’s arrival.
The first night he played, a large dark figure, described only as “a ghostly shadow the size of a barn,” appeared just beyond the trees near the water’s edge. Some called it a wisp of mist, but others, including the infamous local fisherman, Old Veritas (Eugene Miller), insisted it was a “wraith,” a creature of shadow known only to those who dared disturb the ancient powers of the lake.
Eugene, who had spent more hours contemplating Chateaugay Lake than most people spent contemplating their own mortality, argued it was no mere specter. “I’ve seen it before,” he muttered, his voice thick with the authority of age. “Something is stirring in that lake. Something that doesn’t quite belong in our world.”
But who would listen to the ramblings of an old man and his mythical ‘wraiths’ when the seductive melodies of Scratchheart filled the room? To the untrained ear, Scratchheart’s music might have seemed like simple melancholy tunes, yet there was something undeniably other about it. Perhaps it was the way his vinyls never quite stopped spinning, or the way his eyes flickered with a spark of something darker when no one was watching.
It wasn’t until the second night that the full extent of Aengus’s visit began to reveal itself. As the clock struck midnight, the lake began to shimmer with an ethereal glow. A figure, far taller than any man, rose from the depths. Those brave enough to venture to the water’s edge described it as a long, sinuous creature—a serpent or possibly an eel, but with features that no natural beast could claim. It had a gleam to its scales that caught the moonlight, making the creature appear as if it were constructed from the very fabric of time.
For days, people speculated, gossiping in hushed tones in Morrison’s and beyond. Was it the ancient sea serpent of Chateaugay, long forgotten by most? Was it something else, an entirely new creature that had chosen to take up residence in the mystical waters? Some even dared suggest it was the manifestation of a being far older, one connected to the unnatural pull of Scratchheart’s music—a creature summoned by the very frequencies that he conjured with each record.
Of course, many were skeptical. Local guides like Richard “Uncle Dick” Shutts, ever the practical thinker, laughed off the notion that a serpent—much less a wraith-like figure—could exist in their beloved waters. “It’s just some damn fool’s imagination,” he claimed, polishing his fishing rod with grim determination. “The only serpent I’ve seen in these parts was a drunken raccoon and a bottle of gin.”
But even Uncle Dick couldn’t deny the strange happenings in the woods. Even he had heard the sound of something akin to whispered laughter echoing from the trees, though no one was near.
It wasn’t long before the stories intertwined—Scratchheart, the wraith, and the serpent—and a curious theory took root. Some, like Andrew Baker, suggested that Scratchheart, with his dark love songs and otherworldly tunes, might have awakened something buried deep beneath the lake, something the local Abenaki elders had long feared—a being tied to the lake’s very soul.
Others speculated that Scratchheart himself might not be entirely human. A man who could twist time with his music could just as easily twist the very fabric of reality itself. Some even whispered that he was Aengus, the ancient god of love and youth, cursed to wander the world as a DJ, his heart always yearning for a love that could never be his.
In the end, the mystery remained unsolved, though not for lack of theories. Some insisted the serpent was a harbinger of doom, tied to Scratchheart’s presence like a lover’s curse. Others, more skeptical, believed it was nothing more than the imagination of a group of well-lubricated drinkers and overactive minds. Regardless, Scratchheart disappeared as mysteriously as he had arrived, leaving behind only his haunting melodies, a serpent-shaped mystery, and the lingering question: Was it love—or something far worse—that visited Chateaugay Lake that summer?
The last note of Scratchheart’s set still echoes in the memories of those who were there that night—a note that never quite resolved, leaving those who heard it forever yearning for what was lost.
And so, the wraith still haunts the woods, the serpent still lurks beneath the surface, and Aengus Scratchheart… well, who knows where he’s gone? Perhaps he’s out there, still spinning records, waiting for his next lover—or his next victim.
What mysteries of Chateaugay Lake haunt you?