Heed this dire warning, brave souls: in Chateaugay Lake’s hidden, cursed caverns, the monstrous Throatbeast—a grotesque offspring of alchemical folly—lurks with maddening hums and eldritch eyes, threatening both your sanity and time itself.
The Throatbeast of Chateaugay Lake
(as it appeared in the Steamboat Dispatch, 1893)
“The earth, with all its vast dimensions, hath spoken to me, and I dare not ignore the voice that rumbles beneath its surface.”
— Paraphrased from the bard’s Hamlet, Act III, Scene ii.
Chateaugay Lake, tranquil and resplendent in its natural beauty, harbors within its deep, unknown caverns a secret that perhaps ought to remain untold. It is a secret too grotesque, too unfathomable to be fully grasped by human minds. And yet, dear reader, it is a secret we must dare examine. For beneath the placid surface, in the quiet folds of our very earth, lives a creature not of this world—nay, not even of this time.
Many have ventured into the hidden labyrinthine caverns underneath Chateaugay Lake, but few have returned. Those few who did, having experienced the unnatural hum of the underground realm, speak with lips quivering of the Throatbeast. It is a creature born of a forgotten age, an age of alchemists who sought to challenge the very nature of life and death. The tale begins, as all such tales do, with an experiment.
The alchemist, one Dr. Syllas Fothergill, sought to weave together the elements of earth and air into a singular being—an entity capable of traversing not only the bounds of this dimension but others, too. In his endless pursuit of immortality, he failed to account for the violence of nature when so rudely bent to human will. The beast that was created, if it could be called a beast, is not of flesh as we know it. Its body, bloated and amphibious, is something grotesque, a vile distortion of the natural world. It is said to have the form of a gargantuan frog, but its head—ah, its head is something far worse.
Surrounding a mouth that stretches beyond reason, a black hole in space and time, are countless eyes. These eyes are not eyes as we know them—no, these are the eyes of another dimension, each one too large for any mortal gaze to meet without great suffering. They blink in patterns that defy logic, and when they gaze upon a victim, the victim feels as though time itself has been distorted. The creature’s body is covered with spiny appendages—some of them long and twisting, others short and unnervingly root-like, as though it were both an animal and a plant, entwined.
But perhaps the most horrific feature of this beast is not its form but its voice.
The Throatbeast speaks, though none who have heard it can say what language it uses. Its vocalizations—a low, guttural hum—do not simply carry sound. No, they carry something far worse. They carry a sensation of unbearable suffering, a pulse that resonates through the very bones of anyone within earshot. It is said that when one hears its hum, they feel as though their body is being torn asunder from the inside out, each joint and sinew pulled apart by unseen hands.
Those unfortunate enough to wander too deep into the caves where the Throatbeast dwells report hearing strange echoes—whispers that are not of this world. They hear their own voices in the distance, calling out, as though speaking from the future—or perhaps the past. Some claim that the voice they hear is that of the Throatbeast itself, mimicking their own cries to lure them further into its labyrinthine lair.
The Throatbeast, it seems, is not simply a creature of flesh and blood. No, it is something far more sinister. It is a being caught between the threads of time, a creature whose voice causes rifts in the very fabric of reality. Time bleeds when the beast is disturbed. The past and future collapse together, and those who venture too close may find themselves lost not only in the caves but in the endless spirals of time itself.
As for the witnesses—the few brave souls who have stood before the Throatbeast or survived the aftermath of its presence—no explanation can account for their stories. There are those who speak with a great deal of skepticism, dismissing the tales of the guides and hunters as mere folklore. But, dear reader, I assure you, the growing number of accounts cannot be so easily disregarded.
Local men, such as Richard “Uncle Dick” Shutts and Nathaniel Collins, a well-known guide of the lake, have spoken of strange occurrences near the cave entrances at the farthest reaches of the lake. Even Eugene Miller, known for his expansive philosophical musings on the nature of reality, has been left in a state of near madness after an ill-fated excursion near the cavern’s mouth.
We throw down the gauntlet, dear reader, and with it, we beckon you to investigate these dark rumors for yourself. But be warned, the Throatbeast is no mere myth. It is a presence as real and dangerous as any wild beast—perhaps more so, for it does not simply feed on flesh; it feeds on time itself.
As Shakespeare wrote: “What’s past is prologue.” But for those who venture too close, the prologue may become the final chapter. Will you be the next to hear its hum? Will you be the one to understand the whispers from the future?
I leave you to ponder that as you read these words, for I fear my own voice may one day be among the echoes that call to you from the darkness below.
What mysteries of Chateaugay Lake haunt you?