A Gathering of Secrets: Utica’s women seek a simple provision, but find themselves caught in a web of thickening shadows. Uncover the hidden truths that ripple beneath the lake’s surface, disrupting the fragile calm.
The year is 1896. The air is still in the lower reaches of Upper Chateaugay Lake, where the world holds its breath and waits for the coming of something both inevitable and unseen. Here, on the edge of the Adirondacks, amid the silence that clings to the pine trees and skirts across the water like the forgotten sighs of ghosts, the Merrill House stands, resplendent in its quiet splendor. The place is a delicate fragment of another era, rooted deep in the North Country’s soil.
The vacationing women from Utica—Hilda Thorne and Gertrude Fenwick—stride carefully down the lakeside path, their gowns brushing the earth as if the very land itself were reluctant to release them. In their wake, the sky seems to bend, leaning toward them with a kind of softness that speaks of secrets, though no word is spoken. Their laughter floats, half-submerged in the stillness like distant, beckoning chimes, interwoven with the chirp of cicadas and the muted rustling of the lake’s breath.
Hilda’s smile is quick, sharp, like the snap of a fan. Gertrude’s is slower, weighted with the weight of too many unspoken things. Together, they create a perfect juxtaposition—Hilda, the practical one, with her sharp wit and quick tongue; Gertrude, the dreamer, who believes all things can be spun into the air and forgotten before they touch the ground.
They pause at the edge of the water, the calm ripples catching the light in a strange, shifting pattern—each turn of the lake like a quiet thought, gathering, breaking, fading away again. Behind them, the Merrill House looms in its solitary elegance, a building of wood and stone that feels as much a part of the land as the mountains themselves. But in the hills beyond, in the shadows where Lyon Mountain rises like a dark finger from the earth, there are whispers of a different kind. Whispers of something stronger than tea, though the women have yet to learn just how thick that whisper can be.
Their mission is simple—secure a case of “likker” for an upcoming tea party—an event that will, of course, require nothing less than the finest provisions. The Lyon Mountain gentlemen—tall men with dust in their boots and fire in their eyes—have promised just what they need. Hilda, ever the practical one, adjusts the parasol on her shoulder, glancing at Gertrude, whose eyes have already wandered to the distant shoreline.
“There they are,” Hilda says, her slightly nervous voice an anchor in the midst of the stillness. “I’m almost sure they’ve brought it with them, but you know what they say about dealings in the woods…”
“Who could ever say no to a drink?” Gertrude murmurs, though there’s something in her voice—something that doesn’t quite belong, as if the words themselves were borrowed from a language she had no claim to.
And there they are, emerging from the trees: the Lyon Mountain gentlemen. The first man, tall and sunburned, wears a heavy coat despite the summer warmth, his mustache twitching as if it might speak of its own free will and accord. The second, a younger man, carries a rifle slung over his shoulder, his eyes darting nervously from the ground to the water, as though the land itself might be listening.
Hilda straightens her back, her heels clicking sharply against the stones as she walks toward them. The air seems to thicken in their presence, the horizon folding in as if holding its breath.
“Gentlemen,” she says with a smile that might slice if it weren’t so finely honed. “We’ve come to discuss arrangements.”
The silence deepens.
And as they speak of liquor and other things—of moonshine hidden beneath the pines, of a world unseen by the good folks at the Merrill House, of promises made in low voices—they do not notice the strange shimmering in the air. They do not see the way the lake, which had been so calm, now stirs with the slow ripples of something far more ancient than any bargain made by men.
The light stretches and yawns, dragging its silvery fingers across the lake. The hills beyond grow darker, like the closing of an eye. The two men fidget under Hilda’s gaze, shifting their weight from one boot to the other. Gertrude glances back toward the house—just a flicker of movement, a shadow, a presence behind the curtains that isn’t there when she looks again.
The critters chatter a name.
Time seems to break.
And for a moment, everything is still again—the lake, the trees, even the fading rays of the late afternoon sun, which have come down to settle on the hills like dust on forgotten tomes. But something has shifted. A breeze stirs, colder now. The men laugh nervously, but their eyes dart toward the distant woods.
Hilda’s eyes narrow. Gertrude’s smile falters.
The world turns. The mountains breathe.
And in the silence that follows, one thing is certain: the liquor might be good, but the price of it is yet to be paid.
What mysteries of Chateaugay Lake haunt you?