A Soiree of Shadows on Chateaugay Lake
It was an evening bathed in violet shadows and whispers—those kinds of whispers that slip between pines and settle on still waters like a net draped over glass. The locals of Chateaugay Lake, though they would only dare call it The Great Pond in hushed tones, knew well enough to be indoors once the dusk began to drape its velvet over the Adirondacks. But what could keep Evelyn Nesbit indoors?
Evelyn, the ancient goddess, was not as history remembered her. The doe-eyed beauty of the Gilded Age was merely one of her many guises. Beneath those layers of glamor and scandal, she was something altogether more… timeless. Old enough to remember the mountains themselves when they were still young and jagged, old enough to have bartered stardust for shadows with the likes of gods and primordial beasts. And tonight, she was holding council by the lake’s edge, her retinue gathered like faithful dogs at her side.
In the silver mists emerging from the cool depths of The Great Pond, figures shifted and twisted—creatures not born of flesh or bone but of myths whispered from trembling lips. Among them was a creature so vast and ancient that even naming him bordered on blasphemy. Cthulhu, the Great Dreamer, stirred in the waters, though not in his typical cavernous lair beneath the sea, but here, summoned at Evelyn’s call, in a form that shimmered somewhere between physical and spectral.
“Awaken,” she whispered with a voice that was both a command and a lullaby. And who, truly, could resist?
Beside her, wrapped in a cloak woven from shadows and dusted with pine needles, stood Varthalox, an Abenaki shaman of the highest order and yet, ironically, the humblest of servants to Evelyn. Varthalox was no ordinary man, for he had long since abandoned such trivialities as mortality. He wore his humanity as a mere mask, hiding the wild spirit of the Wendigo that had taken root in him many winters ago, though he preferred not to bring up that particular chapter. Tonight, however, he let a glimmer of the beast peek through his gaze, his pupils dilating until his eyes seemed black as the lake’s surface.
“My Lady,” Varthalox intoned, bowing low, his voice carrying the soft rustle of dead leaves, “The spirits are restless. The Djinn speak of a disturbance—a presence on the lake that does not belong.”
Evelyn chuckled, the sound a low, rich vibration that seemed to ripple through the water. She knew well what lay within the lake, for she had placed it there herself, a kind of cosmic insurance policy—a lock that required a key only she held.
“Let them rest easy, my dear Varthalox. The Djinn should know by now that I keep only the best company.” She waved a delicate hand, the very gesture trailing a soft, shimmering stardust that dissipated into the air like lost dreams.
“Very well, my Lady,” Varthalox said, though his face betrayed a glint of worry. After all, it wasn’t every day one shared a lakeside council with an eldritch entity and a goddess whose smile could make devils blush.
As if on cue, the lake began to pulse, a gentle throbbing that felt like a heartbeat—slow, ancient, and steady. From the depths, Cthulhu’s voice rose, though it was more a murmur in the mind than a sound on the air. What business calls me from the Deep, O Lady of Forgotten Ages?
Evelyn smirked. “Must I need a reason, old friend?” She leaned over the lake’s edge, her fingers trailing through the water, drawing circles that seemed to ripple out in a pattern that defied Euclidean geometry. “I merely wish to… reminisce. It has been some time since we last shaped the world to our whims, don’t you think?”
There was silence, then a subtle chuckle that filled the minds of all present—Cthulhu’s dark amusement echoing from the fathomless corners of consciousness. The world remains as malleable as it ever was, for those who know where to push. But you have not called me for a stroll down memory lane, goddess. Speak plainly.
Evelyn sighed, though whether from annoyance or satisfaction, none could tell. “Very well. The town nearby, these small-minded creatures who call themselves ‘modern.’ They have begun to mine the lake, seeking minerals they barely comprehend, breaking seals older than the very stones they walk upon. Their hubris—well, I suppose I should not be surprised.”
Varthalox muttered, almost to himself, “Their spirits are thin, brittle things. They have forgotten the old ways.”
“Precisely,” Evelyn said with a gleam in her eye. “So I intend to remind them.”
She cast her gaze across her entourage—Djinn spirits, who flickered and shimmered, barely able to contain themselves in mortal space; Varthalox, standing solemn and inscrutable; and Cthulhu, whose presence alone seemed to deepen the night.
“Tonight, we shall let them see what lies beneath the calm surface of their ‘Great Pond.’” Her lips curled into a smile both wicked and wondrous. “But gently, mind you. We wouldn’t want them to go entirely mad… yet.”
The Djinn flitted forward, shimmering like trapped lightning. “Shall we take their memories, twist them into visions of what once was?”
Evelyn nodded. “Yes. Let them glimpse the truths they’ve buried, the spirits that linger in the rocks, the dark voices that whisper in the trees. Let them see the Wendigo in their dreams and hear the call of the lake in the dead of night.”
Varthalox inclined his head, his shadow flickering into the shape of antlers before melting back into a human form. “Shall I walk among them, my Lady? Lend a hand to their fear?”
“Please do, Varthalox. Remind them of the old bargains, the ones they broke.” She cast her eyes over to Cthulhu, who watched with eyes the color of the deepest abysses. “And you, old friend. When they come to the lake’s edge, let them feel your presence in the water, in their dreams. But do not break the surface. Not yet.”
As you wish, came the rumbling reply. I shall remain the ghost of their nightmares, a shadow in their mind’s eye.
And with that, Evelyn lifted her arms, her voice rising like a hymn from an age when gods walked among men and mortals remembered to bow. The lake responded, the waters churning briefly before falling still, a deceptive calm masking the potent energy she had set within.
By the time the first morning light touched the surface of The Great Pond, rumors had already begun to swirl through the town. Men woke with screams in their throats, unable to recall the visions that haunted them yet unable to shake the dread that clung to their minds like cobwebs. Some swore they saw shadows with antlers, stalking the edges of the forest. Others claimed that when they looked into the water, they saw an enormous, otherworldly eye staring back.
The townsfolk didn’t know it, but they had been given a gift—a reminder that gods and monsters still walked the earth, watching from the edges of shadows, biding their time.
And in the cool, dim recesses of The Great Pond, Evelyn Nesbit watched, satisfied. The world, she knew, had always been a stage, and she the grand puppeteer. With a flick of her wrist and a whisper to ancient allies, she could turn tranquility to terror, leave humanity trembling in awe and fear.
After all, gods must have their amusements.
What mysteries of Chateaugay Lake haunt you?