Trigger Warning: Story contains morally ambiguous characters engaging in obsessive recollections and fireside myth-making that may disturb those who fear the unreliability of memory or the porous boundary between fact and legend.
The Emberkeeper of Interlaken
As chronicled by the Chateaugay Dispatch, Winter Solstice Edition, 1925
In the year 1916, amidst the frost-kissed pines of Chateaugay Lake, a peculiar event transpired at the Interlaken Lodge that would become the subject of whispered tales and incredulous glances for years to come. The lodge, a rustic establishment known for its warm hearths and hearty meals, found itself hosting a gathering unlike any other.
On a particularly biting evening, as the wind howled through the skeletal branches and the moon cast an eerie glow upon the snow-covered ground, a group of individuals convened in the lodge’s main room. Among them were Mose Sangamore, a seasoned timberman with tales as tall as the trees he felled; Nat Collins, a man whose cane was rumored to have once been struck by lightning; and Pratt Hill, a reclusive stagecoach driver with a penchant for spectral musings.
As the fire crackled and the shadows danced upon the walls, the trio began to recount their most outlandish experiences. Sangamore spoke of a panther that had licked him too affectionately—a tale that left the others skeptical but intrigued. Collins shared an account of a Lenape girl who breathed beneath the ice of the lake, singing ancient melodies that defied comprehension. Hill, ever the ghostly raconteur, muttered about a haunted lost stagecoach that rode the clouds, not the rugged roads of Chateaugay Lake.
The atmosphere grew thick with anticipation, the air heavy with the weight of their stories. It was then that the temperature dropped precipitously, and a shadow passed beneath the staircase. Not behind it, but beneath it, as though the very structure of the lodge had momentarily shifted. The fire flared without cause, casting long, distorted shadows that seemed to reach toward the newcomers.
From the dim recesses of the room emerged a figure—a man cloaked in soot, with eyes that gleamed like embers. His antlers, adorned with remnants of half-burned stories, brushed the low ceiling as he approached the hearth. He did not speak, nor did he need to. His presence commanded attention, and the room fell into a hushed reverence.
He settled into the rocking chair that no one had dared to use for years, its wood groaning under his weight. The firelight flickered, casting fleeting glimpses of his features—sharp cheekbones, a beard that seemed to smolder, and a gaze that pierced the very fabric of reality. He was the Emberkeeper, a being of ash and ember, of forgotten tales and smoldering truths.
For hours, he sat in silence, his eyes reflecting the flames as the others continued their tales. Each story seemed to lose its luster in his presence, as though the very act of recounting had become trivial. The fire burned brighter, the shadows deeper, and the lodge itself seemed to lean in, listening.
When the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, the Emberkeeper rose. He did not speak, nor did he need to. His departure was as silent as his arrival, leaving behind only the lingering warmth of the fire and the echo of stories untold.
To this day, the Interlaken Lodge stands as a testament to that night. The rocking chair remains by the hearth, its wood polished by time and memories. And though the Emberkeeper has not been seen again, his presence is felt in the flicker of the firelight and the rustle of the wind through the pines.
Should you find yourself at Chateaugay Lake on a winter’s night, with the wind howling and the moon casting its pale light upon the snow, listen closely. You may hear the faintest creak of a rocking chair, the soft crackle of embers, and perhaps, just perhaps, the beginning of a tale yet to be told.
What mysteries of Chateaugay Lake haunt you?