‘Between the months of December and February, ‘Black Lake,’ famous for its many drownings, becomes a seasonal ice skating hub. Families and couples come together at the lake with the assurance that it would be truly unlikely for anyone to drown while it is frozen solid and that the year’s unrecovered bodies have probably washed downstream, that they are not simply preserved underneath the skates.
True locals, those living in close proximity to ‘Black Lake,’ will be conspicuously absent from the cheerful winter scene. Found nearby in restaurants and taverns, they will tell you ‘Black Lake’ is not a good place any time of the year, that winter does not end the site’s uncanny maliciousness, only limits it to maiming instead.’
I rise to my hands and knees, a pool of blood beneath my face. A child screams and skates away. My weak arm collapses under me and splays out again, leaving a red streak across the ice. The world jolts and spins.
A man skates over. His abrupt stop peppers me with ice shavings. He says something, says it again when I don’t respond.
“You okay, man?”
I cough.
“You okay?”
“I… will be.”
He helps me to my feet, catches me before I slip again. He and a friend guide me to the edge. I hear them talking about calling an ambulance. I tell them I’ll be fine. They continue talking, quieter now so that I won’t interrupt.
I’ll have to return the skates before I go.
I look up at ‘Black Lake’ again. They are using snow to wipe away my blood. The sign, encouraging swimmers to beware, is frosted over.
‘Black Lake’ is a bad place.
I spit a gob of blood between my legs. Something rattles and comes loose.
I spit again, feeling little.
Speakers crackle: “The rink is open for free-skating once again, folks. Careful out there, it’s slippery!”
The gathered skaters hesitate, but slowly the rink fills. Their skates carve circles into the ice.
I sift through the snow for my tooth.
My tongue mercilessly prods its absence.
-traveler
