He had looked out at the cloudy weather that morning, deciding it would be perfect to go on a walk. He had shrugged on his gray vest and locked the door of the house behind him, deciding better safe than sorry.
He had walked down the hill, heavy footfalls crushing delicate sprigs of grass, breath whispering out in a dull cloud that hung heavy around his head. He breathed in. Breathed out.
He had reached the lake and stepped out onto the dock. Barely had he set foot onto it when a hand, a head, a torso burst from the water, sending droplets flying from the surface of the lake. The figure shook its head wildly, catching a glimpse of the man standing on the dock.
The man took a small step backward, surprised at the spray of water now staining the wood in front of his shoes. He looked up at the flailing arms, clenched hands, sodden clothes. His face turned into masses of grim lines, staring down blankly at the figure in the lake. A trace of horror appeared there also, but still, he did not move.
The head and shoulders appeared again, thrashing, sending wild arcs of water soaring through the air, sending ripples throughout the surface of the lake. The mouth on the stone face tried to shout, but before it could make a sound, water rushed up around it and closed it forever.
And all of that time, the man just watched, as if it was a death scene in a horror movie.
The hand reached from the water again, bony and despairing. It convulsed, grabbing, seeking wildly for anything. Closing on empty air, clenching into a fist, the hand buried itself once more.
It submerged like a needle plunging into folds of cold grey silk.
The man stood there for a moment. Then he turned and walked back the lonely way to his house.