Many said that the night was at its most potent when the moon was full, but John had never agreed. A full moon brought its oddities, there was no denying that, but it gave more: clear, pure light gleaming down as a midnight sun, enough power to break through shadows and reveal hidden secrets. There was safety at a full moon, there was protection, and John would have preferred the dangers of a full moon rather than what hung over him now.
Nothing. It was the time of the new moon when an inky blackness spread itself over the sky and between stars, demanding their suffocation. The light was scarce and weak when it did exist, feeding itself to shadows that grew like black ivy between the trees. Lantern light swung like a will-o-wisp against bark and plant and chased an owl from its perch. John breathed in the air. It was a strange blend of chill and warmth, and tasted like pine and oak. He had been out at night before, of course-- what man hadn't? But the woods... they were an entirely different part of the outdoors, and it was only the unfortunate soul caught in bad timing that was forced to travel through them. Regardless of fanciful tales, it just didn't suit common sense to be out there.
And nor was it that John was afraid. He was twenty years old, young and strong and hardly foolish enough to tempt a wild animal. The only reason he was out there at night was because of Angela's basket. He wished to surprise her with it in the morning. He smiled as he thought of her, the brave, bold girl with a mind of her own-- one of the things that had drawn him to her in the first place. He loved her, but he still didn't believe her story. A thing in the water, ghosts in the mill... there were other explanations for the blood on her arm. She had been upset about the basket, one of her favorite wedding presents, a gift from her dear friend. And the berries. She had gone on and on about the berries. He had told her he would return for the basket, though she had insisted he needn't bother. Women were so difficult to figure out. He could imagine her face, though, the next morning when her basket and her berries were sitting in the window morning sun waiting for her.
If only he could find the basket... he had never gone far down the path. His father had always forbidden in it. Stay away from the mill pond, it is no place for you, John.
For that reason only, it was exhilerating to go near. He felt like a child again, laughing and playing games amongst the trees. There was nothing truly terrifying here, save the new moon.
Still the lantern showed Angela's footsteps and place where the brush had been pushed down. A shred of fabric from her dress. He was on the right track.
He wondered what the mill pond would look like. He had heard all kinds of stories, from bare water to a ruined castle complete with skeletons with their skulls grinning out like fireflies. Smiling himself, he continued, no sound but crickets, owls, and the sound of his own feet.
And an echo of laughter.
But it had to be nothing more than his own imagination.
John pushed through the willow and gasped.
The mill pond was set aglow, though there was no moon to reflect itself there and barely the sight of stars. Still it was lit up, as if candles had been lit beneath the glass surface. And above it sat the dilapidated old mill, ancient entrance inviting.
Angela's basket sat there, berries waiting to be carried home. For a moment he considered picking it up, and he did as much as to take a handful of berries, which he shoved into his mouth. They were perfectly ripe, and the juice ran down his chin. Then he marched past weeds and rocks and fallen trees to the mill. Supposedly it was haunted. He wasn't sure if he believed that or not, but who could not love the idea? He peered into the doorway. It was musty and smelled like swamp water. An old sack, half-rotted, lay in one corner. The floor was strewn with plants and used birds' nests.
I've watched this place a long time.
John spun around, suddenly cold. No one was there. His imagination again. He turned back to the mill; the ceiling was covered in shadow. He held up his lantern, suddenly desperate for more light. Not enough, though if he stared long enough, he could almost see a gently swinging rope, frayed at the end. A rope not strong enough to long hold a body.
But for an instant that image passed over his eyes before fleeing away.
With a gasp he faced the pond. The body now lay in the lake, barely floating, wide eyes staring out to him.
It couldn't be. It had to be an enchantment of his mind.
Or someone had followed him. It was not a corpse. With sudden energy its mouth opened, eager for air, and an arm reached out. John hopped down the rocky shore to the pond's edge and held out his arm. "Grab on!"
But the man did not swim toward him. Only its hand reached out, fingers trembling.
John began to take off his jacket. He wasn't sure what he was about to do.
Such a kind boy.
His gaze fell to the water near his feat.
A face smiled up at him, the face of a beautiful woman with turquoise eyes and pale skin. Her hair, blue green, spun around her like soaked cobwebs.
Then she reached up, grabbed his hand, and pulled him in.
She was too strong to fight, and the dark water rushed past him until he was covered. All he could see was the shadows of living thigns and the glow of the woman's face.