Stillwater Lake Read online

  J.P. Choquette

  Stillwater Lake

  First published by Scared E Cat Books 2022

  Copyright © 2022 by J.P. Choquette

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  First edition

  ISBN: 978-1-950976-17-1

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Also by J.P. Choquette

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Jessica Brown

  Stillwater, Vermont

  The rattle of the windowpane woke Jessica from an uneasy sleep. The pane shimmied in its wooden frame. She watched it from the slightly sagging mattress. The wind outside whipped at the window and screamed around the eaves. Her heart thundered in her chest. She put a hand there, felt it pound. But why? Had she had a nightmare? She didn’t think she’d slept deeply enough for the—she glanced at the alarm clock blearily—past three hours. The green numbers announced it was just after three. She’d tumbled into bed after a third glass of wine and a half-smoked cigarette a little after midnight. She didn’t smoke anymore, not for three months. Not usually.

  The wind screamed again, like a dying woman. Jessica pushed back the blankets and toed around the floor by the bed for her slippers. They weren’t there. She must not have unpacked them yet. Either that, or she’d forgotten them back home.

  She shivered and pulled on a ratty sweater. Her “grandpa sweater,” Bryan called it. She smiled but it quickly fell away.

  Bryan.

  If only he were here. If only—

  “No. Stop it,” she said out loud, her voice little more than a mumble. Still, it grounded her. Made her remember. Her head pounded and she put her hand there and massaged her temples lightly. Bryan was gone. He wasn’t coming back. Time to get used to it.

  Shuffling to the window, Jessica wrapped the sweater around her tightly. Leaning on the rounded log wall close to the window, Jessica peered out. She’d expected blackness—up here in the mountains in the middle of a storm—but a soft bluish glow came from the little grove of pine trees closest to the cabin’s front door. Strange. What was making that light? she wondered. An optical illusion, some bit of light from the cabin reflecting onto the trees, maybe.

  Sitting on the front steps after hauling in her stuff earlier that evening, she’d studied the small knot of trees while enjoying her first glass of wine. They’d felt friendly somehow, safe. Not like the rest of the forest surrounding the cabin. The woods here were wild and untamed. Jessica had been camping twice in her life—once in high school and a second time in college—but she’d never been in a forest like this. It seemed to reach out from all around the cabin toward her: thick, clinging vines threatened to choke her while huge trees with jagged boughs pointed their accusing fingers at her. Even the low-lying brush underfoot was thick and impenetrable. Jessica shivered at the thought of hiking in the wooded area.

  The faint glow of light had dimmed. Jessica pressed her face closer to the glass. The windowpane shivered and Jessica took an involuntary step back.

  “Chicken.” She could almost hear Bryan’s teasing voice. She ran a hand over her face and sagged back against the wall.

  Bang!

  Something hit the window hard.

  Jessica screamed. She looked wildly toward the pane of glass but saw only a smudge in the next lightning flash. Hand still over her mouth, she looked again toward the blueish light but it was completely gone. The night was shades of gray and black and all around her, the trees swayed toward the cabin and then away.

  She stepped away from the window, feeling suddenly exposed. What had hit it? A bat maybe. Or a branch. Birds didn’t fly at night, did they? Unless it was an owl. Nighthawks. Did they have those here in Vermont? Jessica rubbed her hands over her arms, fingers catching intermittently on the misshapen fibers of the sweater. Her hands trembled like a newborn bird.

  “You’re being a complete baby,” she told herself.

  Still, there was no point in going back to bed. She’d never fall back to sleep. She might as well make tea and do some more unpacking. Yes, like your laptop, a little voice—not Bryan’s this time—chimed in. Why hasn’t that been unpacked yet? She ignored it and retreated from the window.

  The upper floor of the small log cabin was a half loft, a feature that Jessica had loved when seeing it on the house rental website. She walked down the stairs, held tightly to the cold railing. The winding wrought iron staircase emptied into the living room. The entire bottom floor of the cabin was an open space. The living room opened into a small eat-in kitchen. A tiny half bath sat on the other side. There was a single entrance to the cabin—the front door was in the kitchen. She’d wondered when she’d seen if it was a fire hazard but hadn’t bothered to ask before booking.

  Jessica put a robin’s egg blue teakettle on the back burner. She turned on the gas, held her breath until the flame caught. While she waited for the teakettle to boil, she sat at the table and surveyed the boxes and bags yet to be unpacked.

  “It’s perfect,” Theresa had gushed when Jessica had told her agent of her plan. “Just what you need. If you can’t get your mojo back there, I don’t know what to tell you!”

  But Jessica didn’t need Theresa to tell her. If her writing muse didn’t show up at the cabin, deep in the wilderness. Jessica knew the outcome. She’d lose more fans. Her business accounts would hemorrhage more money, faster than they had already been. She’d run the risk of being what every best-selling author feared: a has-been.

  “That’s not going to happen,” Theresa had said when Jessica had voiced this. “You’re too good of an author, too much of a professional to let it. You’re not some two-bit, pulp fiction writer. You’re Claudia Snow! You are the face of romance writing today. Who was it who won the RITA just two years ago? The Romance Writers of America don’t hand those trophies out willy-nilly, sweets.”

  Jessica had taken an extra-large swallow of wine. “I should tape you saying this and play it back when I get blocked,” she’d said, only half-joking.

  “And which author has graced the New York Times bestseller list for twenty-six weeks in the last twelve months?” Theresa had reminded her without pause.

  “But that was before,” Jessica had said. She didn’t have to finish the sentence. Theresa knew what she was talking about. Before Bryan—

&nbs
p; “Here’s where I tell you the difference between fact and fiction, Jessica,” Theresa’s voice had the same hard, no-nonsense tone that had terrified Jessica as a younger writer. “You’re brilliant as a writer. But more importantly, you are relatable. Fans love you—the real you—even if they only know you through your pen name. You are a gifted storyteller. Period. And you’re meant for this career, for this, this…” there had been a pause as Theresa had tried to find the right words, “Life. You were meant to be a novelist, and you are one. A damned good one. And one personal upset—however much it hurts—is not going to take that away,” Theresa’s voice had softened then. “Not unless you let it, sweets.”

  Jessica had sighed. Theresa was right. Most of the time her agent was. Jessica had learned that too as a younger author and she’d told Theresa then.

  “Of course, I am,” Theresa had said. “That’s what makes me such a stellar agent. And what makes you so lucky to have me,” she’d laughed, that deep, resonating chuckle that belied her pack-a-day habit for the past thirty years.

  “Take your time. Well,” Theresa had made a face. “Not too much. Remember, the draft is due in September. But now…” She’d lit a cigarette. “Now you have to tackle your to-do list. I’m sure that you have a lot of details to take care of before you leave.”

  And Jessica had. She’d funneled her fear and sadness into packing boxes and bags and suitcases. She’d taken care of the million and one things that needed to be taken care of before going on a three-month hiatus: stopping the mail, notifying her twice-a-week housekeeper, and calling the head of the local school where Jessica volunteered as a writing coach once a week. So many complicated details required to free herself up for an uncomplicated visit to the country! No wonder she couldn’t write. There were too many balls in the air, too many obligations tying her down.

  That’s what she’d told herself anyway. That there, in the wilderness, she’d find the solace and peace she was craving. That she’d clear her mind enough to refresh her creativity. She needed it desperately to start the next book.

  The teakettle screeched. Jessica lurched to her feet, snatched it from the burner, and turned off the flame. Her heartbeat, which had slowed slightly, hammered again in her chest. She steadied herself on the counter and then dug through the nearest box, looking for teabags.

  Five minutes later, she sat on the cream-colored couch in the living room. Outside the wind continued to whip and now rain pelted hard against the cabin. She watched the storm with her eyes, but her mind was still on the cracked windowpane upstairs. What could have hit the glass hard enough to do that? And what had caused the light coming from the little grove of pine trees? She adjusted her position, feeling vulnerable with the curtains open but fascinated too by the power of the storm.

  “I’d put something in front of that door at night,” Lydia, the teen who’d helped her unpack the SUV had told Jessica earlier that afternoon. Jessica, exhausted after the seven-hour drive, had only been half-listening as Lydia had droned on about things to do in the area. She’d sounded like a mechanical puppet, repeating the words that Jessica was sure Lydia’s mother, the owner of the rental agency, required her to give each guest.

  “Why would I do that?” Jessica had stopped struggling with the last box and slid it across the floor toward the kitchen with her high-heeled sandal. “The door has a lock doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it’s got a lock,” Lydia had said, licking her lips. “But,” she’d stopped then, glancing over her shoulder theatrically, as though looking for someone offstage. “That wouldn’t stop the gargun.”

  “The gargun?”

  “Sure. You’ve never heard of him?”

  Jessica had sighed then, blowing air out of her nose and sinking onto the biggest box close by. “No, I can’t say as I have.”

  “I thought that’s why you came here. For the gargun festival.”

  “He really must be famous if you have a whole festival for him,” Jessica had said.

  Lydia had smiled politely. Jessica was ready for Lydia to go. She wanted nothing more than to fill up the tub with the hottest water she could stand and a glass of ice-cold water and lemon and wash the trip off of her. But she also remembered what it was like to be Lydia’s age. To feel like no one really saw you or listened to you.

  Jessica took a big breath and asked, “So, what’s a gargun?”

  “There are a few different theories about him,” Lydia had admitted. “But the one most people agree with is that it’s a sea monster. But not huge—like the Loch Ness Monster. Or Champ—that’s the monster in Lake Champlain. He’s more like a cross between a monster and a man. Like, he can come out of the water and walk around and stuff.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s handy,” Jessica stood and dusted off her hands. Hopefully, Lydia would get the hint. “And the festival is a parade or something?”

  “Nope,” Lydia had shaken her head. “The Gargun Festival draws people from all over the country, some even from further than that,” she’d grinned. “We get the bulk of our summer traffic from it. It’s the biggest tourist attraction that Stillwater offers.”

  Jessica had held in a groan. She’d come here to get away from the crowds, away from people. To concentrate on her book, not get roped into some country bumpkin festival.

  “I doubt I’ll be affected much, being way out here,” Jessica had said.

  But Lydia had shaken her head, disagreeing. “Not with the festival traffic, no. But the gargun?” She shrugged. “He likes it best by the water—it’s where he lives. But some people say that he likes the woods too. Remote places. Far from watchful eyes. He stalks his prey quietly, so quietly you’d never even know he was there. And then—”

  A two-way radio on the girl’s hip had squawked as though on cue.

  “Doogle?” a woman’s voice asked.

  Jessica had jumped, startled and Lydia had snatched up the radio, pushing the button before she even brought it to her lips.

  “Mom, please,” she’d said, irritation in her voice.

  “Sorry, I forgot. Lydia. Are you almost finished? The Wrights are arriving soon, and I need you to open the place up, and air it out. I hope you explained how much I wanted to be there for Ms. Brown’s arrival.”

  Lydia glanced at Jessica who smiled back.

  “Tell her everything is wonderful,” Jessica had said. “I appreciate your help. But I’m all set now, really. Just going to relax after the long trip.”

  Lydia had stared at her a moment longer than necessary, then fingered the button on the radio.

  “Ms. Brown thinks everything’s wonderful, Mom. And yes, I’m on my way,” she’d said into the gray box. “Be there in ten.” Lydia’s long dirty-blonde hair was tied into a messy bun and it had wobbled on her head as she’d re-fastened the shortwave to her shorts.

  “Well, I’d better go. The cabin the Wrights are renting is huge so it’ll take forever to air it out before I check them in.”

  “Do you have many guests?”

  Lydia had shrugged. “Now we do. The festival is the biggest draw all year. But we don’t have as many guests as my mom would like. The Wrights are from somewhere out west—Chicago, I think—they have a couple of kids.” She made a face. “Families with kids are the worst. Cleaning the place out after a family’s been there sucks, especially if the kids are little. There’s always Cheerios mushed everywhere and no one ever remembers to empty the garbage before they go which reek of dirty diapers. I mean, seriously? How hard is it to drop the garbage off at the dumpster when you check out?”

  She’d paused, looked around the space again as though really seeing it for the first time. For a moment Jessica thought Lydia was going to grill her on her housekeeping abilities.

  Instead, Lydia glanced toward the driveway.

  “Anyway, if you need anything, you can get in touch with Mom. She explained about the cell signal?”

  Jessica had nodded.

  “Right. About ten minutes by car, twenty-five or so on
foot. You’ll come to the crest just before the mountain starts to descend. There’s a good spot there for a pretty clear signal. I could always ask Mom about getting you a radio—”

  “No, thank you, that won’t be necessary. It’s one of the reasons I came out here, to get away from instant communication. And thanks for your help this afternoon.” Jessica had flipped open her Gucci wallet and extracted two twenties, pressing them into the younger woman’s hand. “I appreciate it.”

  Lydia’s eyes widened. “Hey, no problem. Thank you!”

  She’d jogged from the small porch to a battered Land Rover and climbed in. With a hurried wave, she’d backed out of the small parking area near a flower bed, spewing gravel in her wake after she gave it a little too much gas.

  Jessica had closed the door and started the bath water. A long, hot soak would get rid of that travel feeling.

  It wasn’t until now that Jessica had thought about what Lydia had said.

  About the gargun.

  And putting something heavy in front of the cabin’s door.

  Jessica swallowed and glanced toward the window. Outside, the trees continued their menacing dance. But there was another sound besides the wind moaning around the cabin. Something like a heavy tread over the stones in the driveway. Was she imagining it? She closed her eyes, tried to hear more clearly, but the wind made that impossible.

  If she was brave like the heroines in her books, she’d storm outdoors with a broom or an ax or some other makeshift weapon and demand to know who was out there. Instead, heart thumping, Jessica dragged the small kitchen table to the front door. Then she shoved its solid bulk against it, feeling better.

  Chapter 2

  Lydia Donovan

  Lydia grunted as she stood up and stretched her back. She’d been weeding the flower bed in front of the office for over an hour. It felt more like twelve. She glanced around, seeing if anyone from school was in the vicinity. But Main Street was quiet, like usual. Lines of paint-faded shops, a bakery, two churches, two gas stations, and a rundown brick building that housed City Hall looked the same as always.