A View from the Lake by Greg F. Gifune

By Greg F. Gifune

Demise isn't the end.

Katherine and James ran a small lakeside inn in comfortable aspect, Massachusetts, through the nerve-racking summer season months, then persevered the often-desolate winters in relative isolation. Their lives have been chuffed till one morning whilst the physique of a tender boy used to be chanced on floating within the lake. From that second Katherine watched as her husband started to spiral into madness. Then he vanished and not using a hint.

Now, months later, as a snowstorm descends over completely happy element, Katherine faces her ultimate iciness by myself at the lake. yet issues aren't any longer what they appear. Is anything in the market, haunting the snowy woods, ready within the lake, luring her towards an analogous insanity that claimed James?

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Additional resources for A View from the Lake

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This is Mustang. MiGs on the way. ” Matta looked at Jack and said, “Those are the Cuban jets. ” 46 “Yes,” he said, his voice straining. ” The next voice was in Spanish, and the words gave Jack chills. “Attention. You have breached the sovereign airspace of the Republic of Cuba. This will be your only warning. ” The controller said, “November two six Golf Mike, you must alter course to two-twenty, south-southwest. S. corridor. S. planes can use to come and go from the base. ” Before Saint Preux could reply, the Cubans issued another warning in Spanish.

It was an aerial shot of a compound of some sort. Scores of small dwellings and other, larger buildings dotted the windswept landscape. There were patches of green, but overall the terrain had an arid quality, perfect for iguanas and banana rats—except for all the fences. Jack noticed miles of them. One- and two-lane roads cut across the topography like tiny scars, and a slew of vehicles seemed to be moving at high speed, though they looked like matchbox cars from this vantage point. In the background, a huge, black plume of smoke was rising like a menacing funnel cloud.

One final punch—a halfhearted smack to my broken nose— and then I was released. I collapsed face-first in a puddle that smelled like urine. The three Latin Kings each took the time to spit on me. Then they strolled out of the alley, laughing and giving each other high fives. When they got a good distance away, I crawled over to a Dumpster and pulled myself to my feet. The alley was dark, quiet. I felt something scurry over my foot. Rats, licking up my dripping blood. Nice neighborhood. I hurt a lot, but pain and I were old acquaintances.

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