Stories grow into the strangest things...

            Karl here.

            I was in a weird mood and just started typing.  This is what came out...

As crickets and tree frogs sang their summer songs to the night a lone traveler wended his way down a dusty country road.  The lane lay before him in the scant moonlight like a pale serpent writhing its way across darkened fields of corn.  Slightly bent under the weight of a rucksack he softly hummed to himself a half remembered tune.  Memories of long ago and far away played in his mind.

He had not always been a wanderer.  Once there was home.  Once there was family.  Once there was love.  But they were far away now.  Distance faded them from the view of the mind’s eye.  He wondered if they were still there, waiting.  He longed to return to them.

But there was something to do first.  There was a faint call that drew him forward along the road.  It was near now.  Soon the trek home could begin.

He mounted a small rise in the lay of the road and looked ahead.  There in the distance was a lake, the gibbous moon reflected in its placid waters.  More keenly now than ever he felt the pull of something, something that wanted him to approach the shore.  No, to go further than that.  To enter the lake itself?

He hesitated and shifted the rucksack.  There were clunks and rattles from the collection of objects inside.  He had brought them a long way.  He could not stop now.  He strode the remaining distance to the lakeshore and stood peering at the water.

“Well, I’m here,” he said quietly, “What now?”

Come, enter the water.

Again he paused.  Uncertainty filled him. “No,” he said, “This is as far as I go.”

Enter the water.

“No.  I will not,” he said firmly and quickly added, “But I have what you want.”

Enter the water and give it to us.

“Leave the water and come get it,” he countered and dropped the rucksack on the ground.  He was beginning to become frightened.

The air which had been moving off the lake like a breath became still.  The sounds of the summer night grew quiet.  The stars above him ceased their twinkling and sharpened.  A decision was being made.

Suddenly there was a swirl in the water just offshore.  In the dim moonlight something, no someone, was rising from the lake.  For a moment a cap, adorned with hooks and lures appeared to be floating on the surface of the water.  Then a skull rose grinning beneath it.  The traveler gave out a horrified whimper, and as a skeletal form stepped onto the bank he spun and ran.

Water cascaded from the undead sportsman’s vest as he took the rucksack from where it had fallen, unzipped it and removed two six packs from within.  Dropping the pack the skeleton returned to the dark waters.

Can’t fish without beer.

Kinda spooky, eh?  Well to shake off the eerieness here's a moment of humor...

Shouldn't the years listed as B.C. be known as the Antechrist period?

I am Karl Fogsen.  Thanks for reading.