Chapter 1: The Blink

We packed up the Subaru at dawn, sweat already prickling under our shirts, the trunk loaded with coolers of Dr Pepper and Pringles, Evan’s battered action figures wedged between pillows and Lillian’s old-school road maps. The air outside was thick with heat, but as we pulled away from the curb, windows down, a breeze caught the edge of possibility. Fresno’s oven-baked streets faded behind us, replaced by pine-scented air winding up into the hills—a promise of green and quiet far from the city’s relentless grip.

After we got back home, Evan started acting strange. He’d sit at the kitchen table, staring at us for long stretches. One night, he asked, "Dad? Mom? How come you never blink anymore?"

1

Lillian and I froze mid-conversation, blinking in unison like we’d rehearsed it. The silence swelled, filled only by the AC’s hum and the soft chirp of a cardinal outside. I caught Lillian’s eye over Evan’s head—her brow furrowed, searching for a joke that wasn’t there.

Evan watched my face so intently, it was like he wasn’t really seeing me. "Don’t your eyes hurt from doing that?" he whispered, a tremor in his voice.

I tried to play it cool, leaning in and blinking deliberately. "Did you see me blink just now?"

He shook his head, worry growing, his fingers twisting in the hem of his shirt. "My book says it’s bad for your eyes if you don’t blink, but I’ve been watching. You haven’t blinked in days. Even when you sleep, your eyes are open."

Evan’s breath hitched. He bit his lip, darting glances between us, then suddenly launched himself into Lillian’s arms and started sobbing. His shoulders trembled, his cries muffled into her shirt. "Mom, please blink your eyes."

Lillian stroked his hair, her eyes wide and pleading with me for help. The kitchen clock ticked too loud, my own heartbeat echoing off-beat in my chest.

No wonder, these past two nights, Evan had crept into our room, just standing there, silent and staring. When we’d asked why, he wouldn’t answer.

It rattled us both. The city outside felt too quiet, as if the world was holding its breath.

Just before, we’d been debating whether to take him to the hospital or see a child psychologist. We figured maybe he was still shaken from that weird night in my old hometown.

Honestly, it hadn’t been scary—just… odd.

Here’s what happened:

The Fresno heat had been brutal, spiking near 105°F. We’d planned to go to Boise, but then I heard my childhood home up near Flagstaff was now a summer resort. Lillian had never seen where I grew up, so on a whim, we changed plans.

My old home perched atop a mountain, sixty miles from Flagstaff. It used to be a dot on the map, maybe a dozen families.

Driving there felt like rolling into a memory. The highway was lined with sun-bleached billboards for cherry stands and Christmas tree farms. Cell reception flickered in and out. Lillian snapped photos of every odd roadside attraction, her laughter bubbling up between static on the radio.

A few years back, hikers had discovered a trail to a hidden mountaintop lake—something out of a fairy tale. Tourists started flocking in.

At 6,500 feet, summer stayed a cool 65°F—perfect for escaping the valley heat.

They called the lake Angel’s Bath. Local lore has it angels wash their wings there on moonlit nights.

But as a kid, the name confused me. If angels bathed there, why wasn’t it just called ‘Angel Bath’ instead of ‘Bath of Angels’? The words were the same, but the meaning twisted in my head.

The strange thing happened at Angel’s Bath.

On August 11, the three of us walked the boardwalk by the lake. Forest on one side, the lake on the other, glowing orange-yellow under streetlights and moon. Fireflies bobbed above the water and woods, their green sparks scattered like stars. People snapped photos everywhere—phones, cameras, flashes popping in the dusk.

Kids darted past with sticky marshmallow fingers, a couple set up a tripod for selfies, and an old man in a faded Diamondbacks cap tipped his hat as we strolled by. It felt like summer camp—only softer, sacred in the mountain air.

Even after two weeks there, the beauty stunned us. It was nothing like my memories: after my parents died, home became blurry and dark, just fragments and a sticky, suffocating discomfort—like being wrapped in a wet, suffocating blanket you can’t shake off.

That feeling made me glance east, where a stone house used to stand. Now, it was gone.

Evan chased fireflies, wandering close to the fence along the boardwalk. We weren’t worried—there was a sturdy railing now, ever since a few kids had drowned in recent years.

A weathered sign by the fence read: "No Swimming After Dusk—In Memory Of," the names faded by sun and rain. I shivered, pulling Lillian a little closer.

At exactly nine, with no wind at all, the lake suddenly rippled, waves slapping up onto the boardwalk a foot and a half above the surface.

It felt like something huge was thrashing beneath the water, fighting to burst free and soar into the sky.

Strangely, the ground never shook.

The air thickened, a hush falling as if the whole crowd held its breath. Some people backed up, phones raised, faces glowing in the dark.

After a few seconds, the ripples settled into a pattern, and a whirlpool—four or five feet wide—formed at the lake’s center.

The whirlpool spun for three minutes. Then, suddenly, the water stilled—like nothing had happened at all.

The incident blew up online. Bloggers, tourists, even local authorities showed up. But no one found anything beneath the water, so the excitement faded quickly.

Supernatural rumors swirled for a few days, but soon, newer stories took their place.

At the time, Evan was fascinated—peppering me with questions, guessing it was a giant catfish or a government experiment. Lillian ruffled his hair, promising him ice cream if he spotted the "lake monster" again.