Oaks
Holler’s boat sounds like trouble before I see it.
That old outboard coughs and rattles like it’s personally offended by the idea of work, and the noise carries across Herrington Lake in a way that makes every head on the dock turn.
Brittany’s already outside on the porch when he pulls up, arms folded tight across her chest, bare legs flashing under sleep shorts that look like they were meant for a basement couch, not open water and club politics.
Her hair’s a mess and her eyes are sharp, and she looks like she’d like to throw me in the lake just to prove she can.
She’s furious.
Good.
Fury’s better than fear.
Holler kills the engine and tosses the rope up to the dock post. “Mornin’, sunshine,” he calls like this is a vacation brochure and not a forced relocation.
Brittany steps forward. “You’re part of this?”
Holler blinks once, slow. “Part of what?”
“This,” she snaps, gesturing at the lake, the cabin, the whole damn situation. “Your Vice President hauling me across county lines in the middle of the night, kidnapping.”
I lean against the cabin doorway and don’t intervene. I let them have at it. If she’s gonna explode, better she does it at Holler than at the wrong person in the wrong place.
Holler climbs up onto the dock with a crate in his hands. “He didn’t haul you nowhere you weren’t safer,” he says evenly. “You want your supplies or you wanna yell first?”
She glares but takes the crate. “I don’t got any clothes,” she says sharp. “I got pajamas. That’s it.”
Her voice cracks just enough to tell me she’s embarrassed.
It shouldn’t hit me the way it does.
“I want to talk to Lottie,” she adds.
Holler nods. “You will. She knows you’re here. She’ll be over tomorrow with Mason.”
Brittany goes still. “She knows?”
“Yeah.”
That takes some of the steam out of her anger, but not much. She’s still looking for something to grab and break.
“I could call the cops,” she says sudden, chin lifting.
I push off the doorframe and step onto the porch. “You can,” I tell her.
Her eyes snap to mine. She was expecting a fight.
“Call ’em,” I continue. “Tell ’em I kidnapped you. They’ll come out here, take statements, maybe even haul me in if they’re bored enough.”
She swallows.
“But they ain’t gonna keep you safe from Pearly Gates,” I finish, quieter.
The words land. They always do.
Holler sets the rest of the supplies down. “Brit,” he says, voice gentler now. “I wouldn’t steer you wrong. I got a kid at home. I don’t gamble with shit like this.”
She looks between us, weighing something.
“And I promise,” Holler adds, glancing at me, “this idiot’s got good intentions. Even if he executes ’em like a caveman.”
I snort.
Brittany exhales hard and puts a hand on her hip. “I’m still pissed.”
“You’re allowed,” Holler says.
She looks at me. “Are you coming back?”
The question catches me off guard.
“Yeah,” I answer. “I’ll check on you.”
She crosses her arms. “I don’t know if I’m staying put.”
I step closer but keep distance between us. “Stay put.”
“That ain’t an order you get to give.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s a request.”
Holler glances back toward open water. “Legend’s looking for you,” he tells me. “Search party’s moving west side of the treeline.”
“Yeah.”
He climbs back into the boat. “Don’t keep him waiting. He’s already wound tight.”
I follow. We pull off, engine rattling again, and Brittany stands there with her arms folded, staring at me like she’s trying to decide if I’m worth the trouble.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” I tell her.
She laughs once. “You first.”
I leave her there.
Back at camp we split into pairs and comb the shoreline, boots crunching over gravel and wet leaves. The missing woman is late twenties, a waitress from Hell. Last seen near the water two nights ago. Sheriff says she probably ran off.
Sheriff’s an idiot.
Royal walks beside me, quiet as always, eyes cutting through the treeline like he’s looking for ghosts. He don’t talk unless it matters, and tonight his silence feels meaner than words.
“Anything?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No drag marks. No blood. No signs of a struggle.”
“That’s worse.”
We loop back toward camp just before sundown. A fire’s already going’, a few brothers posted around it, beer cans popping open like punctuation. The air smells like smoke and lake water and the kind of tension that makes men tell jokes too loud.
Whiskey’s mid-story when we step into the circle. “I’m telling you,” he says, gesturing with a stick, “Herrington’s got its own damn monster.”
Derby laughs. “Here we go.”
“No, hear me out,” Whiskey insists. “They call it the Herrington Lake Monster. Folks been talking about it since the seventies. Long neck. Black body. Comes up under boats and bumps ’em.”
Bullet snorts. “You been drinking shine already?”
“Swear to God,” Whiskey continues. “Couple boaters went missing back in ’78. Said something hit their fishing boat hard enough to knock it sideways. Old timers claim they seen a head come up outta the water like Nessie’s redneck cousin.”
“Loch Ness in Kentucky,” Derby says dry. “What’s next, Bigfoot riding a Jet Ski?”
“Laugh all you want,” Whiskey shoots back. “There’s a newspaper clipping. People swear they’ve seen it. Big as a damn pontoon boat.”
I roll my eyes. “Y’all are nuts.”
Royal doesn’t laugh.
He stares out over the lake like he’s listening for something.
“Could explain the missing boats,” Whiskey adds. “And that floatel that started sinking last month. Owner said something rammed it from underneath.”
“That floatel was rotted through,” I say. “Ain’t no lake monster.”
Whiskey shrugs. “You keep telling yourself that.”
I leave them to their ghost stories and head toward the marina, because I need a minute away from men joking about monsters when the real ones wear boots and carry Bibles.
The camp store smells like bait and sunscreen and stale coffee. An old man with a sun-spotted face stands behind the counter, reading a newspaper. He don’t look up until I’m close enough for him to see my cut.
“You boys out looking for that Hell girl?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
He grunts. “Lake ain’t right lately.”
I glance around. The place is cluttered with cheap souvenirs, keychains, mugs, T-shirts.
And there it is.
A whole rack of “Herrington Lake Monster” merch.
Cartoonish green creature with a long neck poking out of blue water.
“You gotta be kidding me,” I mutter.
Old man looks up. “Ain’t kidding at all. She’s real.”
“She?” I repeat, because of course the monster is a she. Folks always blame women for what lurks in the dark.
“That monster,” he says. “Folks been seeing her since ’72. Big hump under the water. Moves fast. Took out a floatel couple weeks back.” He points through the window toward the far dock where a platform house lists sideways, half-submerged. “Hit it from below, they say.”
I follow his finger.
The floatel does look bad.
Still ain’t a monster.
“You selling these?” I ask, picking up a stuffed version of the creature.
“Sure am. Tourists love ’em.”
I set it down, then scan the racks and find a couple T-shirts in smaller sizes. A pair of athletic shorts. A simple bathing suit in navy. It ain’t romantic, and it ain’t a promise, but it’s clothes, and she’s stranded on a dock with nothing but pajamas and attitude.
The old man watches the pile in my hands and smiles like he thinks he understands. “She your wife?”
“Yeah,” I lie easy.
He nods like he approves. “Good man, bringing her something nice.”
If he only knew.
I pay, grab the bag, and head back toward the dock, boots thudding on sun-warped boards. The lake is flat and gray, the kind of calm that feels like a trick.
I don’t believe in lake monsters.
But I do believe in things lurking under the surface.
And lately, this whole damn world feels like it’s hiding something.