The locals led us through a narrow path. The dense forest slowly gave way to a small cluster of wooden cabins—weathered and worn, but carefully maintained.
"This will be your home for the next four months," the woman said, her smile just a little too wide. "We take good care of our own here."
We exchanged uneasy glances. The welcome felt both warm and strange.
Inside the cabins, the air smelled faintly of wood smoke and something else—something ancient and earthy.
I dropped my bag on the wooden floor and looked around.
"Hana, you think this is safe?" I asked quietly.
She shrugged, pulling out a rolled-up
sleeping mat. "Safe enough, I guess. But I don't like how quiet it is."
Lexi unpacked her gear with swift efficiency. "We've been warned. No touching the trees, no drinking the lake water. Something's definitely off."
Josh stretched out on the mattress and sighed. "Well they're literal cultist so."
Andrew looked around, fiddling nervously with his phone. "At least we have shelter. I swear, if this place messes with my signal, I'm gonna lose it."
I laughed softly. "Welcome to Lubber Island."
The others started settling in, unpacking their things. The creak of old wood mixed the occasional rustle of leaves didn't make it exactly a pleasant experience.
Then, the door creaked open, and a local woman stepped inside.
"Dinner's ready," she said softly. "The others are waiting in the hall."
We gathered our things and followed her back to the communal building.
The dinner was simple but filling—root vegetables, wild game, and a dark stew with an earthy aroma. The locals ate quietly, eyes occasionally glancing towards the thick forest outside as if expecting something—or someone.
After we ate, the air in the room shifted. The leader of the cultists stood, her calm voice cutting through the silence.
"It is time to honor the King. To give thanks for his blessing and protection."
She gestured to the center of the hall, where a simple altar stood—covered in dark cloth, marked with strange, ancient symbols.
Soft chanting began, rising through the room.
Outside, the wind picked up.
Something unseen stirred in the shadows.
And deep in the forest, a presence watched.
After the meal, the villagers escorted us back to our lodgings. It felt strange—like we were guests, but not really guests. Their eyes lingered a bit too long, their smiles too wide, like they were waiting for something. Watching us.
We stood at the threshold of the cabin, the wooden door creaking behind us. For a second, the world outside felt distant, muffled.
"Did you notice that?" Hana said, looking at me. "They didn't touch their food."
"Maybe they're just polite," I said, though I felt uneasy about it. The whole dinner had felt off. The way they ate—or didn't—the way their eyes seemed to track our every move. It was like they were waiting for us to do something.
Andrew dropped his bag on the floor with a thud, breaking the silence. "You guys are way too paranoid. It's just some old island tradition. They probably don't eat before a ritual or some shit."
"I don't know, man. This whole thing's starting to get... weird," I muttered. I stepped over to the window, looking out at the distant hills, trying to shake the feeling of being watched. The night was thick with fog. Too thick for this time of year.
Suddenly, a loud knock on the door broke the moment.
The door opened without a word, and there she was again—the woman from the dinner. Her face was serene, unreadable, like a mask.
"We are ready," she said. Her voice was soft, but it carried in the quiet night. "The King waits for you."
There was no hesitation. No invitation for us to refuse. It was a command hidden in politeness.
We followed her out of the cabin.
The villagers were already walking through the forest in a loose procession, their lanterns swinging gently, casting long shadows between the trees. We followed them in silence, until the forest parted and we stood on the edge of the Black Lake.
It was still. Too still. A wide, glassy surface that didn't reflect the stars or the moon. Like it swallowed light instead of showing it. The Lake was around 800 meters big and looks to be impossibly deep.
The villagers formed a wide crescent near the shore. In their hands, they held strange items: bundles wrapped in twine, small figures carved from bone, jars of ash. Each approached the water in turn, whispered something too soft to hear, and tossed their offering into the lake.
There was no splash. No ripple.
Everything just vanished into the dark.
Lexi stepped beside me. "So…. This is the famous lake."
"No shit," Andrew said under his breath.
Josh whispered, "Looks like they're giving him stuff. The King."
The woman turned to us. "Now, you."
We just stared.
"You must give something of yours," she continued. "Something meaningful. Something real. The King must know your voice, your presence, your scent. Otherwise..."
She didn't finish the sentence.
There was no choice.
We rummaged through our pockets and bags, pulling out what we could: a pendant, a friendship bracelet, a page from Hana's journal. I offered a coin I'd carried since I was twelve — my "lucky" one. It suddenly felt ridiculous, but also like the only thing I could give.
One by one, we stepped forward.
I knelt at the edge of the lake and held my breath. The water was completely still. I whispered something — I don't even know what — and dropped the coin in.
It vanished.
When the last of us finished, the woman raised her hands. The villagers echoed her in unison, speaking in a language I didn't understand. The wind picked up, circling the group like a quiet breath.
Then came the final words — whispered by everyone at once, like a single mind speaking from a single mouth:
"He sees."
The lake suddenly trembled, a deep roar echoing through the forest as the ground cracked beneath us.
"What the hell!?" Andrew blurted.
The villagers began to bow, their heads lowered in reverence.
"Silence, young one," one of the locals said coldly.
About ten minutes passed before we were allowed to leave.
And just for a moment—just before we turned away—I saw him.
A shape. Massive. Deep beneath the water.
Not close...
But not far enough, either.
He know's we're here.