The last time someone fell through the ice at Shay’s pond was nearly a hundred and fifty years ago.
It was me.
When I fell through it was just a [stupid] accident. My cap blew off in that March gale. It cartwheeled over the snow drifts and across the pond. I ventured out after it. Craaack—ker-splunk. I was in the water before I knew it.
That water had a bite to it. It seized my legs, turning them in to logs as heavy as the ones they used to float down the river. Those log legs pulled me down. I remember scrabbling at the edge of the ice. It kept crumbling off in chunks. Then, the weight of my log-legs pulled me under. I settled down on the murky muddy bottom, where all the turtles and frogs had buried themselves to wait for spring.
Up on the surface, that gale was already licking my footprints in the snow smooth and driving everyone else with a lick of sense inside. By the time I was missed—the next morning—the snow was smooth and the ice had a new crust on it.
That how I come to live here next to Shay’s Pond for so many years. As a specter, you might say.
Tags: writing
