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.
