The Watchman’s Warning
The cabins stand in silent rows,
beneath the weight of winter’s snows.
The lake lies still, the air is thin,
no guests remain—no souls within.
Yet through the dark and drifting white,
one cabin burns a single light.
The watchman stays to guard the ground,
but something stirs—without a sound.
The snow is smooth, untouched, serene,
no trace of where a step has been.
But by the shore, where cold winds bite,
appear fresh tracks beneath the night.
Not boot nor paw, but bare and small,
as if a ghost had come to call.
They lead him to the water’s brim—
but none return. They only dim.
The watchman shudders, breath held tight,
he locks the door, he keeps the light.
Yet deep within the wooded black,
he hears soft steps… they’re coming back.
A knock—a tap—so light, so thin,
a hand unseen now calls to him.
He lifts the latch with cautious care,
but nothing waits—there’s no one there.
No footprints fresh upon the snow,
no wind to shake the lamp’s warm glow.
Yet from the trees beyond the lake,
a woman’s voice begins to wake.
She speaks his name in whispers low,
a melody from long ago.
The watchman knows, he’s heard before—
the Lady’s voice forevermore.
And so he waits, but will not stay,
for those who linger fade away.
He leaves the lodge, his task is done,
but in the dark—the light stays on.
Being sick hasn’t lessened my workload, but it has made my mind feel more creative. Even with the constant demands of work and daily routines, my thoughts have been drifting more easily into stories and scenes, almost as if my imagination is trying to find an escape.
After seeing Lake Crescent Lodge covered in snow, last Thursday, the eerie quiet stayed with me. There was something haunting about the way the cabins stood empty, their lights dark except for one. That lingering image, combined with the weight of winter pressing in, made me think of the legend of the Lady of the Lake—how the waters of Lake Crescent once hid a terrible secret, and how some say her spirit still lingers.
With that thought, my mind took off, shaping the silence of the snow-covered lodge into something deeper, something unsettling. This poem grew from that feeling—a mix of history, isolation, and the kind of ghost story that leaves you glancing over your shoulder.
I keep coming back to Lake Crescent—something about it lingers in my mind. It’s beautiful, but there’s a weight to it, a quiet that feels like it’s holding onto something. I wanted to explore that feeling, the way a place can shift from peaceful to eerie when you’re alone with it for too long.
The Winter Watch at Lake Crescent is about solitude, but also about the stories places keep. Jake thinks he knows the lake, but as the winter settles in, he starts to sense something else—something that doesn’t leave footprints back from the shore. The Lady of the Lake isn’t just a legend to him anymore; she’s real in the way certain places make you feel watched, in the way silence can start to sound like whispers. It’s about how history lingers, how the past doesn’t always stay buried, and how easy it is to start slipping into it if you’re not careful.
The Winter Watch at Lake Crescent
As the last of the summer tourists departed, the Lake Crescent Lodge settled into its winter slumber, leaving behind only the whisper of the wind through the pines and the occasional call of a distant loon. Park Ranger Jake was the sole guardian of this tranquility, tasked with watching over the lodge until spring, when the tourists would return like migratory birds.
Jake had always loved the solitude of winter here, the way the snow seemed to muffle the world, reducing it to a peaceful silence. He'd set up his quarters in the lodge, surrounded by the comforting creak of old wood and the soft glow of firelight from the hearth.
His first week was uneventful, filled with routine checks on the cabins, ensuring no pipes froze, and watching for signs of unwelcome visitors. But as the nights grew longer, the silence of Lake Crescent began to feel less like a companion and more like an ominous presence.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of pink and violet, Jake decided to walk down to the lake. The water was still, almost frozen, reflecting the last light of day like a sheet of glass. It was here, by the water's edge, that the legend of the Lady of the Lake was born. The story told of a woman whose love ended in tragedy, her spirit bound to the lake where her heart had sunk.
Jake had dismissed such tales as folklore, but tonight, the air felt thick with something more than just cold. He returned to the lodge, locking up for the night. But sleep was elusive.
The night deepened, and with it came sounds that were not the usual creaks of an old building settling. Jake heard footsteps, light and fleeting, as if someone was walking barefoot on the wooden floor outside his room. He checked, but the hallway was empty, the snow outside undisturbed. Yet, the feeling of being watched was palpable.
Days turned into weeks, and Jake's routine continued, but the nights grew more restless. He started hearing whispers, soft and mournful, coming from the direction of the lake. One night, driven by both curiosity and a creeping dread, he followed the sounds outside.
There, under the moon's silver light, he saw them — footprints in the snow, small and human, leading to the lake's edge but none coming back. Heart pounding, Jake followed them, his breath visible in the cold air. The whispers grew louder, now undeniably a woman's voice, singing a sorrowful tune.
He reached the shore, where the footprints ended abruptly. The lake lay before him, dark and still, its surface like a mirror to another world. And then, from the water, a figure emerged, not fully formed but a ghostly presence, her face a mask of sorrow and longing.
Jake, rooted to the spot, watched as she beckoned him closer. He felt a pull, an urge to step into the lake, to join her in whatever realm she inhabited. But the cold snapped him back to reality, and with a strength he didn't know he possessed, he turned away, running back to the safety of the lodge.
That night, he did not sleep. He spent it by the fire, watching the shadows dance, listening for any sign of the spectral visitor. In the morning, he decided he'd had enough. He packed his things, leaving the lodge to its winter ghosts.
As he drove away, the sun breaking through the clouds, Jake glanced back one last time. The lodge stood silent, the lake beside it like a dark sentinel. He knew he'd never forget those nights, the whispers, the footprints, and the feeling that he had been on the brink of crossing into another world. The legend of the Lady of the Lake was no longer just a story to him; it was a haunting reality of Lake Crescent's lonely winter.
