"Tied with Rope":
It was the summer of 1940 when I arrived at Lake Crescent, eager for a peaceful vacation with my dear friend Emily and her husband Jack. The lake was a stunning sight, its clear waters reflecting the towering mountains around us. Our cabin, tucked among tall pines, had a porch overlooking the water, promising lazy days and warm evenings. But from the moment I stepped inside, a strange tension hung in the air, like a storm waiting to break.
Emily, who I’d known since we were kids, wasn’t herself. Her usual spark was gone, replaced by a quiet unease. Dark circles framed her eyes, and her smiles felt forced, like she was putting on a show. Jack, on the other hand, was all charm, offering me coffee and making small talk about the lake’s beauty. But I couldn’t miss the way Emily flinched when he touched her shoulder, or how her eyes darted away when he spoke.
That first night, as we sat by the crackling fire in the cabin, I heard raised voices from their bedroom down the hall. The walls were thin, but the words were muffled—just sharp, angry tones that made my skin prickle. I wanted to check on Emily, but something told me to stay put. The next morning, she was gone.
Jack was calm, too calm, when he told me she’d gone for an early hike. “She loves her morning walks,” he said, sipping his coffee. But I noticed her hiking boots, still caked with mud from our last trip, sitting untouched by the door. My chest tightened. “Jack, we should call someone,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
He waved a hand dismissively. “She probably went to town. You know how she is, always wandering off.”
But I didn’t know that Emily. The Emily I knew planned everything, left notes, never vanished without a word. As the day dragged on with no sign of her, my worry turned to dread. I suggested calling the police again, but Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Give it time, Lisa. Don’t make a fuss.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every creak of the cabin felt like a warning. Around midnight, I heard footsteps outside, slow and deliberate, circling the porch. My heart raced as I crept to the window, peering into the darkness. Nothing. Just the lake, still and silent under the moonlight. But the sound lingered in my mind, like someone was watching, waiting.
The next morning, I couldn’t sit still. While Jack was out fishing, I searched the cabin, desperate for any clue. Under Emily’s mattress, I found her journal, its pages filled with her neat handwriting. My hands shook as I read her words: “I’m scared. Jack’s changed. He’s so angry, and I think he’s seeing someone else. I don’t know what he’ll do.” Another entry, dated just days ago, read, “If something happens to me, it’s him. I know it.”
My blood ran cold. I tucked the journal into my bag and headed to the lake’s small general store, hoping someone had seen Emily. The clerk, an older man with a weathered face, frowned when I mentioned Jack. “Seen him with a woman from town a few times,” he said quietly. “Not your friend, though. Someone else.”
That evening, I confronted Jack. “Where’s Emily, really?” I asked, my voice trembling. “Her boots are here, and she didn’t take her bag.”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re overthinking this, Lisa. She’ll turn up.”
But she didn’t. Three days later, the news came like a punch to the gut. Fishermen had found a body in the lake, wrapped in blankets and tied with heavy rope. I went with the police to the shore, my legs weak. The body was unlike anything I’d ever seen—pale, waxy, almost like a mannequin, its flesh turned to a strange, soap-like substance. The sight made my stomach lurch, but I forced myself to stay.
I remembered Emily’s dental plate, a unique piece from a childhood accident. “Check her teeth,” I told the officer, my voice barely a whisper. They did, and it was her. The confirmation hit me like a wave, grief and anger crashing together.
The police questioned Jack, but he had an alibi—friends who swore he was with them the morning Emily vanished. I didn’t buy it. Those friends were too quick to back him up, their stories too polished. I kept digging, driven by Emily’s journal and the fear in her words.
One night, while Jack was out, I searched his things. In a duffel bag under his bed, I found a coil of rope, identical to the one used on Emily’s body. My hands shook as I held it, the rough fibers burning my palms. I was about to leave when the door slammed open. Jack stood there, his face dark with rage.
“What are you doing?” he growled, stepping closer.
I clutched the rope, my voice shaking. “I found this, Jack. It’s the same rope.”
His eyes flickered with something dangerous. “You should’ve stayed out of it, Lisa.”
I backed toward the door, my heart pounding. “I know you killed her,” I said, the words spilling out. “Emily was scared of you.”
He lunged, but I dodged, sprinting out of the cabin and into the night. The lake loomed dark and endless as I ran to the police station, the rope and journal clutched to my chest. I told them everything—Emily’s fears, the rope, the woman from town. This time, they listened.
They arrested Jack the next day. His alibi fell apart when one of his friends cracked, admitting they’d lied. At the trial, the evidence was overwhelming: the journal, the rope, and witnesses who’d seen Jack’s temper. The jury found him guilty of murder, sentencing him to life in prison.
As I left the courthouse, the weight of Emily’s loss settled over me. The lake, once so beautiful, now held only memories of horror. I’d never return, but I’d carry that summer with me forever, a reminder of the darkness that can hide behind a charming smile.
"The Note on the Door":
The summer of 1968 was supposed to be like any other in Good Hart, Michigan. The air carried the scent of pine, and the gentle waves of Lake Michigan lapped against the shore. Blisswood, my collection of log cabins nestled among the trees, was a haven for families seeking a break from city life. I’m Chauncey Bliss, the caretaker of these cabins, which I built with my own hands. It was my job to make sure every family had a perfect stay in this quiet paradise.
Among the families who came to Blisswood was the Robison family from Detroit. Richard Robison was a successful businessman, running an advertising agency and a magazine called Impresario. His wife, Shirley, was a kind woman who doted on their four children: Richard Jr., Gary, Randall, and little Susan, who was only seven. They were a warm family, always stopping to chat or wave as they headed to the lake.
A few weeks before everything changed, Richard came to my home. It was late June, and I was still reeling from the loss of my son in a motorcycle accident. Richard stood at my door, his face heavy with sympathy.
“Chauncey, I heard about your son,” he said softly. “I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you, Richard,” I replied, my throat tight. “That means a lot.”
He handed me an envelope. “This is for flowers. I hope it helps, even just a little.”
I took it, nodding. “That’s very kind of you.”
We stood quietly for a moment before he spoke again, his voice lower. “Chauncey, can I ask your advice on something?”
“Of course,” I said, curious. “What’s on your mind?”
He glanced around, as if checking for eavesdroppers. “It’s my business. I’ve found some issues with the accounts. It looks like someone’s been taking money.”
I frowned. “That’s serious, Richard. Do you know who?”
“I have a suspicion,” he said, his eyes darkening. “But I need to be certain before I do anything.”
“Be careful,” I warned. “Things like that can turn ugly fast.”
“I know,” he said, nodding. “That’s why we’re taking the family away for a bit. To clear my head. We’re heading to Kentucky and Florida to look at some property. Should be back by July 10.”
“Safe travels,” I said. “Enjoy your time away.”
He gave a small smile. “Thanks, Chauncey. Take care.”
That was the last time I saw him alive.
Days passed, then weeks, and I didn’t think much of the Robisons’ absence. A note on their cabin door read, “Be back by 7/10,” so I figured they were off on their trip. Blisswood hummed along as usual, with families fishing, swimming, and laughing by the lake. But something felt off. A few times, walking past their cabin at dusk, I thought I saw a flicker of light inside, like someone moving with a flashlight. I brushed it off—maybe a reflection from the lake, I told myself.
Then, on July 22, everything changed. Mrs. Johnson from cabin 3 came rushing to my workshop, her face pinched with disgust.
“Chauncey, there’s a horrible smell coming from the Robison cabin,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “It’s ruining our bridge party. Can you check it out?”
“Of course, Mrs. Johnson,” I said, setting down my tools. “I’ll head over now.”
The path to the Robison cabin wound through tall pines, and as I walked, a foul odor hit me. It wasn’t just a dead animal—it was something worse, something that made my stomach twist. The closer I got, the stronger it became, thick and suffocating. My heart started to race, though I couldn’t say why.
The cabin looked the same as always: curtains drawn, the note still pinned to the door. I knocked loudly. “Hello? Anyone home?”
No answer. Just the hum of insects and the distant lapping of the lake.
I pulled out my master key, my hands unsteady. The smell was overwhelming now, clawing at my throat. I unlocked the door and pushed it open, stepping into the dim interior.
The sight stopped me cold. The Robison family lay sprawled across the living room, their bodies bloated and discolored, surrounded by dried pools of blood. Flies swarmed, their buzzing filling the air. Richard was near the door, his head crushed, blood matting his hair. Shirley was slumped on the couch, her eyes staring blankly. The children—Richard Jr., Gary, Randall, and little Susan—were scattered around, each one shot, their young lives stolen.
I stumbled back, my breath catching. This couldn’t be real. It was a nightmare, it had to be. But the smell, the flies, the blood—it was all too real. I steadied myself against the wall, fighting the urge to retch, and locked the door behind me. I ran to the nearest phone, my hands shaking so badly I could barely dial.
“Officer, you need to come to Blisswood resort right now,” I said, my voice trembling. “There’s been a… a terrible crime. The Robison family… they’re all dead.”
The police arrived quickly, their cars kicking up dust as they swarmed the cabin. They cordoned off the area, and officers moved in and out, their faces grim. I stood back, watching as they carried out their work, my mind still reeling from what I’d seen.
Later, they told me the family had been murdered nearly a month earlier, around June 25. The killer had used a .22 caliber rifle and a .25 caliber pistol. Richard and Susan had also been bludgeoned with a hammer, a detail that made my blood run cold. The bodies had lain there all that time, hidden by the note on the door.
A few days later, Detective Smith came to see me. “Chauncey, I wanted to update you on the investigation,” he said, sitting across from me in my workshop.
“Have you found who did it?” I asked, my voice hoarse.
“We have a suspect,” he said. “Joseph Scolaro, an employee of Mr. Robison’s company. We found shell casings at the scene that match his rifle, and bullets from the victims match his guns. He’s failed lie detector tests, and his alibi doesn’t hold up.”
“So, you’re arresting him?” I asked, hopeful.
He sighed, rubbing his temples. “It’s not that simple. The prosecutor says we don’t have enough for a conviction yet. We’re still building the case.”
I clenched my fists. “But you think he did it?”
“Off the record? Yes, I think he did,” Detective Smith said quietly. “We believe Richard found out Scolaro was stealing money from the company. That might’ve been the motive.”
The investigation dragged on, but no charges were ever filed against Scolaro. Years later, I heard he’d taken his own life in 1973, leaving a note claiming he was a liar and a cheat but not a murderer. The case remains officially unsolved, a wound that never healed for Good Hart.
The murders changed everything. Fear settled over the community like a fog. People who never locked their doors started bolting them at night. Rumors spread—some said it was a random killer, others whispered about organized crime or a serial murderer. Children stopped playing by the lake, and the usual summer laughter faded. The lake itself, once a place of joy, seemed to hold a dark secret, its waters too still, too quiet.
I couldn’t sleep for weeks, haunted by the image of that cabin. Every creak in my house made me jump, wondering if the killer was still out there, watching. Even now, years later, I walk past where the cabin once stood—it’s gone now, torn down—and a chill runs through me. The memory of that day is burned into my mind, a reminder that even in the most beautiful places, evil can find a way in.
"The Night the Lake Went Silent":
It was the summer of 2023, and my friends and I decided to go camping by Lake Crescent in Washington State. We had heard about its beauty and tranquility, and we were looking forward to a relaxing weekend away from the city.
We arrived at the lake on a Friday afternoon. The water sparkled, and the surrounding trees stood tall, their leaves rustling softly. We found a perfect spot near the shore, with enough space for our three tents and a fire pit. Jake, Emily, Tom, and I worked together to set up camp, laughing as we struggled with the tent poles. By evening, we had a fire going, the flames casting a warm glow on our faces. We roasted hot dogs and shared stories, the kind you tell when you’re far from home, surrounded by nature.
“Remember that time we got lost hiking?” Emily said, her eyes bright with the memory. “I thought we’d never find the trail again.”
“Yeah, and you kept saying you heard a bear,” Jake teased, tossing a stick into the fire.
“It could’ve been a bear!” she shot back, laughing.
The night felt perfect. The stars appeared one by one, and we lay on a blanket, staring up at the Milky Way. The lake was calm, its surface like glass, reflecting the night sky. I felt at peace, like nothing could go wrong.
Around midnight, as we were getting ready to sleep, I heard a rustling in the bushes nearby. It was faint at first, like something small moving through the underbrush. I sat up in my sleeping bag, listening.
“Hey, did you guys hear that?” I asked, keeping my voice low.
“Yeah, probably an animal,” Jake said, unzipping his tent to peek out. “Raccoon, maybe.”
“Let’s check it out,” Emily suggested, already grabbing her flashlight.
Tom groaned but followed. “If it’s a skunk, I’m blaming you, Em.”
We stepped out into the cool night air, our flashlights cutting through the darkness. The beams swept over the bushes and trees, but we found nothing—no eyes glowing back, no tracks, just silence. The rustling had stopped.
“Probably just the wind,” I said, though I wasn’t entirely convinced.
We returned to the fire, which was now just embers. I couldn’t shake a nagging unease, like we were being watched. I told myself it was just my imagination, but I kept glancing at the dark tree line.
About an hour later, around 1:30 am, a new sound broke the quiet—the low rumble of an engine. Headlights pierced through the trees, growing brighter as a vehicle approached. A pickup truck rolled into view, its frame lifted high on oversized tires. Loud music blared from its speakers, some heavy bass track that vibrated in my chest. The truck slowed as it passed our campsite, and a powerful spotlight swung toward us, blinding me for a moment.
I raised a hand to shield my eyes. “What the heck?” I muttered.
Tom stood up, squinting. “Who does that?”
The light lingered on us, sweeping over our tents and faces, then the truck sped off, tires crunching on the gravel road. The music faded into the distance, leaving us in stunned silence.
“That was creepy,” Emily said, her voice tight. “Why would they shine a light on us like that?”
“Maybe locals messing with campers,” I suggested, trying to sound calm. “You know, small-town pranks.”
“Or maybe they’re up to something bad,” Jake said, his brow furrowed. “That didn’t feel right.”
We sat around the dying fire, debating what to do. The truck was gone, but the encounter left us rattled. Tom and I decided to drive to the main road to see if we could find out more. Maybe it was nothing, but we wanted to be sure.
“Be careful,” Emily called as we climbed into my car.
The drive to the main road was short, but every shadow seemed to move in the headlights. When we reached the intersection, my breath caught. Flashing red and blue lights lit up the night—seven or eight police cars and a couple of ambulances were parked along the road. Officers moved quickly, their radios crackling.
I pulled over and rolled down my window. An officer approached, his face stern. “You folks need to head back to your campsite,” he said.
“What’s going on?” I asked, my voice shaky.
“There’s been a homicide nearby,” he said, his eyes scanning the darkness. “The suspect’s still out there. Stay alert and report anything suspicious.”
Tom’s jaw dropped. “A homicide? Here?”
“Yes, sir,” the officer said. “Go back, lock your car, and stay together.”
We drove back in silence, the weight of his words pressing down on us. When we reached the campsite, we told Emily and Jake everything. Their faces paled in the firelight.
“A killer?” Emily whispered. “What do we do now?”
“We could leave,” Jake said. “Pack up and go.”
“It’s the middle of the night,” I said. “Driving these roads in the dark might not be safe either.”
“But staying here with a murderer running around?” Emily countered, her voice rising.
We were still arguing when another sound stopped us cold—footsteps, heavy and deliberate, coming from the woods. They crunched on the pine needles, getting closer. We froze, our flashlights forgotten, staring into the darkness.
A man stepped into the firelight. His clothes were torn, his hair matted, and his eyes had a wild, desperate glint. He held his hands up, like he was trying to seem harmless, but his presence made my skin crawl.
“Hey, can you help me?” he said, his voice rough. “My car broke down. I need a phone.”
We exchanged glances. There was no cell service out here, and the officer’s warning echoed in my mind. Something about this guy felt wrong.
“Sorry, there’s no service here,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “The ranger station’s a few miles down the road.”
His face twisted, and he took a step closer. “I need help now! Please!”
His tone turned sharp, almost angry. Jake stepped in front of Emily, and Tom gripped a camping axe we’d used for firewood. I backed toward the tents, my pulse racing.
Before I could say anything else, sirens wailed nearby. Headlights flooded the campsite as police cars screeched to a stop. Officers jumped out, guns drawn. “Freeze! Hands up!” one shouted.
The man raised his hands, his face contorting with rage. The officers tackled him to the ground, cuffing him as he struggled.
An officer approached us, his flashlight sweeping over our stunned faces. “You folks okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I managed, my voice barely a whisper. “What’s happening?”
“That was the suspect,” he said. “He was hiding near your campsite. You’re lucky we got here when we did.”
My knees felt weak. The killer had been right here, talking to us. If the police hadn’t shown up…
We didn’t wait for morning. We packed our gear in a frenzy, throwing tents and sleeping bags into the car. The police stayed until we were ready to leave, their presence the only thing keeping me from falling apart.
As we drove away, I glanced back at Lake Crescent, its surface now hidden in darkness. What was supposed to be a peaceful trip had become a nightmare. I’ll never forget that night, and I’ll never camp in such a remote place again.