Anyone who visits the lake notices it within minutes: the water doesn’t move. Not with wind. Not with rain. Not even when the surrounding trees shake in a storm. Locals avoid commenting on it, as if acknowledging the behavior would make it worse. But older reports describe the same thing — a surface so still it resembles glass, even on the coldest, windiest nights.
Scientists who once surveyed the area left notes suggesting unusual density in the water, as if something beneath the surface absorbed all vibration. The documents end abruptly, with no conclusions. Just a single handwritten line in the margin of the final page: “It’s not natural stillness. It’s listening.”
Visitors say the silence near the shoreline feels different, heavier, as though sound itself refuses to travel across the water. A thrown pebble disappears without the expected ripple. Footsteps close to the edge echo strangely, stretching longer than they should.
Whether it’s a geological anomaly or something older, no one knows.
But one truth is repeated across every account:
the lake never reacts to the world around it — only to those who get too close.