Leigh was born and raised in the beautiful garden county of Wicklow, Ireland. She is the mother and proud protector of two wonderful boys, a black Labrador and a three legged cat that hates people. She is also the bane of her long-suffering partner James' life. Leigh has always lived in the dark, with a fierce love for all things morbid and macabre. A voracious reader from a young age, she always knew she wanted to write and it made sense to write about the genre she has loved for so long. She cites Ronald Malfi, Kealan Patrick Burke, and of course, Stephen King as her favourite authors and sources of inspiration. She is an advocate for mental health, having struggled with her own demons for many years. They're not quite friends yet but there's definitely some kind of truce in place.
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SORROW LAKE
by
Leigh Kenny
“I saw the horse again today.”
Millie’s grandfather lifted his head to look at the girl, his eyes troubled within his weathered face.
“You mind them lone horses,” he told her. “Most likely a Selkie. Them things are bad news, especially for little girls, like you.”
Millie rolled her eyes.
She loved spending the summer vacation in Ireland with her grandparents, but her grandpa was always trying to scare her with fairy stories and legends of evil spirits.
“Ireland is an ancient land. You can’t move a foot for disturbing a spirit, and they’ll always take their revenge,” he would tell her.
The delicious soda bread her grandmother made every weekend had to be cut with a cross in the centre to ward off evil. If either of her grandparents saw a lone magpie, they would salute it or spit in their hand, depending on the day. And the crooked, old Hawthorn tree that sat in the middle of her grandpa’s biggest field would never be removed or destroyed, lest they bring down the wrath of the fairies upon them.
Almost thirteen years old, Millie thought of them as stories for little kids, but her grandpa insisted that she pay attention so no harm would befall her. Her mother loved to listen to the stories, and Millie would watch with fascination as her grey eyes misted over while she listened, joyful nostalgia softening her features. Her dad had whispered to her one evening by the fire, as her mother sat enthralled by the legends and lore.
He told her that her mother had grown up listening to these very stories and had probably felt them unimportant too. Now that she lived in America, so far from home, it brought her comfort to hear them retold.
“Someday,” he had told her, “Grandpa Mick will be gone, but you’ll always have his stories. Be a good girl and listen. This is your heritage.”
“But Grandpa,” she said, shaking herself from her reverie, “You’ve told me that Selkie’s live by rivers and streams. I saw it standing by the farthest hedges, just before the woods begin.”
“Plenty of streams around these parts, and worse still, Sorrow Lake.”
“The lake?” she asked. “You said they live near running water. The lake is still.”
“Aye, indeed it is my girl,” her grandpa said, his features twisting into a grimace. “There are worse things than the Selkie. And those things favour the still water. Its deeper, hides a multitude of sins. Just be mindful of strange and lonely animals. Please.”
With that, he raised the newspaper in front of his face again, the pages rustling beneath his trembling fingers. With an amused shake of her head, Millie took herself up to bed.
That night, as the wind howled through the eaves of the old farmhouse, Millie dreamed of the horse.
It cantered towards her where she stood at the edge of the woods, clumps of bluebells almost as high as her waist. Moonlight glinted off its sleek black hide and it snorted gently as it came to a stop before her. Millie reached out and patted its muzzle. It was soft as velvet, and the horse’s warm breath tickled the tiny hairs on her arm. Then suddenly she was on its back, her fingers knotted in its lustrous mane. They rode like the wind across the fields, usually verdant green but now a deathly grey beneath the light of the silver moon. The breeze blew Millie’s hair behind her in golden streamers, and her nerves fired with exhilaration. She laughed aloud, but the sound was drowned out by the thunderous noise of the black horse’s hooves.
They bolted through the woods, branches whipping by at incredible speed. The trees opened up and Sorrow Lake spread out before them, its surface still, and black as oil but for the glow of moonlight upon it.
The horse showed no signs of slowing, and Millie nervously began to pull back, her heels digging into the taut muscles of its flanks.
It’s going to carry me right into the lake, she thought in panic, I’m going to have to jump!
Millie tugged, but her hands were bound in the animal’s thick hair. She couldn’t free them. She tried wriggling herself further back, but her body appeared to be stuck.
The stallion whinnied, the sound striking a sudden fear into the young girl’s heart. They were approaching the lake at the speed of lightening, and Millie braced herself for the impact of the cold water. She screamed, a primal sound filled with terror and rage, as the horse bounded into the water. An icy chill enveloped her instantly as the horse carried on, moving further into the lake’s black depths. Just before they were submerged, Millie sucked the night air deep into her lungs.
Down, down, the horse carried her. She tried frantically to free herself, but she was stuck fast. Her lungs burned and her body trembled as she fought the urge to breathe. With bulging eyes, Millie gasped. Silty water flooded her mouth, pouring down her throat, her face a rictus of terror as she fought.
Until she could fight no longer.
Everyone in the community came together to help comb the fields and woods for any sign of Mick’s granddaughter.
“Terribly sad,” they all said. “Visiting from America. Snuck out in the night and now God knows what’s befallen the poor girl.”
But Mick knew in his heart what had happened.
When an intact liver was found floating on the lakes surface, it meant only one thing.
The old man had hoped that by not elaborating further on the Each Uisce, thoughts of the wretched horse would leave his granddaughter’s mind.
It had come for her though.
And now, as he snapped the barrel closed on his shotgun, he knew he would hunt the dreadful creature that stole his beautiful Millie away, until either death or the Each Uisce itself stole his very last breath.