October’s Mist
October’s Mists
By John W. Vander Velden
Few of those that live on the shores of Coulter Lake, know the story of Hiram Coulter the man that first deeded the land of those parts. That was before Indiana’s statehood and no concern to the owners of the fancy houses overlooking the sparkling waters of Coulter Lake. Stories tell of an overprotective father, though few blamed him. Naomi, born that terrible night Hiram’s beloved died, remained little more than a prisoner on the farmstead that overlooked the lake. Living in seclusion, seldom seen, word of Naomi’s beauty spread, and many a young man sought ways to see if the stories were true for themselves. All the while Hiram thwarted any that dared to meet his grown daughter.
But Mitchel Merit was a cleaver youth, or so he thought. Borrowing his uncle’s boat he rowed across Coulter Lake in the darkest hours. Lonely Naomi accepted the attention of the handsome farm boy that crept through the bushes to her window. Night after night he came and she would slip out to secret places they were certain only the two of them knew. But Hiram knew. He had no admiration for young Mitchel or any of that clan. Felt that the family was misnamed for that matter, unworthy of the title Merit. At last he found the boat hidden among the brush and made his plans.
One night with brace and bore he quietly drilled holes in the bottom of that small vessel. Hiram chuckled at the thought of young Mitchel’s surprise as the boat slowly sank into the lakes dark waters. But how was he to know that the lad couldn’t swim. “Not a lick,” his father said. Or that would be the night Naomi would run off with the boy to parts unknown.
None know for certain what became of the young lovers. Some say they pushed an empty boat into the waters and ran across land to Claudton and took the canal south. Lived their lives happy and content beyond the reach of one Hiram Coulter. Others wonder, for no word ever came, no letter, no message from either young Mitchel or lovely Naomi.
Stories tell how grief or guilt drove Hiram mad. Times at night, so the neighbors told, the hard man rowed the smooth dark waters, lantern in hand, with pleading words on his lips, begging forgiveness. Then one October night the man rowed into the fog and vanished, swallowed by the mist, never to return.
None pay heed to the old house of fieldstone that stands abandoned, its windows boarded over. A two hundred year old sad sentinel with closed eyes, waiting. But everyone knows of the light on the water. The pale lantern light that pierces the October mist which rises on cold autumn nights. Others speak of the wailing cry that echoes on those foggy nights. The sounds of a destressed woman calling for help. Those that live at the water’s edge, tell of the chill that comes off the water, a chill that rises in the vapors that slowly hides the lake. A chill that causes grown men to tremble and children to wail. But one thing is for certain, no one ventures onto Coulter Lake at night and into October’s Mist. (551 Words) 10–17–2015
