1. The Fish That Never Jump (and why they’re more dangerous)

Every lake has fish that leap.
Every lake has fish that flash their silver sides to the moon
like they’re offering a brief testimony—
Alive. Still here. Watching the surface change.

But Twin Lakes has another kind.

The ones that never jump.

They stay below the memory-line.
Below the pressure shelf.
Below the sound a paddle makes when it touches water.

These are the watchers.
They see more than the fish above them know exists—
shadows not cast by moon or cloud,
currents not made by wind,
and a darkness that does not belong to night.

Grandaddy said:

“If it jumps, it’s honest.
If it don’t, it’s listening.”

The ones that never break the water?
Those are the lake’s librarians.
They record which direction the Witch was walking
by the angle of the pressure waves she leaves behind.
They follow trespassers.
They move in small circles when the Witch is near,
and in wider orbits when the land is grieving.

Most dangerous of all:

They surface only once in their entire life—
not to breathe,
not to eat,
but to make a decision about you – about me.

If one ever breaks the water at your feet
without ripples – stop what you’re doing.

The lake is making a judgment.

⸻

2. What the lake remembers about the Witch

Lakes remember differently than land.

The land remembers weight,
the press of a hoof,
the cycle of boot, shovel, coffin, bone.

But the lake remembers movement.
Curves.
Angles.
Displacements of silence.

And the Witch disturbed the water
long before she disturbed the woods.

What the lake remembers is this:
• She stepped onto it once—
and did not sink.
• She whispered into it once—
and the fish went blind for a week.
• She leaned over it once—
and the surface bowed toward her,
as if listening to the wrong master.

More than anything,
the lake remembers the night she crossed it—
the night the pines screamed
though not a needle moved.

The lake remembers her shape not as a woman
but as a cold slip through warm water.

And the lake still keeps the echo
beneath the lily pads
where no frog sits.

That part of the lake is never warm.
Even in July.

⸻

3. The day a fish jumped three times and Grandaddy started running

It was noon.
Storm coming.
Air thick as judgment.

Grandaddy was on the dock
with a bag of chicken livers for catfish
and a cup of sweet tea sweating down his arm.

A fish jumped near the old stump.
Once.
He nodded.
Normal.

Jumped again.
Closer.
He frowned.
Not ideal.

Jumped a third time—
right in front of him—
but made no sound when it hit the water.

He dropped the tea.
Didn’t even swear.
Just said:

“…hell.”

And he ran.

He’d seen that only twice before:
a soundless splash.
A breach of water with no echo.

That meant something else had broken the surface first—
something the water didn’t dare report honestly.

He got to the truck
just before the pines bent backward
like they were bracing for impact.

And fifteen minutes later
the Witch was seen standing near the far shore—
not walking, not moving—
just standing,
like a problem waiting for someone brave enough
to name it.

⸻

4. Why the Pesky Fish followed me in the first place

That fish wasn’t pesky.

It was assigned.

Some lakes guard their borders with turtles.
Twin Lakes uses a single fish—
a fish that selects one soul per generation
and shadows them from childhood onward.

It’s not a pet.
It’s not a sign of danger.

It’s a claim.

The lake saw something in me—
a frequency,
a listening,
a high-sensitivity to the quiet things
most people treat like background noise.

It followed me
because I belonged to the place
more than I knew.

It wanted to keep track of me
during the years when the Witch
shifted her pattern
and began noticing my line.

When Grandaddy saw it once—
just once—
gliding behind my reflection,
he muttered:

“Damn fish picked the right boy.”

That fish followed me
because I was marked by the lake
long before the Witch marked me back.

⸻

5. The Lake’s map of the County Place

The lake’s map is not a map of acreage.
It is a map of truth.

This is how it draws the County Place:
• The shallow shelf is where childhood lives.
Noise, laughter, hurt that heals quick.
• The drop-off is where the grown folk bury their secrets.
Not bodies—
secrets.
• The cold channel holds the Witch’s trespass.
Long, narrow, and always a degree colder than the rest.
• The stump-line is memory.
That’s where the old trees once touched the water
and spoke judgment into it.
• The hush-circle is where the Depth-Keepers rise
when something unnatural enters the forest.
• The dead calm patch on the east side?
That is the lake’s courtroom.
If the water there goes still when the wind blows,
someone’s fate is being weighed.
• And the center—
deep, blue, unfathomable—
that isn’t water at all.

That is where the lake keeps
the things it doesn’t want the Witch to remember.

Names.
Vows.
Moments.
And one tiny flicker of a boy
who once looked into it
and felt something look back
that wasn’t evil—
just ancient.

The lake drew me on that map too.

I am north of the hush-circle,
west of the drop-off,
and directly above the old memory line.

Exactly where people get chosen.