The Lake

1730 - Eastern Spanish Texas.

Padre Castillo lashed the reins and dug in his heels as he rode like all the devils of hell were chasing him into the night.

Because, Lord have mercy, he truly believed that they were.

Mission San José de los Nazonis was lost. The flickering flames in the darkness behind him were a testament to that fact; devils danced in those fires, and he had failed in his sacred duty to bring holy salvation to the Indians of Spanish Texas.

The Navonis tribe had been amenable to his early attempts to preach the gospel and teach them proper ways. They had listened attentively and even shared their campfire with him for a few weeks. Communication hadn’t been easy, but the Franciscan Order had chosen well in selecting Padre Juan Castillo to spread the good word on the frontier.

In a few short years, he had gathered converts, built a stone church and a humble friary, and begun teaching the nomadic natives how to till the earth and cultivate crops in the Lord’s name.

After they had endured bands of raiding Apache and a deadly measles epidemic, praying and singing psalms together as a devout congregation, Padre Castillo had thought there was nothing that could test their faith.

Had Satan below been watching and laughed at his foolish pride?

His dark hair and black cassock flapped in the wind of his panicked flight as the high-pitched warcries and thundering hoofbeats seemed to grow louder. Nearer. Hot on his heels.

“Pater noster, qui es in cœlis; sanctificetur nomen tuum,” The fleeing priest intoned, clutching the leather satchel slung over his chest closer. “Adveniat regnum tuum; fiat voluntas tua…”

The Lord’s Prayer could ward away evil. He knew that to be true in his very bones, but wasn’t sure it would work if one were carrying the earthly manifestation of diabolical wickedness on them.

An arrow whistled by his shoulder, and Padre Castillo risked a glance back at his pursuers. The waxing moon cast its silvery illumination on five huge, mounted figures, their long hair whipping like frenzied serpents behind them, their bronzed skin turned ghostly in the celestial light.

Heaven’s mercy, but they resembled nothing so much as demons, riding him down with feral snarls twisting their once noble faces.

“Sicut in cœlo, et in terra. Panem nostrum cotidianum da nobis hodie,” He panted, spotting a copse of red cedar and conifers, then wheeling his steadfast gelding towards it. “Et dimitte nobis debita nostra…”

He prayed that he might lose them in the trees, for beyond lay a mighty gorge with no means of descent for miles in either direction. If they cornered him there, Padre Juan Castillo would have no other choice but to commend his soul to the almighty and make a leap of faith into the rushing river below.

For it was not only his soul hanging in the balance that night but that of the entire Navonis tribe.

Present Day - Moorfield, Texas.

“Now, I know you two said you were looking for something peaceful.” Chirped the real estate agent, “but I’m telling y’all—Moorfield doesn’t merely meet expectations. It exceeds ‘em.”

The SUV rolled off the highway and onto a gleaming asphalt road that wound like a ribbon toward the lake. The sun was dipping low, casting long amber streaks over the glassy waters where Ally Creek met the shoreline. Eliza watched cattails blur past the window, her reflection pale and pensive in the glass.

“This here’s Patriot Lane,” the agent went on, tapping her French-tipped finger on the GPS screen. Her name tag, pinned to her pearl-pink blouse, read Tammy Gresham, Licensed Realtor – DreamTex Homes. “Runs all the way to the waterfront promenade, but we’re headed up to your cul-de-sac. Cedar Point Estates—our premier enclave. Gated, landscaped, full of friendly folks. You’re gonna love it.”

Tammy, whom Eliza and her newlywed husband, Mason, had previously communicated with via email, turned out to be a well-put-together woman of middling years. Her burgundy hair was styled in a glamorous updo like a 1950’s Hollywood starlet. A pastel green pencil skirt and matching blazer clung to her eye-catching figure in a manner most distracting.

Eliza had caught Mason’s gaze straying to the rear vision mirror, angled toward Tammy’s lush expanse of cleavage, more than once.

The road curved, flanked by trimmed hedges and pristine sidewalks. Rows of houses unfolded before them, similar in their differences. A dozen modern farmhouse variations, all matte whites and muted greys, each front yard manicured like a diorama. On the porches, couples rocked in chairs. Weathervanes spun slowly in time with the breeze. And the people waved, always beaming.

“I didn’t expect it to be so… new,” Eliza murmured.

“It is new! Founded five years ago,” the agent enthused. “Before that? Only pine scrub and marsh. The developers brought in architects from Austin, civil engineers from Houston, and boom! A planned community built from the ground up. All modern infrastructure, too—fiber internet, solar-ready rooftops, private security, HOA-managed utilities. It’s not just livin’ here, honey. It’s thrivin’.”

Eliza looked toward the lake. The water seemed too still and dark at its center. A flat, unnatural dimness that didn’t quite reflect the bright summer sky.

“Looks like Pleasantville,” Mason murmured.

Tammy laughed. “We do get that a lot. But trust me, it’s real. No special effects. Simply good planning and better people.”

Eliza’s gaze lingered on a trio of women pushing identical strollers along a crosswalk. Straight-backed, they sauntered in lock-step, almost interchangeable in their floral frocks, pearl necklaces, and lace gloves. The babies were dressed in matching sun bonnets. All three mothers turned and smiled in unison.

“Creepy,” she said under her breath.

Mason squeezed her knee. “You wanted quiet, love.”

“I wanted affordable,” she whispered. “I didn’t ask for spooky.”

“I like how the town honors the local history,” Tammy continued. “They kept it close to the old maps. There was a Franciscan Mission upstream back in the Spanish days—burned down or abandoned. No one really knows. My husband says the natives believed it was cursed, but that’s silly campfire talk.”

Mason raised an eyebrow, being part native himself. “That wasn’t in the brochure.”

“Please,” Tammy laughed. “You know how stories get in small towns. Bored teenagers with active imaginations and an unlocked liquor cabinet make for great ghost stories.”

They passed the town square—bare brick buildings arranged in perfect symmetry, like Monopoly pieces. A community garden bloomed behind iron fencing. Children laughed on a playground. The musical jingle of an ice cream van played somewhere beyond the rows of model homes.

“There’s nothing spooky about Moorfield these days.” Tammy said, turning the SUV up a cul-de-sac bordered with maple saplings. Faces peeked from cottage windows as they passed. “We’re flourishing. Growing quicker than any other town in the state.”

Eliza shifted uncomfortably. “Doesn’t that seem… fast?”

Tammy gave her a look in the mirror—pleasant, but a little too practiced. “That’s progress, honey. Some places get forgotten. Others bloom.”

She pulled into a broad driveway bordered by two symmetrical maple saplings. “And voilà! Here we are. Three bedrooms, two and a half baths, lake access, and a detached studio for your work. Plus, the neighbors are lovely. They’re already planning a little welcome brunch for y’all.”

Eliza stepped out of the car and took a deep breath. The air smelled clean—too clean. Not pine, not water. Simply… neutral.

The wind picked up gently, and the distant call of a bird echoed across the lake.

Tammy stood between them, smiling so wide it almost hurt to look at. “Welcome to Moorfield.”

Eliza hesitated. Something about it felt… wrong. Not hostile, not yet. But off. The quaint country atmosphere didn’t feel peaceful.

She was attuned to such things.

“Now, the removalists arrived yesterday and moved all the boxes and furniture to the assigned rooms.” Tammy said, producing a ring of keys from her handbag. “I sent a few of my boys to set up your bed and other essentials to ease you through the transition. There’s a welcome basket filled with goodies in the kitchen, along with local take-out menus on the refrigerator. I recommend Danny’s Smokehouse. The barbecue pork ribs are to die for.”

“Uh, thanks.” Mason said, as she pressed them into his hand, then seized them both in a warm embrace. “Oh, you don’t have to–”

Eliza squirmed in the older woman’s arms, uncomfortable with the sudden intimacy.

“Nonsense, you’re one of us now—a member of our community.” Tammy crushed them to her generous bosom. “We’re awfully neighbourly ‘round these parts, as you’ll soon learn.”

“She was nice.” Mason remarked, stacking plates in a cupboard. “Very, um… friendly.”

The removalist had done a commendable job. Cardboard boxes littered the home, but everything was in the correct place as indicated by the scrawled lettering on the lids.

They were currently in the kitchen, unpacking cookware and utensils.

“You think so?” Eliza picked through the gift basket, examining a bottle of rosé. “She didn’t come across as too friendly?”

Mason paused, giving her a wary glance. “Did you get a bad vibe off her?”

As a Sensitive, his wife had a sixth sense about people and places.

He’d been sceptical upon first acquaintance, but humored the cute brunette’s quirky nature in the hope of scoring. Eliza was a catch. Her firm, pert breasts, slim build, and tight little ass were blood in the water for a retired skirt-chaser like him. Pretty and petite, with a keen mind and a take-no-shit attitude.

She was ten pounds of pure dynamite in a five-pound sack.

After their first six months of dating, Mason had become a believer. Eliza read people and situations with unerring accuracy.

“I got something,” she hedged, setting the wine aside like it might bite her. “Not from her exactly… but around her. Like static in the air. Humid, but not from the weather.”

Mason closed the cupboard and leaned against the counter. “You think it’s the town?”

“I don’t know.”

He offered a crooked smile, trying for levity. “Well, if it’s haunted, it’s haunted by middle-class aspirations and matching mailbox numbers.”

She didn’t laugh.

“I think we’re both exhausted,” he said, staring out the glass doors at the water. “New place, big move, weird vibe. That’s normal. I mean, I feel a little unsettled too, but maybe that’s what starting over feels like.”

Eliza joined him, arms folded tight. Her reflection in the glass was pale and tense, jaw tight, jade-green eyes scanning the treeline.

“It’s not the move,” she said. “It’s something else. Something I can’t put a finger on.”

Mason hesitated, then reached over and took her hand.

“Well,” he said, gently, “whatever it is, it picked the wrong couple. We’ve handled worse.”

She squeezed his hand, and for a moment, the tension between them eased. They stood in silence, listening to the hum of cicadas.

“I’m not unpacking anymore tonight,” she decided. “Let’s order something and watch a movie. I need… I need to not feel this place for a while.”

“Pizza it is,” Mason agreed. But even as he pulled out his phone, his eyes kept drifting to the glass door. Outside, the lake remained calm, dark as obsidian.

It's the beginning of a new story! How's about them Stepford vibes, huh? If you’ve enjoyed my silly smut, why not support my smut writing aspirations by joining my Patreon? All donations go towards high-octane coffee to keep me writing and treats for my two adorable furballs.