Alonzo Deen Cole

“ Eyes that were too cold, and a thin lipped mouth too firmly set, marred the beauty of her face. But Roger Benton had never noted these imperfections. His long wait had sharpened his desire. Forgetting past rebuffs, he rushed to meet her and clasped her in his arms.
She coolly disengaged herself and sat down upon a fallen tree.
Irritably, he threw himself beside her. "Hilda, why do you hold me off like this?" he pouted. "You know I'm mad—insane about you."
Her thin lips curled in a faint smile. "You have no right to be mad about me—you're a married man."
"We're not children! ”

“ Her eyes followed his, and stark panic fell upon her.
On the sodden divan lay a dripping figure with wisps of weed and moss hanging from its matted hair.
An instant later they were racing madly down the wet, crumbling path to the beach and a canoe. From the sky above them, from trees, bushes, even rocks it seemed, sprang the clammy, fetid slime, hurling itself into their faces, raising their gorge with its noxious odor, chilling their hearts with each wet impact.
Suddenly, the man stopped short. The woman ran on, screamed back at him to follow.
"No!" he sobbed. "Not out on that lake. ”

“ The Spirits of the Lake will punish—as she said they would."
She shook him off, plunged into the foaming water. He quietly watched her useless struggles as the canoe bore ever faster toward the rocks.
Nahma, the old Indian woman, found their bodies days later where the lake had cast them out. The green slime which had long since disappeared from the surface of the waters, its season past, sheathed Hilda and Roger Benton in its viscous embrace. She looked for a time out of her expressionless dark face at the grisly sight, then waddled heavily away. ”

“ Under her own steady stare, his gaze wavered, dropped. When he raised it again it was a vacant, hopeless thing.
As his wife picked a fastidious way through the shells and weed that covered the shore, old Nahma waddled down the hilly path toward them. Hilda peered past her at the coveted bungalow. Satisfied with what she saw she turned patronizingly to the squaw.
"Well old woman looks from here like you've taken pretty good care of things." Nahma returned an impassive nod then gazed silently into her eyes. ”

“ Now, no one may harm me, for fear the Spirits of the Lake will punish them."
That last bit of addle-brained nonsense had marked the limit of Roger's endurance.
What civilized man wouldn't have blown up and flown out of the house in disgust after that? And, because Bernice's silliness had driven him away so early in the evening, he would arrive at his rendezvous with Hilda half an hour too soon. Roger Benton felt terribly abused. ”

“ The longest-living author of this work died in 1971, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 52 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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