The Legends of Lake on the Mountain Read Online Free

doesn’t mean you get to do as you please whenever you want, understood?”
    â€œYes, of course, Mother.”
    John retired to his bedroom for the night as did Moll and Lou. He lit his oil lamp for the few minutes that were allowed to get settled. Having it on too long would be considered a waste of fuel, so he didn’t linger.
    Before he blew it out, John reached for his carving knife and felt the handle mould to his palm. Under his blanket he found a stick he had been whittling. John made extra care to whittle in silence in the darkness while he thought about a creature roaming the depths of Lake on the Mountain. He had heard the Mohawk legends since they first arrived in the area. But this was the first time someone had reported anything, even if it was Whisky Wilson.
    The gentle sounds of the waterfall behind the mill were comforting. John could picture it careening down the mountain from the mysterious lake. The water gathered into a long, wooden raceway into a thick, white, watery thread as it continuously pounded into the grist mill’s wheel.
    His parents were talking in low voices, but John had learned to hear through their murmurs and over the sounds of the falling water. He stopped whittling. He didn’t want to miss anything.
    â€œ...it makes no sense...even if he’s not happy about the news sheet what’s he going to do?” said Hugh. “He doesn’t work for the Tories...just an old man who’s always voted Tory.”
    Hugh’s voice hummed across the sitting area. John couldn’t hear what his mother replied. He slid his knife and stick underneath his bed and pulled the blanket over his shoulder. With the colonel coming, John wondered if he’d have to go back with him early to Kingston to prepare for school in the fall.
    He didn’t want to be cheated out of more time at Stone Mills. With a haunted lake to explore, he wasn’t ready for summer to end just yet.

Chapter 3

    Milling About
    Kingston’s streets are wide and frightening. Stone taverns and brick storefronts in row after row of crooked lines are etched upon the landscape. Faceless people are moving about, mingling in dishevelled clothes or military uniforms. John can see the April sun is low in the sky, as it always is in this dream.
    The edges of the dark tavern are blurry and threatening. How many times has John been here? He has the same dream almost every month. The shapes of the buildings change, shrinking and growing without reason. The faceless people rise and fall in number. But the end result is always the same. For six, long years, the dream has always been the same.
    First, the alcohol. The foul taste of whisky pressed hard against his seven-year-old lips. Worse, he must watch as his younger brother, James, endures the same. The man’s gruff hands grab the back of his little brother’s head. He forces him closer to the bottle, even as John hangs from the man’s arm, pleading that he stop. Two other men snort their approval from their corner of the tavern.
    As the man momentarily walks to the bar to buy more alcohol, John does what he always does in this dream. He makes the same mistake over and over – the one that kills his little brother. He grabs his brother’s hand and they run.
    John bursts through the tavern door, the pounding sound of mindless laughter ringing in his ears behind him.
    No, don’t run this time!
    As usual, the John that he sees running, with James barely keeping up, doesn’t listen. The sound of the tavern door opening a second time with a terrible slam overwhelms his ears. He runs faster. They make it only to the large oak tree when little James stumbles, falling flat on his face and scraping his right cheek. It’s then that the lumbering man, Kennedy, catches up to them and raises a thick, wooden cane. In his dream, John never sees the impact of the cane. He cries over top of his younger brother, vaguely aware of the fleeing,