Lighthouse Horror Podcast - OHIO EMERGENCY ALERT: If You Live in Daggerlin… RUN

Episode Date: September 7, 2025

Support me on Patreon:Lighthouse Horror | PatreonSupport the podcast on Patreon for early access to ad-free, music-free versions of each story—perfect for that immersive, audiobook-style experience. New episodes drop there first!Listen to Part 1: I Work as a Sheriff in Ohio. This Is My SCARIEST StoryListen to Part 2: I Work as a Mechanic in OHIO. We have Strange RULES Listen to Part 3: I Work as a Lake Patrol Officer in Ohio. We have STRANGE RulesOriginal YouTube link: OHIO EMERGENCY ALERT: If You Live in Daggerlin… RUNSocial MediaINSTAGRAM - @lighthousehorror FACEBOOK -  Lighthouse HorrorTIKTOK - Lighthouse HorrorYOUTUBE: Lighthouse HorrorStory written by Lighthouse Horror. For usage rights or more information, please contact us at [e-mail] Art from NinerioMore of the artist’s works at ninerioartsMerch: lighthousehorror.shop       Music:Lucas King - YouTubeMyuu - YouTube IncompetechDarren Curtis Music - YouTubeThank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this new creepypasta story, please check out some of my other horror stories. We'll be uploading new episodes every week, featuring ghost stories, haunted encounters, mysteries, true stories, creepypasta, and anything supernatural and paranormal. Don't miss out on the thrill and suspense that await you in each episode!

Killing a monster is not easy. Movies tell you it is. One silver bullet. One clean swing. And the thing drops? But the truth is worse. Real monsters don't fall the first time. They keep coming.

And by the time you understand what you're really facing, it's already too late. Sheriff George Lost and his oldest friend, David Winners, sat in the small second-story office of the sheriff station. in Dagherland, Ohio. The window looked out over Main Street. Porch lights glowing against the pull of Lake Erie. The room was quiet.

Heavy. The kind of silence that settles when two men have already said too much. It began with Samantha Granger, eight years old, whose footprints ended at the bluff with no trace beyond. Then Josh Maddox. George and David had saved him at the last possible second. The Harpers tried to escape down Lake Road. Their SUV died.

By the time help arrived, their children were the only ones left. The town mechanic, Marcus Wilkins, nearly gave his life saving those kids, bleeding out in the road while the creature grinned. And then Frank Greeley's trawler. Set ablaze on the water. The old man swearing something had struck the hall just before the fire. Every sign pointed to the same truth. Daggerland was marked.

Bullets didn't matter. The rules didn't matter. Whatever lived in the lake wasn't finished. Now, George and David sat in the dim office, watching the town go still below them. Both men knowing the same thing, time was running out. The desk between them was buried under books, hard covers. paperbacks, loose photocopies, a patchwork of anything that even whispered about monsters. Some came from the town library, spines cracked from decades of dust, others that arrived in brown boxes

on Georgia's porch. A few had no publishers' mark at all, ordered from strange websites with names like hauntedstuff.com, their pages reeking of ink and mildew. There were bestiaries that read like novels, field guides on folklore, even pulp paperbacks with lurid covers, demons, lake serpents, ghost of the drowned. Half of it contradicted the other half. It was hard to know what was real, what was an old wives' tale, or what was just a writer's imagination. But they weren't leaving anything to chance. If there was a way to kill the thing in the lake, they'd find it. The coffee pot hissed in the corner, filling the room with a smell of burnt grounds and bitter steam.

Mugs sat within rage, half-drunk and cooling, as George flipped through a yellowed encyclopedia of cryptids while David scribbled notes on a legal pad. The sheriff's office felt less like a place of law and more like a college dorm at night. Two exhausted men trying to cram for a test They couldn't afford to fail David rubbed his temples We don't even know where to start Half these books say monsters hate silver The other half says they don't care

Fire iron Salt Holy Water Take your pick George didn't look up from his book So we try all of it he said. The silence pressed back in,

broken only by the soft turning of pages and the tick of the wall clock on the table. The books painted a fractured history of fear, but together, they told the same story. People had been seeing strange things in the water

for as long as they'd been writing things down. There were stories of river demons that pulled children under, of fishermen vanishing without a trace, of something waiting in the dark. One paperback claimed some creatures only went for the liver, dense with iron, fat, nutrients. Predators choosing the richest prize. David read it aloud, voiced low. Sounds familiar, doesn't it?

George didn't answer, but his jaw set hard. One of the thinner volumes had come from a strange sight online, half folklore and half conspiracy. It mentioned something called the Shakoy, a legend from the Philippines about a creature that dragged people under from the shallows, part human, part fish, with claws like hooks. David muttered, could be the same thing, different place, different name. lore overlapped Some said silver Others fire

A few swore by salt By prayer By iron Nothing was consistent For every book that promised a weakness Another claimed it didn't matter That the monster always came back David closed one with a snap

We're digging through A thousand years of stories and they all end the same way, he said. George stared at the mess of paper and ink between them. Then maybe it's on us to write a new ending. The clock ticked. The lake's water lapped against the shore. And in the sheriff's office, two old friends leaned closer to the mess of books,

searching for the one thing no one else had found. A way to kill it. David thumbed through a dog-eared paper bag, half-folk lore, half-survival guide. His eyes snagged on a short passage. All right, hold on, listen to this. He read aloud. Some freshwater demons cannot survive in the ocean. Salt water burns them, weakens them, drives them away.

Salt is there undoing. George leaned over, brow furrowing. fresh water. David tapped a page. Maybe that's why it sticks to the leg. It's not just hunting here. It's trapped here. George reached for another book,

flipping quickly until he found the line he remembered. His finger pressed against the page. Here, here, same thing. Known to consume the liver of its victims, avoiding other organs. Sensitive, to salt. Strongest weakness believed to be silver.

The room went still for a moment. David sat back in a chair, exhaling. Salt and silver. This might be as close as we're going to get. George rubbed a hand down his jaw. Well, salt we can manage. Bags of it. Barrows if we have to.

But silver. That's another story. David leaned back, eyes narrowing and thought. Not if Marcus is still breathing. You've seen his shop. He's got more than wrenches in there. Old kiln, scrap piles. Hell, he's practically been running a forge for years.

Fixes half the farm equipment in the county with it. George frowned. That's a big leap from welding plow blades to making something that can kill whatever this thing is. David's voice dropped. It's all fire and steel, George. If anyone can shape silver into something sharp enough to matter, it's him. The sheriff didn't answer right away. He flipped the book shut, staring at the title on its cracked spine, encyclopedia of aquatic aberrations. The leather was worn. The pages swore. The pages swore. and with age, but the words inside had given them more than just fear. It'd given them direction.

He set it aside. Yeah, maybe Marcus can do it. David leaned forward, elbows on the table. And the salt. We don't just carry it. We use it. We line the boat, throw it at the thing. Whatever it takes to slow it down. George rubbed his jaw. The day's stubble rough against his hand. All right, well, then we'll need more than a few bags from the grocery store. Whole pallets, if we can get him.

The clock ticked. Outside, the wind pressed against the old glass panes, carrying the low hush of the waves. Finally, George stood, sliding the encyclopedia aside and reaching for his coat. All right. All right, we go. to Marcus. If he can forge silver into something we can use, we put it in our hands. And the salt, we'll find enough of it. Let's just hope it works. George rubbed at his eyes. Then glanced at the

duty roster tacked crooked on the wall. It's just Mendez and Hawkins with me now. Watterson packed up and left town yesterday. Said he had family in Columbus and wasn't sticking around to see what else came out of that like. David gave a short nod, not surprised. George exhaled. When they're back, we'll meet up and tell them what we've got. It's not proof. Hell, it's barely more than guesswork, but it's better than nothing.

The room fell quiet again. David pushed back from the table, his chair legs scraping soft against the floorboards. You know, I should spend time with Owen today. He began. His voice was low, almost apologetic. This, all this matters, but sort of his time with him. I just, I just feel like I'm never there for him lately, you know. He rubbed a hand over his face, searching for words.

I thought about sending him away inland, maybe out of state. But the truth is, I think he's safer here. God knows he wants to stay, and he's never alone. When I'm out, he's with Joe and Crichton every minute, and that dog doesn't let him out of his sight, uprooting him, dumping him with strangers or distant family, and it just feels wrong. George studied him for a moment, then said quietly,

he's a good kid. That pulled a faint smile out of David. Yeah, yeah, he is. And he looks up to you, George. He's got it so deep in that damn head of his that one day you and him are going to be working together. Drives me nuts sometimes. I keep waiting for him to change his mind, say he wants to be a fireman or a doctor, or I don't know, something. But it's always a cop.

Always. George smiled at that. Well, your boys. smarter than half the deputies I've trained, he said. David shook his head, still smiling, but there was a tiredness behind it. George leaned in slightly, voice low. You know, your son loves you, Dave. You know that right?

David's smile faltered just a little, but he nodded again. Yeah, yeah, I know. George held his gaze a moment longer. I wouldn't be surprised if he was out on the lake one day, helping out, watching over people like you do. David just nodded and forced a small smile. The silence between them said the rest. Mark Hamlin worked the lines loose at Edgewater Marina in Cleveland, coiling each neatly before stepping back aboard. He'd already checked the bilge.

Cracked the hatches, sniffed for fuel, safety gear stowed, radio tested, tank topped. Every box ticked. All right, forecast looks perfect, he said, settling into the helm seat. Calm all day, light westerly winds, couldn't ask for better. Across from him, his wife Ellen handed him a travel mug. You always say that right before you start the checklist over again. Mark smirked but didn't deny it. Well, habits keep us alive, honey.

Their son Ryan sat forward with a folded chart across his knees, tracing the shoreline eastward with his finger. So we'll go past Euclid, then Menor, Daggerland, Ashtabulia, and Geneva on the lake. Ellen glanced over, amused by his concentration. Pretty good pronunciations. You sound like a tour guide. Ryan grinned and folded the chart carefully, tucking it beside him.

Marks ease the throttle forward, the engine settling into a steady hum as the boat slipped out of the marina into open water. A low wake curled behind them as the Cleveland skyline blurred into the haze. They headed east. Marcus Wilkins looked like he'd been stitched together with wire and gauze. The lights of the hospital room gave his skin a gray cast. Machines hummed softly around him. Each beep a reminder he was still holding on.

When George and David stepped inside, Marcus shifted in the bed, trying to sit up straighter. He winced, cursed under his breath, then waved him off before either man could tell him to take it easy. Oh, don't look at me like that, Marcus rasped. I'm not dead yet.

David pulled the chair closer to the bed, sitting his forearms on his knees. No one's saying you are, but you came close, he said. Marcus grimaced faintly, though it tugged at his stitches. George remained standing, his hat in one hand, the other resting on the back of David's chair. He studied the old mechanic for a moment before speaking.

Well, we've been going through everything we can get our hands on. Folklore, old records, whatever's out there. Marcus's tired eyes studied the men. And... David leaned forward. Well, we think salt weakens it. Silver might be able to kill it. Marcus didn't say a word.

He just sat and thought... Salt and silver. He trailed off and nodded to himself. My grandfather used to talk about things like that. George and David exchanged a glance. Marcus what his lips, voice low but steady. If that's true, if Saul weakens in, then you can use it to slow the thing down. Blind it, burn it if you can.

And the silver. His hand twitched against the blanket, like he could feel the weight of a twist. in it. Silver. It has to be shaped into something that'll cut deep. A blade, a spike. Doesn't matter what, as long as it gets through the skin. David leaned closer. You think you can do it? Marcus's eyes locked on his. Well, you bring me the metal. Maybe I'll find a way. As soon as they let me out of this damn place, I'll be back at the shop. I can melt it down, shape it, give you something real to carry out there. I'd slow you down at a fight.

Won't last five minutes on that water. But maybe I can still help. The room was quiet again, except for the monitor. Finally, Marcus nodded once, firm. Bring me silver, whatever you can get. George gave a firm nod. For a moment, the three men held each other's gaze. All of them battered in different ways.

All of them bound to the same fight. George set his hat back on his head. All right, get some rest, Marcus. We'll check in with you, okay? Marcus nodded. leaned back against the pillow and closed his eyes. Out in the hallway, George and David walked in silence until they reached the front doors. The night air was cool, carrying the faint smell of rain off the leg.

George adjusted his hat, already looking toward the cruiser parked under the streetlight. I'm heading back to the station. Mendez and Hawkins will be pulling in soon. I want him up to speed. David nodded. Yeah, yeah, I'm going to check on Owen. For a second, neither spoke. Then George put a hand briefly on David's shoulder. All right, I'll see you in the morning.

Yeah, see ya. They went their separate ways. George tore the sheriff's office. David toured home. Owen was already out in the yard when David pulled up. Crichton bowed bow. pounding at his side with a neon frisbee clamp between his teeth. The boy waved, the dog barked, and David felt some of the weight in his chest lift.

Hey, you too, David said, rolling his shoulders as he walked onto the grass. Dad, catch, Owen called, and heaved the frisbee. It sailed wide, but Crichton lunged after it, paws skidding in the dirt before he snagging it out of the air. He trotted back, tail wagging like a metronome, and dropped it at David's feet. David laughed, despite himself, and sent it spinning again. Owen tore across the yard with a dog, like there was nothing more important in the world. And for a few minutes, that's all it was. Running, catching, laughing.

Normal. When Owen collapsed out of the grass, gasping for breath, David lowered down beside him. Crichton flopped against their legs, chewing the edge of the disc. Hey, David said quietly. I, um, I know I haven't been around as much as I should have been. You know, since your mom. He stopped.

Rubbed the back of his neck. Tired again. It's, it's been hard. But you know, I love you, right? Owen sat up, still catching his breath. Yeah, Dad, I know. David managed to smile, pulling the boy into a quick, tight hug before ruffling his hair.

Oh, you know, huh? Well, good, he smiled. Owen grinned and shoved at his arm. You're sweaty. Yeah, well, so are you, David said. Giving him a playful nudge that nearly tipped him over. Crichton nudged the frisbee into Owen's lap, tail wagging expectantly. Owen laughed, pushing himself up.

He cocked his arm back and sent the disc spinning across the yard. Crichton tore after it, paws thudding through the grass, leaping high to snatch it from the air. David whistled. Not bad. That one actually went straight. Owen puffed out his chest. Yeah, I told you I was getting better.

David smiled and gave his son's shoulder a little squeeze. Crichton bounded back and dropped the frisbee at his feet. David snapped his wrist, sending it on a high arc. The shepherd sprinted, leapt, and came down rolling before popping up with a disc clamped tight. Both of them laughed as Crichton pranced back like he just won a trophy. For a few minutes, nothing else mattered. just the boy, the dog, and the father, trading throws and laughter under a sky that hadn't yet gone dark. The sheriff's office was quiet, the kind of late-night stillness that made the old building creek.

George sat at his desk, one lamp burning low, a mug of coffee cooling beside the radio. The base unit crackled. Sheriff's office, this is dispatch. The voice was female, unmistakably civilian. Clara Hensley, who'd run the board for ten years. She wasn't a sworn officer, but she was the one who kept the phones, the logs, and the radio calls moving along in an orderly fashion. George thumbed the mic. Go ahead, Clara.

Got a coal routed from Coast Guard Relay, family out of Cleveland, 30-foot powerboat. They lost their engine about five miles west of... Palmer's bluff. They're drifting. Two adults, one child on board. George straightened. Any injuries reported? Negative. Clarice said. But the family scared. They tried to drop anchor, but it's not catching bottom and they're still drifting. They sound pretty panicked. George pressed a hand against his brow, picturing a dead boat rolling east with the current. A family sitting helpless on deck while the lake moved beneath them. He keyed the mic.

What's their position again? Clary came back. Five miles west of Palmer's Bluff, closest landmark they gave, was a lighted buoy just north of their track. Currents pushing them inshore. Static flared, then Mendez cut in. Sheriff, we're within five minutes of a marina. Hawkins and I can be on the water fast. George checked the clock on the wall.

He was at least 20 minutes out. He pressed the key. No, no, negative. Hold position. Wait for me to get there. I don't want you going in alone. Static filled the gap for a moment. Then Mendez's voice came back.

Firm. Sheriff, by the time you're on the water, that family could be pushed into the rocks. They've got a kid aboard. They're already panicked. We can't just. Sit here. George's fingers drummed against the desk. The tick of the wall clock, loud in his ears.

20 minutes. He pictured a powerless boat, anchor dragging. A family huddled under a canopy while the lake nudged them closer to a rocky shore. Another pause. Her voice returned, clipped but steady. We've got sidearms, flares, radios. We're not helpless. that if we sit on shore waiting for backup,

or not deputies either, you taught me that. George closed his eyes. In the glass of the office window, he caught the faint reflection of his own tired face, worn, hollow, too many nights replaying the same losses. Samantha, the Harpers. Marcus almost dying on the asphalt.

Finally, he pressed the key again. Voice rough. 10-4, launch from the marina. Get eyes on him. And you stay in contact every minute. You hear me? I'll be there as fast as I can. Mendez said.

We'll bring him in. George set the mic down and grabbed the keys. The shotgun from the rack? In a box of shells, shaking his head. He even snatched the half-empty salt shaker off the table, knowing damn well it probably wouldn't do a thing. He wished he had more time. The gravel lot at Daggerland Point Marina crunched under Georgia's tires as he pulled in. The rain had stopped, but the air still carried the wet metal

smell that always came before a storm. Headlights cut across the rows of empty slabs until they landed on David's truck already parked near the dock. David climbed out. A half-torn bag of road salt slung over one shoulder. He gave a short knock. jaw tight, and dropped it into the patrol boat with a dull thud. Hey, left over from winter. Figured it's better than nothing. George tossed the shotgun case aboard, check the radio, and scan the deck with quick, practiced motions.

His face was pale under the dock lights, but his hand stayed steady. The base unit crackled once, than nothing. George frowned. thumb the mic. Mendez Hawkins, you copy? Static. He tried again. Mendez report.

The radio hissed, then fell silent. David glanced at him, worry playing in his eyes. How long since you heard from him? Too long. George's voice was flat. He clipped the mic back into place and reached for the ignition.

He paused, looking over at David. You don't have to come, you know. I can handle the boat well enough myself. David shook his head before George even finished. Not a chance. You're not going out there alone. Dave, George began. We're not ready yet.

And if something happens to you, I'm coming with you, George. David interrupted. That family's out there. Mendez and Hawkins are out there. Now, let's go. For a moment, the two men just stared at each other, the boat rocking gently against the dock. Then George gave a slow nod and stepped back.

David slid behind the wheel, turned the key, and the outboards rumbled alive. Salt bag braced against the console at his knee. All right, hang on. The patrol boat nosed out of the sled. Spray catching the dock lights as it cut into the dark water. George braced himself on the rail, eyes fixed on the black horizon ahead. For just a moment, he let himself remember another night on the water.

Him and David as boys, sneaking Joe's old skiff out past the break wall, laughing like idiots as they pointed the bow towards Erie's endless dark. Two kids daring the lake to take them. Now, years later, the same two men were headed back into that same dark, older, heavier, and carrying the weight of the whole town on their shoulders. But they weren't ready. The patrol boat cut through the black water, bow light, sweeping pale arcs across the chop, spray hissed along the hole, every splash louder than it should have been.

Neither man spoke. David eased the throttles back as a shadow took shape ahead, a white fiberglass hall drifting broadside to the current. The Hamlin's boat. Its running lights glowed weakly, casting red and green streaks over the water. A thin fog had rolled in with the current, soft and uneven. It shifted across the decks, swallowing details until the bow light caught them. beside it tied clumsily along the port rail another shape floated smaller the county patrol skiff georgia's gut sank he didn't have to say it aloud david brought them in slowly engine hum dropping to a low growl both boats rocked against each other in the dark their lines creaking with each shift of the current no movement on deck No voices. The fog thickened in patches, curling over the rails, softening the outlines of empty chairs and windows. A child's life jacket lay abandoned near the stern, half shrouded and mist.

On the county's skiv, the floodlight still burned, its beam cut to ribbons by the haze, aimed uselessly out across the water. There was no one there. David throttled into neutral. The three boats, there's the patrol skiff and the Hanlon's cruiser, knocked gently together in the current. The sound too ordinary, too normal. George scanned the decks, eyes narrowed. No sign of Mendez.

No sign of the family. His voice was low, even. But David could hear the tension in it. The wind carried across the water, and the boats rocked again. The sound of rope straining against cleats filled the silence. For a long moment, neither man moved, just listening, just waiting. The fog pressed in closer, damp and heavy, muffling even the slap of water against the hall. It was the kind of quiet that felt wrong, not peaceful, but yet.

Gary. David finally reached for the cleat line. Let's tie up. George nodded once. Stay together. No splitting up. Wouldn't dream of it, David replied. David looped the rope and hauled the patrol boat against the skiff. The halls kissed with a hollow thud, then settled into a slow rhythm with the current. George chambered around in the shotgun. The click loud. in the fog. You board first on cover. David slung the salt bag higher on his shoulder, hand-brushing the pistol at his hip. The one George always made him bring just in case. He stepped across the gap, boots landing on fiberglass that creaked under his weight. George was right behind him. Shotgun raised. The fog curled low across the deck,

carrying the faint smell of brine and something else. David swept the beam of a handheld flashlight along the deck. The mist caught the light and blurred it, revealing only fragments, an overturned cooler, a towel stiff with lake water, the empty life jacket by the stern. He swept slower, steady,

letting the light crawl across the deck. The fog smeared every edge, made every shape look wrong. He paused at his shadow by the cabin door, heart ticking faster, then let out a breath when it turned out to be nothing more than a folded deck chair half collapsed against the wall. George's boots creaked behind him. Shotgun steady at his shoulder. The patrol skiff rocked against the cruiser, ropes groaning,

as though the lake was tugging at them, impatient. David angled the light lower. Something dark streaked across the non-slip decking. Faint, but unmistakable. His jaw tightened. George? The sheriff stepped up, peering down. Smears, drying, worked into the tread.

Blood. A few feet farther on, the beam caught metal. A gun lay on its side. half slick. The polymer grip streaked crimson. George crouched, eyes hard, shotgun never wavering from the shadows. He reached out, thumb and forefinger lifting the pistol by the trigger guard. Issued, he muttered. Mendez. The word hung between them.

David's flashlight beam trembled slightly as he swept it across the deck again, over the cooler, the towel, the streaks of blood leading nowhere, the fog curled heavier, blurring the rails until the lake seemed to vanish just beyond arm's reach. And then it came, a sound cutting through the quiet, a splash, not the sharp crack of a fish, not the roll of a wave, heavy, deliberate. Something breaking the surface and sinking back down again. Both men froze. David swung the flashlight toward the sound, its narrow cone slicing into the mist.

White glare caught nothing but churned ripples fanning out into the dark. George rose slowly, shotgun following the beam. His jaw clenched. That wasn't a fish. Nock sounded, not from the water this time, but from the hole. A dull thud, just beneath their feet, as if something large had brushed the underside of the boat. The two men locked eyes, breath tight, waiting for the next sound. David turned the flashlight toward the small cabin hatch. Family might have gone below, he said.

George nodded once, motioning him forward. They moved to the steps, the air inside thicker, worse. David put one foot down, than another. His beam shaking as it swept across the cramped space. The light caught the floor first. Red. Dark tacky smears, pulled deep in the nonskid groove. Then more, shapes half buried in shadow, arms, a leg twisted wrong against the bulkhead,

torn fabric. David stumbled on the step, boot skidding in something wet. He caught himself on the rail, breath-catching. George reached down, pulled him back with one hand on his shoulder. His own face was pale. Shaw set hard. They didn't need to go any farther. Not down there.

They backed up, step by slow step, until they were back in the open air. Fog curled thick around them, swallowing the railings, muting the world until the deck was nothing but a circle of pale light in the dark. George and David turned instinctively, standing back to back, weapons raised, breath-tight. They could barely see more than a few feet ahead. The lake was gone. The sky gone.

Only the shifting gray pressing close. Waiting. Then the hole shuddered. A wet, heavy thump from outside. The kind of weight that didn't come from water. George steadied the shotgun against his shoulder. David's flashlight beam swept the fog, wide arcs catching nothing but missed.

Another knock. Closer. Against the rail this time. They tighten their stance, backs touching, eyes straining. And the thing came at them from the dark. A shape burst through the fog,

taller than a man, shoulders slick, claws flashing. George fired point-blank, the shotgun roaring across the deck. The blast tore through the mist, but the thing didn't slow. It hit them like a truck. George and David were thrown hard across the wet fiberglass, boots skidding, shoulders slamming against the rail.

The shotgun spun from George's grip, clattering across the deck. David's flashlight pitched forward, its beam-witting. leaping through the fog before it fell and rolled, casting crazy arcs of light. The boat lurched under the impact, cleats groaning, lines straining as water slapped against the hole. The fog shifted, and for a second, the thing was only a silhouette crouched on the deck, grinning, claws dragging slowly across fiberglass, leaving gouges in its wake. George groaned, pushing himself up to his feet, eyes darting toward where the shotgun landed. He staggered forward, desperate, while David scrambled beside him, grasping frantically at the deck.

His pistol was gone, somewhere in the shadows, lost in the spray and fog. George lunged for the shotgun, fingers closing around the stock, and the creature's claw came down. It raked across his arm with sickening force, nearly severing it at the elbow. George froze, a sound caught on his throat, staring at the torn mess hanging from his shoulder. And then the thing slammed into him again, hurling him to the deck. The shotgun skittered away as the creature pinned him down, claws pressing into his chest, its grin wide and dripping. It lowered one long claw and gently tapped the place just above his liver, lingering there.

David staggered up, eyes wide. His pistol was gone, but the salt bag lay burst open nearby, spilling across the boards. He grabbed a double handful, grit biting into his palm. and flung it into the creature's face. The effect was instant. The thing shrieked, staggering back from his friend. Claws flailing, as steam hissed off its slick skin. It clawed at its own eyes, blinded, wriving in the fog.

David snatched another handful and threw it. Then another? each one driving the thing backward across the slick deck. Step by step it retreated, stubborn, violently shaking its head against the burn. David's boot struck something hard. His pistol? He snatched it up, leveled it with both hands, and squeezed the trigger. The first shot cracked.

Then another? Bullets struck home this time. the creature lurching with each impact, black fluid spraying as it staggered near the rail. But still it held, crouched low, ready to charge. Then the shotgun boomed. George, pale and swaying, had braced the weapon in a crook of his good arm, teeth gritted against the pain. The blast tore through the creature's chest at close range. This time it groaned, a low guttural sound, and toppled backward over the rail.

The lake swallowed it whole, leaving only ripples that spread into the fog. George left the shotgun slip from his grip and sagged against the deck, blood running from his arm, his head rolling weakly to the side. His lips parted as if to say something, but only a faint breath came. Then his eyes fluttered shut, and there was only darkness. David dropped to his knees beside him, pressing a hand to George's chest,

terrified for a moment he'd stopped breathing. Relief surged when he felt the shallow rise and fall, weak, but there, Blood pumped steadily from the ruined arm. David swore under his breath, yanked his belt free, and looped it high above the wound, just below George's shoulder. He pulled it tight, then tighter still, until the bleeding slowed. Not enough.

His eyes darted across the deck. A broken bit of railing lay loose near the rail. He jammed it through the belt loop and twisted. cinching it until George led out a faint moan. The flow finally eased. Wasn't perfect, but it would hold. Only then did David hook his arms under George's good shoulder and drag him across the slick deck,

boots slipping in blood and salt. Every tug felt heavier than the last, but he got him to the patrol boat and heaved him over the rail, laying him flat on the deck. That was when he heard it, muffled cries rising from the cabin below. David froze listening, the sound of a woman's sob, a child's whimper, and a man's voice trying and failing to sound steady. He moved back to the Hamlin's boat, shove the hatch open, and swept his flashlight inside.

Three faces blinked up at him through the gloom. A woman clutching a boy against her chest, the man in front of them, a tiny pocket knife shaking in his grip. His eyes were wide, terrified, but he was ready to stand between whatever came through that door and his family. It's all right, David said quickly, lowering the light. I'm here to get you out. The man's shoulders sagged with relief. The knife clattered against the dead. as it slipped out of his hand.

One by one, David helped them up and out. The boy first, then his mother, then the father. Each scrambling under the patrol boat, where George lay pale and still, his arm bound tight. David climbed aboard last, shove the throttle forward, and the engines roared. The patrol boat tore away from the drifting cruiser, spray curling off the bow as he pointed them toward the faint light of Daggerland's shoreline. The patrol boat slid into Daggerland Point Marina,

bumping against the fenders as David eased the throttles back. Red strobes already lit the docks, not one but two ambulances waiting with their crews. The paramedics were on George in seconds, easing him onto a stretcher, eyes checking the belt tourniquet sinced around his arm. His skin was gray, lips bloodless, but his chest still rose and fell. Is he? David's words caught in his throat. How bad?

One medic pressed gloved fingers to George's neck and looked up without stopping. Pulse is weak. He's lost a lot of blood. We'll do everything we can. They pushed off toward the waiting ambulance, wheels rattling on the dock planks. George's pale face disappeared behind flashing red as the door shut, and the siren carried him away. Behind them, Ellen Hanlon clutched her son, both of them shaking. Another medic was already ushering them into the second ambulance.

He said there were minor injuries, but they needed to be. needed to be checked out. Within minutes, that rig pulled away, too. Its siren fading into the fog, and the marina was quiet again. Headlights swung in across the lot. A battered pickup rolled to a stop, break squealing. Joe Winners climbed down stiffly, one hand on the doorframe. The passenger side banged open, and Crichton hit the plane.

at a run. The Black Shepherd bounded to David, pressing his head into his ribs, tail thrashing once, before he went still, nose-working the damp air. David dropped to one knee, fingers digging into the dog's coat. Good boy, he whispered, his throat tight. He stood as his father approached. What are you doing here? Joe's voice was gruff.

The call on the scanner thought I could help. What happened out there? David let out a shaky breath, still resting a hand on Crichton's neck. His eyes looked hollow in the docklight. It was bad. I don't know if George's going to make it. That family was trapped, and if we'd been a minute later, he stopped. rubbing a hand down his face.

You don't want the details. Joe frowned. You're talking like it was something more than a busted engine. David shook his head slowly. It wasn't an engine, Dad. You know it wasn't. We saw it again. It came up on the boat.

Nearly took George. It would have taken me, too, if the salt hadn't slowed it. Joe stiffened. David? I'm telling you the truth. David interrupted. He looked down, knuckles wide against Crichton's fur. It's real, Dad.

I wish to God it wasn't, but it is. Joe's voice came out low, but sharp. You said the same thing when Claire got sick. You saw signs. You thought you. you knew better. You wouldn't even let her try the chemo. David's head snapped up. Don't. She might still be here. Joe pressed. His voice breaking. If you'd tried to talk her into it. David's face twisted, pained. It wasn't my choice. It was hers, dad. That's what Claire wanted.

She didn't want to spend her last months hooked to machines, sick and miserable. She wanted to live life while she could. Joe's eyes shone wet in the docklight, but his voice was harsh. She wanted hope, and you just let her throw it away because it was easier than fighting. David shook his head hard, voice hoarse. I loved her enough to let her choose. You think that was easy for me? Watching her waist away while I prayed for one more good day.

You weren't there, Dad, not like I was. I loved her too. Joe snapped. His face lined with grief as much as anger. For a long beat, neither man spoke. It struck David then that this was the first. first time they'd said Claire's name aloud since the funeral. All of it had been bubbling under the surface for months, festering in silence, waiting for a night like this to finally tear

loose. Crichton's growl deepened, claws scraping the planks, but neither of the men noticed. Joe's voice cracked when he spoke again. That boy needed his mother. God knows he still does. And instead, he's left with you chasing monsters and ghost. David's face darkened. He broke away, pacing a few steps down the dock, hands pressed hard against the back of his neck. Crichton patted close behind, head low, growl rising as his ears tracked the black water beneath the piling's. David spun frustration boiling over.

Sit. The shepherd dropped to his haunches instantly, whining low in his throat, eyes never leaving the leg. Crichton stay, David said. Crichton froze, muscles rigid, ears pinned forward. His chest rumbled with a warning growl. he couldn't swallow down, but he obeyed, whining softly, eyes still locked on the dark water below.

David turned back toward his father, anger burning through his exhaustion. Don't you dare say, I failed, Owen, don't you dare? The fog pressed tighter, swallowing the edges of the dog. Crichton's growl built to a low, shaking rumble in the silence, but the men were too far inside their grief and anger to hear. David kept pacing, boots thudding softly on the wet planks. His voice was ragged now, torn between fury and grief. Crichton's growl rose sharp and sudden, silencing the men. The shepherd stared down.

ears flat, teeth bared at the black gap between the pilings. David barely turned his head before something cold and black shot up from the water. A claw snapped around his ankle and yanked. He gasped, the sound more shock than scream, as his legs went out from under him. His arms hit the boards hard, scrabbling to grab a hole to something. But his legs were already in the water. It was dragging him down. Joe dove grabbing for his son's wrist, but the grip below was too strong.

David's eyes flashed up at his father's face, and then the lake claimed him, ripping him down into the darkness. If you are a citizen, evacuate immediately. As of now, there is no one left to protect you. If you cannot leave, lock your doors, arm yourself, and stay away from the lake. Something is out there.