Pend Oreille was black glass that night. The kind of deep that doesn’t just reflect the stars — it swallows them. Wake Razor cut the glass with his ski, carving through the cold air like a blade on a razor’s edge. Beside him, Wake Blazer was nervous, fidgeting with his gloves.
“This place gives me the creeps,” Blazer muttered. “You ever notice how the echoes don’t bounce back here?” Razor grinned beneath his mirrored goggles. “That’s because the lake eats sound. Just like it eats fear.”
That’s when she showed up.
Out of the fog came a silver-blue skiff, driven by a girl dressed head-to-toe in black neoprene — studded with safety pins, lace sleeves shredded to ribbons, and a skull-print life jacket. Her lipstick was the color of twilight and her eyes reflected the wake lights like tiny funeral candles.
“Name’s Nocturne Vale,” she said, voice cool as fog. “I’m hosting the Halloween Jump Comp tonight.”
Blazer tilted his head. “You mean on this lake? At night?” Nocturne smirked. “That’s the point. Pend Oreille’s haunted — haven’t you heard? There’s a jump out there that nobody sets anymore. Used to belong to a skier named Crimson Jack. He built it over the trench they call the Drowned Runway. They say Jack went for one last flight, vanished mid-air. People see a shimmer under the surface sometimes, or hear an engine rev with no boat around.”
Wake Razor’s grin faded just a little. “You saying we’re jumping his ramp?”
Nocturne nodded. “You’ll be fine. Just clear a hundred feet and you’ll outrun whatever’s underneath.” She looked at Razor. “You’ve done one-twenty, right?” Razor shrugged. “On a good night.” Her gaze slid to Blazer. “You ever jumped before?”
He hesitated. “Not… exactly.”
A ripple rolled across the lake, even though there wasn’t a breath of wind.
That’s when the crows came.
Two black shapes landed on a half-submerged buoy — Cinderbeak and Inkwing, their feathers slick with mist. “Razor,” croaked Cinderbeak, “don’t let him try it. The Drowned Runway’s awake tonight.” Inkwing’s voice was softer, almost melodic. “There’s something waiting down there, old friend. It feeds on those who fall short.”
Nocturne turned sharply toward them. “Those birds talk too much.” “Yeah?” Razor replied. “And you’re not surprised by talking crows?” She smiled — the kind of smile that could mean everything or nothing. “Around this lake, the dead have ways of speaking.”
A distant foghorn moaned across the water. The signal. The competition was starting.
Floodlights flickered on — crimson, violet, and sickly green — lighting up the ramp that jutted from the shadows like a fang. Nocturne’s voice echoed over the loudspeaker: “Riders, ready your courage. It’s Halloween. Time to fly.”
Razor went first. His boat roared, the rope went taut, and he shot across the mirrored abyss. He hit the ramp, launched like a comet, and the crowd gasped as he landed clean — 128 feet. The fog shuddered as if something massive stirred beneath it.
Then came Blazer. He tightened his grip, breathing fast. The crows screamed. Razor yelled something — maybe “Don’t!” or maybe “Go!” The throttle opened. The world turned to silver spray and panic. He hit the ramp — too early.
For a heartbeat, he was airborne. The next, the lake opened.
Something rose from the depths — a massive, glimmering silhouette with eyes like lanterns and a mouth like a broken hull. A wraith of water and metal, dragging a rope of spectral light. It caught him mid-fall — and the sound that followed was not a splash but a scream.
The fog devoured everything.
When it cleared, only Razor and Nocturne remained. The ramp was gone.
She looked at him, expression unreadable. “Don’t look so grim,” she said softly. “Every great skier learns to jump by falling once.”
Her eyes glowed faintly green as the wind died. And from far below, a distant voice echoed up through the depths — a new one, calling from beneath the lake.
“Razor… it’s so clear down here…”
Razor dropped his ski rope and stared into the black mirror of Pend Oreille. The reflection that stared back at him wasn’t his own.
