Breeden Pond

In the town where I grew up, a pond lingered between our home and the local library, Breeden Pond. A warning echoed throughout the neighborhood: stay away from the pond … danger lurked there. Our parents spoke of a sinkhole and a powerful undertow. They also spoke of vehicles and other things that sat at the bottom. The kids spoke of ghosts. My strongest memory of that little murky pond is the constant roar from the brown water falling down the overspill pipe, which sat in its center like a gaping hole to hell. Then there were the three boys who died there.   The pond lay in the woods across the street from my childhood home. We used to cut through those woods to get to the library. Our parents assumed we went down Main Street, but what child does that when danger is at hand? A trail ran between two homes … a shortcut for the kids who walked to school. The trail was dirt and lined with trees.   You were close when the roar cut through the woods. The sound made me think of hungry monsters. Now that I’m older, the sound still fills my ears, blocking all other noise. The sounds of the forest washed away, and we stayed silent until we were clear of it. I’m now certain it was the sound of the dead … crying to be released.   A small barren field lay around it. No grass or trees would grow there. A two-story abandoned farmhouse sat a few yards away; its sides covered in graffiti. At one time, the entire area had been the Breeden farm, even where my childhood home sat. The house bore an unwelcome feeling as well. We would dare each other to touch the porch, but none of us lingered. The last time we went near it, we saw women’s undergarments laid out on the boards … folded, as if waiting.   Stories passed from child to child. They said the pond was forged for ice skating. But it claimed lives amidst the laughter. Hundreds had died there. Many of them children. Not all the bodies were recovered. The ones who still reside in the pond’s dark depths dislike having their resting place disturbed. They would drag anyone to the icy bottom so they could share their muddy graves.   In 1979, when I was eight, three boys went missing. They told their parents they were just going into the woods to play. Their parents instructed them, as they all did then, to stay close and to return before the streetlights came on. They did not return. Parents and neighbors of the three boys started searching the woods. The search continued until the group arrived at the pond, where they found one boy on the shore. The other two were not there.   Due to the debris lining the bottom of the pond, it could not be simply dredged. The parents were forced to wait out the darkness, listening to the roar, wondering if the pond had claimed their sons. When daylight finally peeked through the trees, divers finally slipped into the water to search.   The divers looked for hours, finding it difficult to see because of the dark, light-engulfing water. They started searching the sunken vehicles. The divers discovered a long-forgotten bus. There, they found the two missing boys.   They lay nestled between two seats. The older of the two had his arm wrapped around the younger, as if protecting him. Around them, the bus seats were ripped … some completely torn from their bases. The damage appeared recent, not worn by time, but carved by strength and claws. Both boys bore a mark on one ankle. It looked as if something had wrapped around them and left a puncture … deep, deliberate, unsettling. Horror was frozen on both of their faces. As if they had seen what waits beneath for any who tread too near.   Two questions remained unanswered. Why were the boys inside the bus, and why were they hiding? Why were all three drowned boys’ lungs filled not with water, but with mud?   I was not friends with the boys, but they were part of the neighborhood. We rode our bikes on the same streets; we walked the same trails, and we all knew about the pond. The street mourned their loss, and parents were more watchful.   The parents and town decided that enough children had been sacrificed. A tall steel fence was erected around the pond, and many years later, it was drained and filled in. None of the missing bodies were ever recovered. Did the sinkhole claim them or was something else down there? A creature older than marked time. One that found its way there through the sinkhole or the roaring pipe.   I gleamed It once, out of the corner of my eye. I told myself it was a fish … a lie. It was too large for a pond that size to hold. A different child, like three young boys, would have gone closer for a decent view.