The old stone house stood sentinel near the curve of Laguna Honda, its walls weathered by generations of sun and infrequent rain. Mateo, twenty-five and far from his city life in Seville, felt the quietude of the place settle over him, a stark difference from the constant energy he was used to.
He'd come to visit his ailing grandparents, Ramiro and Isabela, inhabitants of this remote corner of Spain for longer than Mateo had been alive. The lake, Laguna Honda, had always been the center point of his childhood visits – a place for swimming, skipping stones, imagining adventures. But something felt different this time.
A strange stillness had fallen over the water. Not the peaceful kind, but a waiting stillness, like a held breath. The usual chorus of frogs was absent most nights, replaced by an unsettling quiet that even the crickets seemed hesitant to break.
Mateo mentioned it to Ramiro one afternoon as they sat on the porch, the older man carving a piece of olive wood. "The lake's too quiet, Abuelo," Mateo said, looking towards the flat, grey surface visible through the trees. "And the smell… it's like bad pipes, or old metal."
Ramiro paused, his knife still. He squinted towards the water, his expression unreadable for a moment. "The lake has moods, Mateo. Always has. Sometimes she sleeps deep." He resumed carving, but his movements seemed less certain. "Just… stay close to the house after dark, eh? The ground can be uneven."
Days turned into a week. The wrongness near Laguna Honda didn't lessen; it grew. Dead fish appeared along the banks, not just a few, but dozens. Their bodies were bloated, eyes milky white, and some bore strange, fleshy growths that pulsed faintly even in death.
Mateo poked one with a stick, recoiling from the soft, yielding texture and the putrid odor that puffed into the air. He took pictures on his phone, thinking to show someone, but who? The nearest town was small, the police presence minimal. They'd likely dismiss it as pollution or disease.
Isabela grew more anxious. She stopped hanging laundry outside after dusk and insisted on locking the doors and windows even during the heat of the day. "Bad air from the lake," she'd mutter, making the sign of the cross. "Something's not right down there."
One evening, near sunset, Mateo walked the familiar path towards the water's edge, ignoring his grandfather's earlier advice. He needed to see for himself, to dispel the unease clinging to him. The metallic smell was stronger here, thick in his nostrils.
He saw ripples breaking the surface near a cluster of reeds, too large for any normal fish. He crouched, watching intently.
A shape broke the surface. For a sickening second, Mateo thought it was a person struggling, pale limbs flailing. Then it stood, wading into the shallows, and his breath hitched.
It was tall, impossibly thin, covered in glistening, grey-green scales that seemed to absorb the fading light. Its arms and legs were long, jointed wrong, ending in wide, webbed hands and feet tipped with dark claws. The head was elongated, dominated by huge, black, lidless eyes. Gill slits flared rhythmically on its neck, slick with water.
It turned its head slowly, surveying the shoreline, and opened its mouth in a silent yawn, revealing rows upon rows of needle-sharp teeth.
Mateo scrambled backward, stumbling on a root. The sound, small as it was, caused the figure to snap its head towards him. Those black, empty eyes fixed on his position.
He didn't wait. He turned and ran, crashing through the undergrowth, the thorny branches tearing at his clothes and skin, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He didn't look back until he reached the comparative safety of the stone house, slamming the heavy wooden door behind him and leaning against it, gasping for air.
"Mateo? What is it?" Isabela cried, rushing from the kitchen, her face pale with alarm.
He couldn't speak, just shook his head, trying to slow his breathing. Ramiro appeared, his old shotgun suddenly in his hands, his eyes hard. "What did you see, boy?"
"Something… something came out of the lake," Mateo finally managed, his voice hoarse. "Like a… a man, but… fish. Tall. Awful."
Ramiro's face tightened. He nodded slowly, as if confirming a long-held fear. "Get away from the door. Isabela, check the back." He moved to the window, peering out into the gathering dark, the shotgun held ready.
That night, sleep was impossible. Every creak of the old house sounded like a claw scraping wood, every rustle of leaves like something slithering closer. Mateo stayed in the main room with Ramiro, who sat rigidly in his chair, the shotgun across his lap. Isabela prayed quietly in her room, the soft murmur of her voice a fragile counterpoint to the oppressive silence outside.
Just before dawn, the sounds began. Wet, slapping footsteps on the dirt path leading to the house. Clicking noises, guttural and low.
Ramiro tensed, raising the shotgun. Mateo grabbed a heavy iron poker from the fireplace, his knuckles white.
Something slammed against the front door, hard enough to make the wood groan. Then another impact, and another. Splinters flew inward. A high-pitched, gurgling shriek echoed from just outside, a sound that scraped Mateo's nerves raw.
"Stay back," Ramiro ordered, his voice tight. He aimed the shotgun at the weakening door.
A thin, grey hand punched through a fractured panel, webbed fingers tipped with claws scrabbling blindly. Ramiro fired. The blast roared through the small house, deafening. The hand vanished, and a horrific, bubbling scream tore through the air outside before abruptly cutting off.
Silence returned, heavier than before. But it didn't last. More slapping footsteps approached, faster this time, from multiple directions. They heard scratching at the windows, the rattle of the back door handle.
"There's more," Mateo breathed, his eyes wide with terror.
"The cellar," Ramiro said quickly. "It's the only place strong enough. Go! Take your grandmother!"
Mateo hesitated. "What about you?"
"I'll hold them here as long as I can. Give you time. Go!" Ramiro shoved him towards Isabela's room.
Mateo found his grandmother huddled on her bed, clutching a rosary. "Abuela, we have to go. To the cellar." He pulled her gently but firmly to her feet. She was trembling violently but didn't resist. He led her quickly through the kitchen towards the heavy wooden door set into the floor.
Another gunshot boomed from the front room, followed by the shattering of glass.
He wrenched the cellar door open, revealing dark, stone steps leading down into blackness. "Go down, quickly!" he urged Isabela. She hesitated at the top step, peering down fearfully.
A horrific crash came from the front room – the sound of the main door giving way completely. Wet, frantic sounds spilled into the house.
"Now, Abuela!" Mateo almost pushed her. She stumbled, catching herself, and began descending slowly.
Mateo turned back towards the chaos. He saw Ramiro backing away from the splintered doorway, firing the shotgun again. Two of the fish-like humanoids staggered, dark fluid spraying from wounds, but another lunged past them. It moved with an unnatural, jerky speed, its black eyes fixed on Ramiro.
"Mateo, close the door!" Ramiro yelled, grappling with the thing, the shotgun falling uselessly to the side.
Mateo saw the creature's claws tear at his grandfather's arm, saw Ramiro cry out in pain. He wanted to help, to charge forward with the poker, but his grandfather's desperate command echoed in his ears.
Sobbing, Mateo slammed the heavy cellar door shut just as another fish-man lunged towards it. He fumbled with the thick iron bolt, sliding it into place fractions of a second before something immensely strong slammed against the wood from the other side.
He stumbled back, landing heavily on the stone steps beside his grandmother. Below them, in the damp, earthy darkness of the cellar, they listened.
They heard the sounds of struggle from above – Ramiro's shouts, the awful gurgling shrieks of the attackers, the crash of furniture. Then, abruptly, silence. A final, drawn-out gurgle, and then nothing but the frantic thumping against the cellar door.
Mateo held Isabela close, both of them shaking, tears streaming down Mateo's face. The thumping continued for what felt like hours, sometimes frantic, sometimes slower, more exploratory. Eventually, it lessened, becoming sporadic, before finally ceasing altogether.
They remained huddled in the darkness, the silence almost worse than the noise. The air was cold and damp, smelling of earth and stored potatoes.
Time lost meaning. Hours passed, maybe a day. Isabela's quiet prayers were the only sound. Hunger gnawed at Mateo, but fear kept him pinned to the steps. Finally, cautiously, he climbed back up and pressed his ear to the cellar door. Silence.
He listened for a long, long time before daring to slide the bolt back.
He pushed the door open a crack. Daylight streamed into the hallway, illuminating dust motes. The house was deathly quiet. He pushed the door fully open and stepped out, the iron poker held tightly.
The devastation was immediate. Furniture was overturned, broken. Dark, slimy patches stained the floorboards and walls.
Near the front entrance lay Ramiro. Mateo's breath caught in his throat. His grandfather was unrecognizable, torn apart with savage force. The shotgun lay nearby, its stock splintered. Mateo forced himself to look away, bile rising in his throat.
He checked the rest of the house. Empty. The things were gone, retreated perhaps back to the lake. He found some bottled water and dried biscuits in the kitchen pantry, miraculously untouched.
He brought them down to Isabela, forcing her to drink and eat a little, though he could barely swallow himself.
"We have to leave, Abuela," he said, his voice thick. "We can't stay here."
She looked up at him, her eyes vacant with shock and grief. "Where would we go, Mateo? Where is safe?"
He didn't have an answer, but staying was impossible. He searched for the keys to Ramiro's old truck. He found them on a hook near the back door, miraculously undisturbed. He gathered a few more supplies – blankets, a first-aid kit he found in a bathroom cabinet, Ramiro's spare hunting knife.
Getting Isabela out of the cellar and into the truck was an ordeal. She moved stiffly, her eyes darting fearfully towards the ruined front room. Mateo avoided looking that way again. He settled her into the passenger seat, buckling her in like a child.
The truck engine turned over reluctantly, sputtering before catching with a rough growl. Mateo put it in gear, his hands shaking on the wheel. He drove away from the stone house, not looking back, focusing only on the dirt track leading away from Laguna Honda.
As they bumped along the rutted path, Mateo glanced at his arm. A long, deep scratch ran from his elbow towards his wrist – he didn't remember getting it, must have happened during the frantic escape to the cellar, perhaps brushing against the creature Ramiro fought.
He'd cleaned it hastily with antiseptic from the kit, but it throbbed painfully now. It looked red and inflamed around the edges.
They reached the small, paved road that led towards the nearest town, several kilometers away. Relief washed over Mateo, so potent it almost made him dizzy. They were away. They were alive.
He drove for an hour, the landscape slowly changing from dense woods near the lake to more open fields and olive groves. Isabela eventually drifted into an exhausted sleep, her head lolling against the window. Mateo focused on driving, pushing thoughts of his grandfather and the monsters from his mind.
He glanced at his arm again. The scratch seemed darker, the skin around it taking on a greyish tinge. It didn't just throb anymore; it itched intensely, deep beneath the surface. He scratched at it absently, then pulled his sleeve down, trying to ignore it.
They reached the outskirts of Puente Viejo, a slightly larger town than the one nearest the lake. It looked blessedly normal. People walked the streets, cars moved, shops were open. Mateo felt a surge of hope. Maybe the horror was contained to Laguna Honda. Maybe they could find help here, tell someone what happened.
He parked the truck near the town square, intending to find the local Guardia Civil station. He gently woke Isabela. "Abuela, we're here. We're safe now."
She looked around, confused for a moment, then her eyes filled with tears again. "Ramiro…"
"I know," Mateo said softly. "We'll find help." He got out of the truck, his legs stiff. The itching in his arm was almost unbearable now. He rolled up his sleeve again in the brighter daylight.
The skin around the scratch was definitely grey, and strangely clammy to the touch, cold despite the warm afternoon. The scratch itself hadn't scabbed over; it looked wet, the edges glistening.
As he watched, horrified, he thought he saw a faint, rhythmic pulsing beneath the discolored skin, just beside the wound.
Panic seized him. He quickly pulled his sleeve back down, his heart pounding anew. He looked around the square. People were giving him odd looks. Was it his disheveled appearance, the old, battered truck? Or was it something else? Did they see something wrong with him?
He needed to get away, to hide. He couldn't go to the police like this. What was happening to him? That thing's claw… had it been contaminated? Infected?
"Mateo?" Isabela's voice was small from the truck window.
"Stay here, Abuela," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "Lock the doors. I need to… find a bathroom."
He walked quickly, almost running, away from the square, turning down a narrow side street. He found a small, public restroom near a park. He locked himself inside a stall, leaning against the door, breathing heavily.
His skin felt cold all over now, clammy. The light filtering through the small, high window seemed too bright, hurting his eyes.
He forced himself to look at his arm again. The grey discoloration had spread further up his forearm. Tiny, scale-like patterns were appearing on the surface, shimmering faintly in the dim light. The pulsing near the wound was more distinct. He touched it, recoiling at the alien texture developing beneath his own skin.
A wave of nausea washed over him. He stumbled towards the sink, splashing cold water on his face. He looked up, into the cracked, dirty mirror above the basin.
His reflection stared back, but it wasn't entirely his. His pupils seemed larger, darker, swallowing the brown irises. His skin had a pallid, unhealthy sheen. Around his neck, just below his jawline, were faint, reddish lines, like nascent gills beginning to form.
He gagged, stepping back from the mirror, horror coiling in his stomach. The scratch hadn't just injured him; it was changing him. He was becoming like those things from the lake.
He thought of Isabela, waiting in the truck, alone and grieving. He couldn't go back to her like this. He couldn't endanger her. He couldn't let her see what he was becoming.
A profound, crushing despair settled over him, heavier than any physical weight. He was trapped. There was no escape, no cure. He sank to the cold, tiled floor of the public toilet, pulling his knees to his chest.
The itching was spreading, under his clothes, across his back, his chest. He felt an overwhelming urge for water, for darkness, for the deep, cold silence of the lake he'd fled.
Outside, the sounds of the town – voices, traffic, distant laughter – seemed incredibly remote, part of a world he no longer belonged to.
He closed his eyes, feeling the changes accelerate within him, the alien biology overwriting his own. He heard a faint clicking sound and realized, with a fresh wave of revulsion, that it was coming from his own throat.
His humanity was slipping away, piece by painful piece, leaving only the monstrous blueprint forced upon him by the cursed waters of Laguna Honda. He was utterly alone, stranded between two worlds, belonging to neither, waiting for the transformation to complete itself in the filth and shadow of a stranger's town.
The last vestiges of Mateo faded, replaced by a cold, primal hunger and the echoing memory of black water.