For a while, the only sound we heard was the occasional sputtering of the small motorboat’s engine. Its name was engraved upon the backside of it: “The Curly Moustache”. The sun was slowly setting, casting a beautiful orange glow above the high pine trees that followed the shore of the lake we were crossing. The reflection of the trees and orange sky in the water was turned into an abstract painting, disfigured by the waves and ripples coming from the steady movement of The Curly Moustache.

It seemed, however, that I was the only one noticing the beauty of our surroundings. My little sister, Jane, stared into the water with an empty gaze. I put an arm around her, trying to comfort her. She looked up at me, a tear slowly rolling down her cheek. I felt the strong urge to tell her everything was going to be alright. But how could I know? We were going to stay with our grandfather, the only family we had left, in some small village in Oregon. It was so far from where we grew up, and I had no idea what we could expect there. I did know, however, that I would protect her the best I could. But Jane had already turned her head back towards the water, and I merely asked my grandfather how much longer it was until we were there. I received some kind of grunt which sounded a bit like “twenty minutes”, before he turned himself to the steering wheel again. It was weird calling that man my grandfather, while this was the first time I had actually seen him. He had never shown any interest in me or Jane, and he did not seem eager to make up for it.

Absentmindedly I let the tips of my fingers slide through the water. Although I tried not to show it, to be strong for Jane, my thoughts as well kept returning to the last couple of days. How Jane and I were picked up by a police car in the middle of the school day, a few days before the start of the summer break. I remembered asking again and again what happened to our parents, wanting to see them, but all they said was that our parents died in a suspicious situation, and that we had to stay there while they were searching for relatives. As far as Jane and I were concerned, we had none, but apparently our mother’s father was still alive. After a long night, we were picked up by a grumpy old man, awaiting a full day of traveling by train and then the final part in The Curly Moustache, which gave the impression it was having a hard job crossing the lake and arriving on the other side still in one piece.

My thoughts were disrupted when all of a sudden something really cold touched my fingers, and immediately I pulled my hand out of the water. It felt like something was down there, in the lake, something filled with hatred. I glanced in the water, where my hand had been, but I saw nothing but the darkness of the water. When I looked to my right, I saw Jane, hanging over the side of the boat, her face only inches away from the water. I tried pulling her back, but she seemed stronger than I was at that moment. A blue glow was present in her eyes, and she seemed drawn to the lake. Her face was now already in the water, bubbles rising to the surface of it.