THE HOLE IN THE ICE
By Jacob Sloane
Days ago, they’d cut a hole in the ice. Even from a distance, the chainsaw’s noise had pierced his heart.
Tom had trekked across the ice and now stood above the hole, his body shivering from the dampness. The water sloshed inky black, then gray where it lapped the ice. The hole was a distractingly perfect square, but Tom’s mind raced around the geometry. Its edges thick and white, the hole was now a mouth, shouting back at him. Screaming his trouble wasn’t over.
But Tom knew that.
A week ago, the cops had spent days probing the hole with a long metal shaft. The work had gone slowly, awkwardly, the shaft warped by the waters. It was all the cops could do. The water was too cold, the ice too dangerous. And the cops were only searching the lake for completeness. Protocol, they said, waving the curious teens away. Itching to help, the high schoolers did what they were told.
That caution was fortunate, Tom thought.
He had watched alone from a window in his room, hiding his head the best he could. Tom’s eye was just above the wood, resting there like a marble. He knew he shouldn’t be looking. Even looking carried risk.
But curiosity dug into him like a hook in his cheek, pulling him to the ice, then to the hole. Like a fish caught in reverse, reeled in by the lake’s murky depths. Now, Tom hovered next to the hole, looking down, down, down. He wondered if fish were looking up at him. Certainly one fish wasn’t.
Tom knew he shouldn’t be there. In the bitter cold, he could be seen, his presence questioned. Standing there measuring what he’d done. After all, the cops only left days ago.
It was exactly a month ago Peggy went missing. Over the day, alarm had quickly grown from a whisper to a loud shriek. Ugly Jordan—he should have chosen her—told yappy Sophie, who spread it to the Influencers and the Athletes. The Theater kids found out and then the Gamers, somehow. Soon, everyone knew, including the parents. That led to the search effort of the town for poor old Peggy.
Funny—no one ever told Tom. Left out, once again.
The winter this year had been brutally cold with snow coming early, so the cops thought Peggy had been caught in the snowdrifts somewhere around town. Initially, Tom had been alarmed at how quickly the search unfolded. But the police slowed as if freezing over, and one searched site after another was closed, with the lake hole last to be abandoned. They had no idea where she had gone.
Over the month, as the search and his obsession grew, Tom kicked himself more and more. He was a beginner, really. He had thought anyone would do. Tom should have gone for the unattractive ones, the socially isolated. Peggy was neither. He would choose better next time.
But the bad choice was no excuse. No cop would want to hear that.
Tom had enjoyed the process so much though. It had been a test, like a hard algebra exam. Knowing Peggy’s plans, he walked with her after school. Tom suggested they deviate past the lake. It was about to freeze, Tom had thought, and he figured that would be the place. A month ago that was.
Now, Tom stood over the hole, a portal back in time. The depths of the lake, as well as his depravity, were obscured and distant now as if a memory clouding over. Tom felt now like he was not the person he was a month ago. That was someone else. The younger version still carried the burden, not him. Tom, he thought to himself, was okay.
Something shifted in the deep blackness. The murk suddenly burbled, and Tom’s breathing hitched. The black waters turned glassy as a huge bubble formed and burst. A belch emanated from the hole, spewing up blackened kelp bits with it. Tom’s face paled, as he thought there might be more to come.
Slowly, the bluish features of a face crept up into view, water sliding off her pale nose as it emerged into the air. Peggy looked strangely calm but deathly cold as the waters lapped over her cheeks. The black puffer jacket bobbed loosely around her, soggy and limp. Peggy’s face looked like the die in a magic eight ball, Tom thought uncontrollably, immediately fascinated by the connection made by his brain. Signs point to yes, it might have said.
Tom saw nothing past her breasts since the rest was blanketed by the impenetrable ice. His chest tightened as he knelt to examine his work. As he brushed the ice free of snow, the ice became more translucent, as if no longer solid ground but floating on the murky depths. Now visible to Tom, the body stretched long and languid under the ice. It struck him as strange—she had two legs, just like he did.
The clear ice distorted his face, giving his cheek a jagged gash. For a moment, the legs quivered from the mild current and made her seem alive. Peggy’s mouth suddenly opened, and he heard what sounded like a breath. Tom marveled at the thought. Wouldn’t that be something—if Peggy somehow survived in the depths, in the cold?
But he liked her this way. Silent, still. Just the two of them and a bitterness that tasted sweet.
A noise from the shore caught Tom’s ear and quickened his pulse. A man approached, carrying a box, a chair, and a rod. Tom stood but didn’t turn. No need to look—there was nowhere to hide.
Tom quickly knelt next to the hole and dunked his hands into the cold water. The shock sliced him like razorblades. The ice started to crack from the pressure of his knees, the sound sharp and brittle like a neck snapping. But he persisted, inching towards something to grab on Peggy. The cold made the water feel viscous, like molasses in his hands, his fingers slowly locking.
Peggy’s body bobbed slick and gelatinous, and Tom barely hooked her jacket with a finger. “You thought I’d forgotten,” she whispered. With his clumsy, cold hands, he pushed down and to the side, sending her body gliding headfirst under the ice away from the hole. As she slipped from his grip, Peggy’s nose bumped the lip of ice before disappearing from view. Then the torso, then the legs. He was relieved to see she kept moving, even as her feet disappeared from view under the solid white ice. She was a noodle, the lake a greedy, bloated beast.
The man slowly approached, lugging his equipment. It was Audrey’s dad. Over the creaking ice, Tom stood and relaxed.
“Well, hello Tom. Seen any fish? This lake is good for more than police searches.” The man looked with piercing clarity. Too long, too hard. Unblinking like the hole.
His tongue numb, Tom only could shake his head. His stomach rumbled as he looked down at the equipment the man carried.
“Oh, yep. I’ve been fishing here for years, long before the cops cut this hole open. Thought I’d take advantage of what those nice officers left behind. Perfect spot, don’t you think?” He smiled, and Tom was drawn to the sharp points of his canines. Tom smiled back and wiped his wet hands on his pants.
“I’d love to stay and see what you caught.” Tom licked his lips.
“Sure! We can take turns sitting and fishing.”
Tom nodded, glancing down and at the hole.
Audrey’s father methodically set up his equipment as Tom watched. He let Tom bait the hook. “Don’t worry. It’s all about patience. The good ones always surface…sooner or later.”
He handed Tom the fishing rod. His fingers lingered too long on Tom’s wrist. Tom swallowed.
Jacob Sloane is a graying debut author based in Brookline, Massachusetts. You can usually find him with a book or pen, even if it makes him motion sick.
