The Wicked in Washoe Lake

Malone Davis loved to surf, but he had accepted a job on the morning side of the Sierra, slightly east of Reno, Nevada and had to leave his ocean side home in Santa Barbara, California. Soon though, he discovered wind-surfing.

His favorite place had been Lake Tahoe, but it proved crowded and with self-quarantine, social distancing and COVID-19 a big deal, he chose a small body of water. Washoe Lake was ideal.

It was man-made and filled with winter run-off. It was also shallow, so at six-foot tall, Malone could stand on it’s soft, silty bottom and still keep his head above water.

He even decided to try wind-surfing at night, under the full moon. It was an off-shoot of the sport that he’d only heard about, but hadn’t seen anyone else doing.

“I could write a little piece on it, and submit it to a magazine,” he told his friend, Jimmy, who seemed genuinely interested in joining him for the outing.

The next full moon came and Jimmy had to beg off as his girlfriend’s parents had come into town from South Dakota, unannounced.

“Man,” Jimmy said, “I can’t get away tonight.”

“That’s alright, I’m still gonna go.”

“You shouldn’t go out by yourself.”

“What could happen?”

“You never know,” Jimmy answered.

“Yeah, well I used to swim with Great Whites,” Malone said off-the-cuff, “Besides, I got an article to write.”

Out on the lake, a dying wind carried him gently back and forth across the water, but once the sun disappeared beyond Slide Mountain, the zephyr fell away leaving Malone standing on his board in dead calm water. More than a little frustrated with his failed effort, he dropped from the board and into the pulpy lake bottom.

As he walked through the alluvium deposit, his foot touched something large. At first Malone thought it might was a piece of wood or perhaps a rock, but then it painfully clamped down on his foot, above the ankle, then jerked hard, yanking him below the now-muddy surface.

Malone, who still clung to his board, resurfaced, sputtering, gagging and coughing, struggled to climb onto it. But it became impossible as more and more of the sinister forms affixed themselves to his still dangling legs.

And as he lost his grip on his board, and a mere second before he dipped one final time below the lake’s once-glassy surface, he saw what had him in a death grip, dozens of the rough-shelled desert oysters. The archaic brachiopods refused to release Malone Davis, their newly found meal.

Monday morning, state park rangers found his van and ticketed it, for failing to pay for the extra day use. It wasn’t until that afternoon, when he’d been reported missing, that they located his board on the southeast side of the lake and shreds of a wet suit, still in the water, but nothing else.