The forgotten shore The forgoTTen shore J u l i a a . g i r a r d Fishermen whispered of strange happenings. Julia A. Girard An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C Ovi ebooks are available in Ovi/Ovi eBookshelves pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: ovimagazine@yahoo.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book The forgotten shore The forgotten shore Julia A. Girard Julia A. Girard An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C The forgotten shore T he wind howled through the small lakeside town of Silverwood, carrying the icy bite of an early winter. The once-bustling harbor was now silent, its wooden docks creaking under the weight of the unrelenting waves. Fishermen whis- pered of strange happenings, boats found adrift, nets left tangled and empty, and whispers heard from the water at night. Inside Lakeside Tavern, the usual hum of chatter was subdued. The dim light from a flickering neon sign cast eerie shadows on the faces of the patrons. Sheriff Dan Hargrove sat at the bar; nursing a coffee he hadn’t touched. His eyes were fixed on the table where Mr. Ellsworth , the town’s oldest resident, sat trembling. Julia A. Girard “They’re... gone,” Ellsworth whispered, his voice raspy and low. “Gone?” Sheriff Dan leaned forward. “What do you mean, gone? The McKinleys moved out months ago—” “No,” Ellsworth interrupted, his bony fingers grip- ping the table’s edge. “Not gone like that. Gone in here.” He tapped his temple with a trembling finger. “I can’t remember their faces. Or my wife’s face.” The room went silent. Even the grizzled men at the corner table put down their cards. “Have you been drinking, Ellsworth?” asked Janie, the bartender, her voice betraying nervous laughter. Ellsworth looked at her with hollow eyes. “No. It’s something else. There’s something in the air... or the lake.” The front door creaked open, and a gust of icy wind swept in, making the patrons shiver. It was Dr. Emma Callahan, the town’s only physician. Her nor- mally composed demeanor was frazzled. “Sheriff,” she called out, her voice tight with urgen- cy. “I need to speak with you.” The forgotten shore Dan stood, his hand instinctively resting on the holster at his side. “What’s wrong, Doc?” Emma hesitated, then glanced around the room. “We need to talk... privately.” “You can say it here,” Dan insisted, his tone firm. Emma’s eyes darted to the patrons, then back to Dan. Finally, she relented. “It’s spreading. Whatever it is. Three more patients today. All complaining of the same thing. Memory loss. And it’s not just for- getting names or dates—it’s everything . One of them couldn’t even remember how to eat.” The room erupted in murmurs. “What are you saying, Doc?” Emma took a deep breath. “I’m saying... we might have an outbreak on our hands.” From the darkest corner of the bar, a fisherman muttered, “It’s the lake. I told ya. Something in the lake’s been wrong for weeks. Fish been swimming funny. Nets come back empty.” “Enough,” Dan barked. He turned to Emma. “What do we do?” Julia A. Girard Before she could answer, a chilling scream echoed through the streets, cutting through the cold night air like a knife. Everyone froze. Dan grabbed his coat and bolted out the door, Emma close behind. The others followed, despite their better judgment. The scream had come from the harbor. There, il- luminated by the pale light of the moon, was a fig- ure—a woman, knee-deep in the freezing water. Her hair hung in wet, tangled strands over her face, and her hands clawed at her head as if trying to tear something out of her skull. “I... can’t...” she rasped. “I can’t remember my name!” And then she collapsed into the icy depths. The forgotten shore I. The sun barely pierced through the heavy gray clouds that blanketed Silverwood, casting a dull pall over the town. Sheriff Dan Hargrove sat in his cruiser outside Ellsworth’s small clapboard house, staring at the frost-covered windshield. He didn’t want to go inside, not after what he’d seen last night at the har- bor. The woman’s desperate screams still echoed in his mind. “You’ve got a job to do,” he muttered to himself, stepping out into the frigid air. Ellsworth had stopped answering calls this morn- ing, and when a neighbor finally peered through the window, she found the old man sitting in his chair, staring blankly at the wall. Now Dan was here to fig- ure out just how bad things had gotten. Julia A. Girard The door creaked open with an eerie slowness. In- side, the house smelled faintly of mildew and stale tobacco. “Ellsworth?” Dan called, his voice steady but soft. “It’s Dan. I’m coming in.” No response. The house was unnervingly quiet. Dan’s boots thudded against the warped floorboards as he made his way to the living room. Ellsworth was there, all right, sitting in his arm- chair. His milky eyes were fixed on a photograph on the mantle, a picture of him and his late wife, Sarah, taken decades ago. “Ellsworth, can you hear me?” Dan knelt beside the old man, his voice calm. He gently touched Ells- worth’s shoulder. Ellsworth blinked, turning his head sluggishly to- ward Dan. “She’s... gone,” he whispered, his voice barely au- dible. Dan frowned. “Who’s gone?” Ellsworth’s lips trembled, and he reached out a The forgotten shore trembling hand toward the photograph. “Sarah. My Sarah. I don’t... I don’t remember her anymore. I’ve been staring at this picture all morning, trying to hold on, but it’s slipping... it’s all slipping away.” Dan’s stomach churned. “Ellsworth, what’s slipping away? Can you tell me?” The old man’s eyes welled up with tears. “Every- thing.” By the time Dan left Ellsworth’s house, the icy knot in his chest had only grown tighter. He called Dr. Emma Callahan from his cruiser. She picked up on the second ring. “Emma, it’s Dan. I just left Ellsworth’s place. He... he’s not doing well.” “I’m not surprised,” Emma replied, her voice strained. “It’s spreading faster than I thought. I’ve seen three more cases today. People forgetting names, addresses, even how to tie their shoes.” Dan’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. “We need answers. Fast. What are we dealing with here?” Emma hesitated. “I don’t know yet. But it’s... in- sidious. It’s not just memory loss, Dan. It’s like it’s Julia A. Girard hollowing them out. The victims... they’re not just forgetting—they’re losing themselves.” A long silence stretched between them. “Meet me at the clinic,” Emma said finally. “There’s someone you need to see.” The clinic was a small, nondescript building near the edge of town. The fluorescent lights buzzed faint- ly overhead as Dan followed Emma down the narrow hallway to an exam room. Inside sat a middle-aged woman with disheveled hair and a haunted look in her eyes. She clutched a stuffed rabbit to her chest like a lifeline. “This is Marjorie Hunt,” Emma said quietly. “She’s one of my patients. Yesterday, she came in complain- ing that she couldn’t remember where she parked her car. Today... she doesn’t remember her husband’s name.” Dan pulled up a chair and sat across from Marjo- rie. “Mrs. Hunt? My name’s Sheriff Hargrove. Can I ask you a few questions?” Marjorie’s gaze flickered toward him, but her ex- pression was vacant. The forgotten shore “Mrs. Hunt,” Dan pressed gently. “Can you tell me anything about what’s happening to you? How it started?” She clutched the rabbit tighter. “The dreams,” she murmured. “It started with the dreams.” Dan exchanged a look with Emma. “What kind of dreams?” Marjorie’s eyes darted around the room as if search- ing for unseen shadows. “The lake. I see the lake. And there’s... something in the water. Something dark. It calls to me. It whispers my name.” Her voice dropped to a trembling whisper. “I think I answered it.” A shiver ran down Dan’s spine. “Answered it? How?” Marjorie shook her head violently, tears streaming down her face. “I don’t know! I don’t remember!” She began to sob, her cries echoing through the sterile room. Emma placed a reassuring hand on Marjorie’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Marjorie. We’ll figure this out.” But Dan wasn’t so sure. Julia A. Girard That night, Dan sat alone in his office at the station, poring over old case files and town records. His desk was cluttered with papers, but none of them held the answers he was looking for. The clock ticked loudly on the wall, each second a reminder of how little time they had. Outside, the wind howled, rattling the windows. Dan rubbed his eyes, exhaustion tugging at him. He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for just a moment. And then he heard it. A whisper. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but it was there. His eyes snapped open, and he looked around the empty office. “Dan,” the voice whispered again, barely louder than the wind. His heart pounded as he stood, his hand instinc- tively reaching for his holstered gun. “Who’s there?” he demanded, his voice steady but tense. The whisper came again, this time from the di- The forgotten shore rection of the window. Dan approached cautiously, peering out into the darkness. At first, he saw nothing but the faint reflection of his own face. But then, in the distance, he caught a glimpse of movement near the lake. A shadow, too tall and thin to be human, slid across the frozen shore before vanishing into the darkness. Dan’s blood ran cold. He turned away from the window and grabbed his radio. “Emma,” he said, his voice tight with urgency. “We’ve got a bigger problem than we thought.” Julia A. Girard II. The town’s library was an old brick structure, its exterior weathered by decades of Silverwood’s harsh winters. Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of yellowed pages and dust. Emma Callahan pushed through the creaky double doors, clutching a stack of records she’d borrowed from the town clerk. Sher- iff Dan Hargrove trailed behind her, his eyes scan- ning the dimly lit room with suspicion. The place felt wrong, as though the shadows clinging to the cor- ners were hiding more than just forgotten books. “This is where we start?” Dan asked, his tone skep- tical. “Digging through old papers?” Emma dropped the stack onto a long oak table, the sound echoing through the empty library. “If we’re going to understand what’s happening, we need to look at the town’s history. There’s something familiar The forgotten shore about all this.” She opened the first record, her fingers trembling slightly. “When I was a kid, I overheard my grandmother talk about something like this hap- pening before. She called it ‘The Forgotten Curse.’” Dan’s brow furrowed. “A curse? You think we’re dealing with some kind of hokey folklore?” Emma fixed him with a sharp glare. “I don’t know what I think yet. But Marjorie’s dreams, Ellsworth’s vacant stare... it’s not normal. And it’s not just mem- ory loss. People are losing their identity, their con- nection to the world. If you’ve got a better explana- tion, Sheriff, I’m all ears.” Dan held up his hands in surrender. “Fine. Let’s see what we can find.” The hours ticked by as Emma and Dan sifted through brittle pages of town records, newspaper clippings, and handwritten journals. Emma found a faded entry in a ledger from 1910 that made her pause. “Dan,” she said, motioning him over. “Look at this.” Dan leaned over her shoulder, reading the uneven script aloud. “‘May 14th, 1910: Six souls lost to the lake. Victims remembered, but their faces... gone Julia A. Girard from the minds of kin. Shadows linger where light fades.’” He frowned. “What does that even mean?” “It’s like they were erased,” Emma said, her voice barely above a whisper. “This isn’t the first time Sil- verwood’s dealt with this.” Dan straightened, his expression darkening. “Six souls lost. That’s not just memory loss ...that’s death.” Before Emma could respond, the library’s heavy silence was broken by the sound of a door creak- ing open. Both of them froze, their eyes snapping to the entrance. A figure emerged from the shadows, hunched and shuffling. It was Burt, the town’s unoffi- cial historian and one of its oldest residents. “What are you two poking around for?” Burt’s voice was raspy, his eyes watery but sharp. Dan relaxed slightly. “Burt. You scared the hell out of us.” Burt shuffled closer, his cane tapping against the floor. “This place ain’t for digging. Some things are better left buried.” Emma stepped forward. “Burt, we’re trying to un- derstand what’s happening to the town. People are The forgotten shore forgetting themselves. We think it’s connected to something in the past.” Burt’s expression darkened. “You’re talking about the lake.” Emma nodded. “You know something, don’t you? Please, Burt. If there’s anything that can help us, you need to tell us.” Burt hesitated, his gnarled hands tightening around his cane. Finally, he let out a long sigh. “Come with me,” he said, turning toward a small door at the back of the library. Dan and Emma exchanged a wary glance but fol- lowed him. Burt led them down a narrow staircase into the library’s basement. The air grew colder, the walls lined with shelves of forgotten books and boxes coated in thick layers of dust. Burt stopped in front of a locked cabinet and fished a tarnished key from his pocket. He opened it with a creak, revealing a collection of water-stained jour- nals and brittle maps. “These belonged to my great-grandfather,” Burt ex- plained. “He was a fisherman back in 1909, when the first signs of trouble showed up. He wrote about the Julia A. Girard ‘drowning sickness’ people losing their minds after spending time near the lake. Said it started after a shipwreck.” “A shipwreck?” Dan repeated, stepping closer. Burt nodded. “The Waverly . Sank in a storm right in the middle of Silverwood Lake. They never found all the bodies. Folks said the captain’s wife was on- board, and she... well, she wasn’t right. Townspeople claimed she was a witch.” Emma’s pulse quickened. “A witch? You don’t be- lieve that, do you?” Burt’s watery eyes fixed on hers. “Doesn’t matter what I believe. What matters is the curse she left be- hind. My great-grandfather swore her dying breath bound the town to her grief. Said she cursed the lake, that anyone who crossed her would lose everything that made them human.” Dan crossed his arms, his skepticism clear. “You really expect us to believe some old ghost story?” Burt leaned closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Have you looked in their eyes? The ones who’ve lost themselves? There’s nothing left in there. No soul. Just emptiness. And you tell me what’s more frightening, a ghost story or the truth?”