An empthasis on any positive proceeding was frequently outbursted by the local villagers who wanted others to feel the same positive feeling in defence of a neglectful absence of assurance. The water on the lake drizzled it's few drips, the people who walked by it left it with no concern, their only reaction to look at it with awe and wonder if they had the compassion to do so and then go home. It was simply apart of the way everyrhing was, just like one's breath is a natural order of the way things are to be, to keep everyone healthy and safe inside. One man, by the name of Dr. Alberton Junior, a solicitor of the highest order, was the one that went to the lake in the village the most frequently with an astoundingly curious sense of the seek of continous knowledge of all the patterns from the thickened grass to something of simplicity as much as a few drips of liquid. Dr. Alberton stood by staring for hours and hours, from sun to moon and day to night. What he wasn't in expectation of and therefore was severley unaware of a cruel reality relating to a historical preference of illusions within the mind that could bring him back to an elusively vivid memory, one of peculiar outcomes, was that the lake had as much a mind of it's own as did him. This is what he felt, in almost an occurrence of immediate knowledge, one that blended a real mix of passionate ignorance, was that the lake was simply passed on or passed away by the people that passed it which he found concerningly rude and disgustingly vile for he was a man who had not only a deep appreciation but a grateful satisfaction for the things life had to offer. Something as simple as a lake could be an open door to an adventure, an intrigue of all tales or a mystery filled with excitement and danger around every corner along the way. The flowers stripped down their innocence to a bleakly nervous tension of frighteningly disturbing depression and loss of positive morals as well as the meaning of trust floating off into a mist where all you can do is run around and around until you find it. This village stood still in it's righteousness but was pathetically inaccurate at hiding it's secrets from people who believed, genuinley believed out of an empathetic state of human beliefs, and mysteries in sight of anyone who would or could therefore either visit or oppose it. One morning when the sun was beginning it's stage of rising up the Earth's atmosphere, the thickened grass grew a miniscule inch and the water made naturally listened to sounds of water, Dr. Alberton went back to his usual occasion of standing by the water but this time something was different, he sat down and as he sat down he ever so slightly peered his head to the left to see an old, frail looking, almost sad but mysteriously peculiar old woman, perhaps the age of 92, exceedingly fragile, sitting down by a bench he had never seen before this very day and he had been by the lake no less than 15 hours ago. She was singing an old folk tune, whispering quietly, but it was both strongly and immediatley recognisable for Dr. Amberton for it was sung to him when he was a young child, he had a very profound and good memory, that would help his planned memoirs in later years. The lady then widened her eyes at the lake, almost as if she was witnessing a dreadfully horrific event unfold before her eyes and then turned to Dr. Alberton, almost as if she was seeking help emotionally but couldn't get the words out to describe her levels of distressingly severe fear of top priority and top anxiety. Then she said the words but one, without the sensitivity of the ears of Dr. Alberton, would perhaps find impeccably inaudible *barley audible*. "I .. was ... looking for my granddaughter. Her name is Frances." Dr. Alberton stared at the old lady deciding how to answer and then proceeded with "I can assure you I've never seen a child walk these parts of the village." And as he said this the old lady stared for him what felt like hours, extremely uncomfortable in his lack of grasp for the knowledge he ever so desired in this moment of time, and then the lady finally responded "As you wouldn't. I thought it would be strange. I just don't understand why anyone would take her. She's mine." The lady walked away with a walking stick in the right hand and what looked like a pill in the left. Dr. Alberton continued to stare as the seemingly frail old woman and mysteriously peculiar one at that walked away. Looking like she had many stories to tell given her elderly heritage, he was in immediate interest and desperate intrigue to find out who she was. Maybe she was sick but he often encountered people who others said they were sick but when he spent time with them realised they all had a view, a human desire for something if it was either a life they were pleading God for or it was death itself, not being able to stand the aganosing pain for one more second, and go up to heaven. After studying and studying it turned out the woman was a house maid named Mrs. Freetaker and used to be a cook. When she was a child her mother committed suicide due to continious intrusive thoughts and her father fought in a war. There were overwhelmingly evident historical documents highlighting that she did indeed have a child but the child was found bleeding from the forehead to the foot in the nearby forest showing that she stabbed herself nineteen times in the heart, she was heartbroken and it was also a crucial chance she was severley neglected, her mother never paying attention to her, for she had only cared about herself. All of this Dr. Alberton reported and stared that she should be looked into immediatley and the officer stared at him stating "That old lady you be talking about hasn't lived on the grounds in ten years. She died alone in the cottage." These words made Dr. Alberton feel a type of emotional cold and sickness for he had never naturally felt or be exposed to before and it was the worst feeling of his life. For the first time, he believed in the supernatural.