The small sign read "In loving memory of those who now sleep beneath the lake".
It used to be a place in the village centre where everyone would go to fish and swim.
Now it was on the outskirts as the village had spread westwards to merge with another.
The lake and its sign were all but forgotten.
But the people sleeping remembered.
They remembered back when the lake was a place where they talked to the villagers.
Of course they were feared, they were worshipped even at one point in time.
Now they were little more than flitting shapes, their bodies rotted to nothing.
A small sign marking their lives, their history, their existence.
It wasn't good enough.
Little by little their greyish worm-like shapes migrated from lake to puddle to fountain.
To reservoir, to tap, to mouth.
Within a year they had bodies once more, overcoming the former villagers in swarms.
No outsiders noticed, or lived to tell the tale it they did.
Aside from their greyish skin and writhing shadows, all went on as normal.
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