There are more warning signs along the lake than anywhere else around the town. The further away from civilization you get, the stranger and stricter the rules become. Reality isn't quite as stable as the rest of the town - which has a tendency to fluctuate between dimensions.
Joggers are usually the first to find corpses and the first to become corpses for ignoring every telltale signal, every warning and head's up that the signs offer as they try to outrun creatures that don't fully exist in this world and aren't bound by the same physical limitations.
They ignore the way the lake ripples follow them along the shore, slowly moving in closer and closer until the water itself pulses after them. If they can run faster than the lake then they won't be found clogging up the small tidal pools as so many others have.
They ignore the church bells that signal the patrol of thing known only as The Vicar. It wears the outdated robes of a Protestant clergyman, though they barely cover its hulking mass any more than the skin of the assumed owner does. It loves to chase and joggers make for perfect play and prey.
They ignore the crows that cry at them from the treetops, half warning and half taunting. Sometimes they'll tell you exactly what is following you and how to save yourself - which becomes yet another warning sign along the path. Other times they lead you further astray and straight into the path made of a thousand infected eyes where you sink into the blood-tinged lake of tears beneath them.
Yet another drowning - how common for the area.
Joggers are usually the first to find corpses and the first to become corpses for ignoring every telltale signal, every warning and head's up that the signs offer as they try to outrun creatures that don't fully exist in this world and aren't bound by the same physical limitations.
They ignore the way the lake ripples follow them along the shore, slowly moving in closer and closer until the water itself pulses after them. If they can run faster than the lake then they won't be found clogging up the small tidal pools as so many others have.
They ignore the church bells that signal the patrol of thing known only as The Vicar. It wears the outdated robes of a Protestant clergyman, though they barely cover its hulking mass any more than the skin of the assumed owner does. It loves to chase and joggers make for perfect play and prey.
They ignore the crows that cry at them from the treetops, half warning and half taunting. Sometimes they'll tell you exactly what is following you and how to save yourself - which becomes yet another warning sign along the path. Other times they lead you further astray and straight into the path made of a thousand infected eyes where you sink into the blood-tinged lake of tears beneath them.
Yet another drowning - how common for the area.
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