The Lake — John Peyton Cooke

Nobody went near Stink Lake. An ornamental pond in a park in the middle of town, it had died years ago. Now it was fetid with garbage, scummy with slime and weeds, noxious with chemicals known and unknown, foul with secrets long buried.

Then one night, Jill's boyfriend cut through the park on the way home. The stench-heavy stillness was shattered by muffled screams. The scummy surface of the water was lifted by a slimy wave. The oily bubbling was heard all night long.

Then morning came. And for a small town where nothing much happened, the dawn of a new horror....