Chapter 1: Bagpipes and Other Scientific Hazards

My name’s Serha Cross, twenty-two years old, part-time barista, full-time visionary, and future internet legend. My goal? To film the ultimate vlog that finally launches me from “girl roasting wellness influencers online” to global stardom. I want the views, the brand deals, the inevitable perfume line, maybe even my own biopic starring Zendaya.

And here’s Elliot Marsh, age thirty-four, professional worrier, amateur scientist, and man who treats water samples like they’re Fabergé eggs. His goal? “Scientific discovery.” Which is code for: staring at this lake until his eyeballs dry out, hoping something vaguely unusual happens so he can write a paper no one reads.

We’ve come all the way to this so-called haunted Loch. The legends say something is waking beneath the water. Which, in theory, sounds epic. In practice? It’s just me and Elliot, standing in wet grass, bickering like divorced parents who lost custody of common sense.

“Observation is the foundation of research,” Elliot muttered, crouched by the water like it was about to whisper state secrets.

“Observation?” I raised my phone at him. “Sweetie, you look like a rejected Hogwarts substitute teacher. My followers don’t want observation, they want drama. They want a monster bursting out of the water while I scream, preferably in good lighting.”

He straightened, adjusting his glasses. “Proper attire establishes credibility.”

“Yeah,” I smirked, “you’re very credible. Nothing says ‘trust me with your life’ like a corduroy jacket and shoes older than TikTok.”

He inhaled slowly through his nose, which is Elliot-code for “you’re testing my patience.” Which, to be fair, I was. But honestly, he makes it too easy.

The Loch stretched out in front of us, dark and glassy, the kind of water that looks like it hides secrets. If something truly ancient and terrifying was waking down there, I imagined it rolling its eyes at the sight of us.

“Serha,” Elliot said, “if we capture verifiable evidence, we could make history. Imagine the contribution to science.”

“Correction,” I said, “you want history. I want subscribers. If I don’t hit at least 50k views with this thing, what’s even the point? Honestly, if you’re not screaming on camera in the next fifteen minutes, I’m editing you out.”

He ignored me, gazing across the water like it owed him money. I almost felt bad for him. Almost.

“The water’s unusually still. That’s… significant,” said Elliot with a serious look, crouching at the edge of the grass like the lake was about to confess its sins.

“Wow. A lake being still,” I shot back, twirling my phone between my fingers. “Groundbreaking. Somebody call Stockholm. Nobel Prize for ‘discovering water doesn’t move unless wind exists.’”

“It’s not a joke,” he muttered, already defensive. “The absence of current could indicate—”

“—that you’re bored out of your mind and hallucinating ripples,” I cut in. “Or maybe the Loch just doesn’t feel like performing today. Maybe it’s shy. Did you try sweet-talking it? Buy it dinner first?”

Elliot glared over his glasses. “You don’t understand. Subtle anomalies matter.”

“Oh, I get it,” I said, smirking. “Your entire personality is a subtle anomaly.”

He sighed heavily, the kind of sigh that suggested he regretted every choice leading him here. “You’re impossible.”

“Correction,” I replied, pointing at him with my phone like it was a mic. “I’m impossible to ignore. There’s a difference. One gets you a footnote in some dusty journal, the other gets me a sponsorship with an energy drink.”

“This isn’t about sponsorships,” he said tightly. “It’s about discovery. Imagine if we captured verifiable evidence of the phenomenon beneath the Loch.”

“Imagine if you ever got a date,” I said sweetly. “Both equally hypothetical. At least my dream pays rent.”

His jaw clenched. “Must you undermine every serious statement I make?”

“Yes,” I said flatly. “It’s called dialogue. You drone on about water molecules and I provide razor-sharp commentary. Together, we’re like Sherlock Holmes and… I don’t know, his boring lab technician. Except you’re not Sherlock.”

“That comparison doesn’t even make sense,” he snapped.

“Neither does wasting three hours staring at water,” I replied. “But here we are.”

Elliot pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m observing environmental changes.”

“You’re staring at grass stains and pretending it’s science,” I said.

“I’m searching for patterns.”

“You’re searching for a personality,” I corrected him. “Spoiler: still missing.”

“Your cynicism isn’t helping,” he said through gritted teeth.

“My cynicism is the only reason I haven’t drowned myself in this Loch just to escape your monologues,” I told him, deadpan.

“This lake could hold answers to centuries of speculation,” he said, almost pleading.

“And here you are, speculating about speculation. Congratulations, you’ve invented double speculation,” I said. “Very meta.”

His lips thinned. “Why did you even come if you don’t care?”

“Views, babe,” I said, holding up my phone like it was Excalibur. “Clout. Influence. You know, actual rewards? If I get ten seconds of you screaming like a toddler, I’ll hit a million views. That’s science.”

“This isn’t about views,” he said, indignant.

“Everything’s about views,” I told him. “Views are modern currency. Views buy brand deals. Views are why some girl in Ohio sells $60 candles that smell like her anxiety.”

“You’re trivializing this expedition,” he said.

“Expedition?” I laughed. “We’re sitting on damp grass, Elliot. If this were the military, we’d be dishonorably discharged for loitering.”

“Preparation is part of research,” he said stiffly.

“Excuses are part of research,” I corrected. “Don’t get them mixed up.”

“You’re exhausting.”

“And you’re boring,” I shot back. “Together, we’re Netflix’s least successful buddy comedy.”

“Why can’t you take anything seriously?” he asked, exasperated.

“Because the universe is already tragic,” I said with mock solemnity. “If I don’t laugh, I’ll cry. And if I cry, the mascara runs. And if the mascara runs, the thumbnail looks like crap. Do you want crap thumbnails, Elliot? Because that’s how you get crap thumbnails.”

“No one cares about thumbnails,” he argued.

“Tell that to the algorithm,” I said. “The algorithm is God, and right now God wants me to dunk on you for content.”

He groaned. “I wish you’d try for five minutes to appreciate the gravity of this place.”

“Oh, I appreciate it,” I said. “I appreciate the mosquitoes currently hosting a festival on my ankles. I appreciate the damp slowly seeping into my jeans. I appreciate that I’ve wasted two hours of my twenties listening to you romance a puddle.”

“It’s a Loch,” he corrected automatically.

“Semantics,” I said. “Big puddle, small ocean, whatever. Still wet. Still boring.”

He turned back to the water, lowering his voice. “There’s a presence. Something beneath the surface.”

“Right,” I said, nodding solemnly. “The ancient Loch monster. Which, coincidentally, has the exact same work ethic as you: sleeps for centuries, wakes up never.”

“You’ll regret mocking if something emerges,” he muttered.

“I’ll regret wasting my youth listening to you say ‘luminosity’ like it’s foreplay,” I shot back.

He blanched. “That’s… wildly inappropriate.”

“So is your haircut,” I said, “but we all suffer together.”

“I came here for science. Not insults.”

“And I came here for fame. Not your sweaty monologues,” I said. “Yet here we sit. Two dreamers, equally delusional.”

He froze suddenly, eyes darting toward the hills. “Do you hear that?”

“What, your pride collapsing under the weight of reality?” I asked.

“No,” he whispered. “From the village. Listen closely.”

I tilted my head. A faint drone drifted through the air. I gasped. “Oh my god. Bagpipes.”

 “Yes. Bagpipes. Someone’s playing bagpipes.” He said dead serious.

I blinked. “…And?”

“And???,” He said gravely. “From the village. Someone’s playing bagpipes right now. Do you really want to risk disturbing a primordial Loch entity and a man with bagpipes? Because one of those will definitely kill us.”

I stared at him for a full five seconds. Then I nodded, reluctantly feeling the fear. “You are totally right. We wait until tomorrow.”

Day one: Our grand expedition ended. No footage. No discoveries. Just two idiots retreating from a lake because of an hypothetical serial killer bagpipe player taming an ancient monster.