This story was the Judge's Pick for Microcosms 90 and incorporated the elements: hunter, lake, horror. I also linked it to the site's reference to Native American Day. Enjoy.
“Tear Drop Lake,” said the guide. “Formed from the tears of my people.”
The hunter stared at the mirrored expanse, ignored the myth behind its origin. Still and silent, nothing rippled on its surface, it showed no sign of sustaining any sort of life in its depths. Yet appearances could be deceptive. Tom prepared his line.
“You won’t catch anything that way,” said the guide, handing over a small spear. This is how it’s done. Try it.”
“It’s too deep,” said Tom.
“No, look again. Can you see how the incline makes it shallow along this shore? My people ate well here.”
My people. The man certainly had his faux Native American Indian act down to a tee. He even claimed they were following the Trail of Tears, the forced march where over four thousand had died.
Tom walked towards the water’s edge. The spear felt light and flimsy. “You sure this is up to the job?” he called. But he was speaking to thin air. He shrugged. The lake was beautiful, peaceful; just him and Nature. He waded in, splintering the glassy surface. The water lapped at the intruder, turning its attention from the shore. Soft slivers crawled over his trousers, mercury rising. Tom did not notice, too busy trying to see the fish he had been promised. A shadow moved. He readied himself.
Somewhere, someone was sobbing but that too he dismissed, a bird perhaps. He refused to break concentration. The mercury climbed higher until—too late—he noticed the cold creeping over him, the wavelets becoming tendrils as they pulled him down, his screams muffled by unbodied lamentations.
His guide watched from the shore. Others had joined him. They cast their lines to reel Tom in. After all, he had said his people ate well here.
A writer - I think that says it all.