The monster of Lake Dullwich had been trying to become famous for two hundred years.
This was harder than it sounded.
The problem was that it was, objectively, not very impressive.
It was grey. Its humps, when it broke the surface, were small and rounded. Its eyes, when tourists photographed them, looked faintly apologetic. It had once tried to roar and produced what witnesses described as "a sort of extended sigh."
It had hired a publicist in 1987. She quit after six months. "There's nothing to work with," she told it, not unkindly.
Then came the documentary crew.
They were making a film about lesser-known lake monsters. Not famous ones — the overlooked ones, the ones that history had passed over. Their researcher had found a single reference to it in a 1902 local newspaper: "unusual surface activity observed, possibly a large fish."
Possibly a large fish.
The documentary was called Forgotten Depths. It aired on a minor streaming service.
The monster became, unexpectedly, beloved.
People found it comforting. Its lack of impressiveness. Its persistence. Its small grey humps and apologetic eyes.
"It's just out there, trying," said one reviewer. "Every day. For two hundred years. Respect."
The monster read this on a tablet someone had left by the lake.
It broke the surface. It produced its extended sigh.
This time, it felt like satisfaction.