This story is based on a dream I once had. Woke up and wrote it down. The way I've told it is kinda Lovecraft-inspired. My English ain't really good though ;)

Just thought I'ld share it!

The lone old fisherman
or
The Lake

Why I tell you this, I do not know. And what exactly happened, I do not understand. All I want you to believe, is that this is what truly took place.
It was a quiet day in August. I was spending the friday afternoon hours in the lake near my college. The sun shone blazing hot on the surface and from time to time it blinded my eyes. It was a quiet lake and not very deep as far as I knew. Where I was standing, perhaps ten feet from the shore, the water came up to my knees. To my right lay the college buildings. Away to my far left gulls were calling. Apparently someone had thrown food in the water. But about onehundred-and-fifty feet in front of me, something was going on that I had not seen here before: an old man was spending his afternoon in a boat, fishing. He had two rods with him. Actualy, I noticed now, one of his drifters floated not so far away from me.
Suddenly the fisherman moved. He took up his rod, pulled and hooked a fish. A pretty big one, as far as I could guess. While he was busy I saw the drifter near me moving. It bumped twice and shot away under the surface. In no time the rod in the boat bent away. But the man was so busy he didn’t notice. A cloud drifted in front of the sun, cooling down the temperature immediately. The rod was now at the point of toppling over. I decided to go for it. I waded forward until the water came to my breast. I looked at the boat, which was now about sixty feet away from me and dived in. When I came near the boat the man heard me and looked about. His face was thin and pale, with a little shade of lightbrown. He was wearing a raincoat. His hair had become a mess, for a chill wind now blew fiercely.
At that very moment the rod toppled over. I stretched myself and managed to grab the end of it. That exact moment I noticed something was wrong. I pulled the rod above the surface and it was old, very old. I looked up at the fisherman and beheld a ghastly grimace. He dropped his rod overboard and moved my way. “Excuse me, sir, I’m trying to help you,” I said, breathing heavily. The man looked at me and replied: “You have chosen the wrong part of the lake. This is the deep.” I streched my feet and touched the bottom of the lake. This isn’t very deep, I thought. “What do you mean, sir?”, I asked. And again he spoke: “You have chosen the wrong part of the lake. This is the deep.”
The boat drifted in my direction and I could see the man clearly now. His skin was pale green, like he had been dead in the water for weeks. But he was not bloated. He was thin, dead-like thin. Terrified I turned my back on the boat. I swam and swam. The man started paddling, gaining distance on me every second. Halfway I decided to wade; my arms were spent. I tried to plant my feet on the bottom, but to my surprise there was none: it had disappeared. “You have chosen the wrong part of the lake. This is the deep”, the fisherman spoke again.
With my last strength I made it to shore. The boat was right behind me and I remember touching it with my feet when I got out. I ran. And while I ran I looked back one last time. The man stood on the shore, soaking with water, though he had not waded through it. And he laughed. And I ran. And I never threw a glance at that vast, deep lake again, nor did I ever again hear of the lone old fisherman and his boat