"The Depths":
It started as an ordinary weekend—one I’d been looking forward to for weeks. A little fishing trip out on Lake Chelan, a vast, serene body of water nestled deep in the Washington Cascades. I’ve been fishing all my life. Something about being on the water—just me, the rod, and the hope of a big catch—always settles my nerves.
This time, I planned to spend the night out there. Just me and the lake, alone with my thoughts. I packed the essentials: my tackle box, some sandwiches, a thermos of coffee, and my trusty headlamp. By late afternoon, I was cruising along the water in my small motorboat, looking for a quiet spot to cast my line.
The lake was unusually calm, almost too calm. I remember thinking it was odd for the season. The weather report had warned of light winds, but the air was dead still, the water glassy and eerily silent.
By sunset, I had anchored near a deep section of the lake, an area locals called "The Pit." It was rumored to be the deepest part, plunging over 1,400 feet—so deep, they said, it had never been fully mapped. Some fishermen avoided it altogether, claiming it was unlucky. Not me. Deep meant bigger fish, and I was after the legendary trout that supposedly lurked down there.
The First Sign
The first couple of hours were uneventful. I reeled in a few small ones, nothing worth bragging about. As night fell, the air grew colder, and a thick mist began rolling in. It seemed to come out of nowhere, swallowing the shoreline and turning the lake into a gray void. My boat felt like an island adrift in an endless sea.
I switched on my headlamp and kept fishing. Then, around 10 p.m., I got my first real bite. The rod bent sharply, the reel screamed, and my heart raced. Whatever was on the other end was massive. I fought it for what felt like an eternity, my muscles burning, adrenaline coursing through me. Finally, I managed to reel it close enough to see.
But it wasn’t a fish.
The Catch
Dangling from my line was a bundle of cloth, soaked and tattered. I pulled it aboard, confused and a little shaken. As I unraveled it, the smell hit me—something foul and decayed. Inside was a shoe.
Not just any shoe—a weathered leather boot with something still inside it. My stomach turned as I realized it was part of a human foot.
I dropped it instantly, stumbling back. My mind raced. What was this doing in the lake? Who did it belong to?
I tried to shake it off, rationalizing that it could be an old, decomposed relic. Lake Chelan was ancient, and who knows what might have sunk to its depths over the years? But deep down, I couldn’t ignore the unease creeping over me.
The Noise
As I sat there, trying to calm myself, I heard a noise—a faint splash, followed by another, closer this time. It was too rhythmic to be a fish.
I shone my headlamp across the water, but the mist reflected the light back at me, making it impossible to see far. Then I heard it again, louder. Something was circling the boat.
My heart pounded. Was it an animal? A person? I called out, "Hello? Anyone out there?"
Silence.
Then came the knock—a sharp, deliberate tap against the hull of my boat.
I froze. Whatever it was, it was right beneath me.
The Figure
Grabbing my oar, I leaned over the side, trying to peer into the water. That’s when I saw it—a shadowy figure, just under the surface. At first, I thought it might be a diver, but as it moved closer, I realized something was off.
Its proportions were wrong—too long, too thin. And its eyes… they glowed faintly in the light of my headlamp, like an animal’s caught in the dark.
Before I could react, it darted away, faster than any human could swim. I stumbled back, nearly dropping my oar.
That’s when I decided I’d had enough. Whatever was out here, I didn’t want to find out.
The Escape
I yanked up the anchor and started the motor, my hands trembling. As the boat picked up speed, I kept glancing over my shoulder, expecting to see that figure again.
Then, out of nowhere, the boat lurched violently, as if something had grabbed it from below. I nearly lost my balance, clutching the wheel as the motor sputtered.
"Come on, come on!" I shouted, slamming the throttle forward. The boat jerked free, and I sped toward the faint outline of the shoreline in the distance.
The splashes followed me, growing fainter until they finally stopped. By the time I reached the dock, I was shaking so badly I could barely tie the boat down.
The Aftermath
I reported what I found to the authorities the next day. They took the boot and launched an investigation, but as far as I know, they never found anything else. No body, no signs of foul play—nothing.
To this day, I don’t know what I saw out there. Maybe it was just my mind playing tricks on me, amplified by the isolation and the mist. Or maybe there’s something in that lake, something we’re not meant to understand.
I haven’t been back to Lake Chelan since. Sometimes, late at night, I find myself staring at maps of the area, wondering what really lies in "The Pit." But no matter how curious I get, one thing is certain—I won’t be the one to find out.
"The Shadow in the Woods":
The idea was mine, and I’ve regretted it ever since. Late one sticky summer evening, I convinced my younger brother Matt and our two friends, Luke and Danny, to join me on a night fishing trip deep in the Appalachian woods. I’d heard about a secret spot along a remote riverbank from an old-timer at the bait shop. His exact words were, “Best catfish you’ll ever find. Big as small dogs. Quiet place… just don’t linger too long.” I chuckled at the time, dismissing his cryptic tone as eccentricity. I should’ve listened.
The drive took us over two hours, winding through narrow, unlit backroads. Our conversations ebbed and flowed with excitement, each of us hyping up the size of the fish we’d catch. By the time we reached the trailhead, the last rays of sunlight were melting into the horizon, leaving the sky painted in deep shades of indigo and gold.
We parked Matt’s beat-up station wagon under a canopy of trees, their gnarled branches stretching like skeletal fingers across the road. The night was thick with the hum of insects and the occasional hoot of an owl. I grabbed the map I’d printed off a dodgy website and flicked on my flashlight. The trail ahead of us was narrow, just a dirt path carved through dense underbrush.
“This better be worth it,” Luke muttered, hauling a cooler packed with beer and sandwiches. “I don’t get bitten up by bugs for just any spot.”
“It’ll be worth it,” I promised, though I was already questioning the wisdom of this adventure.
The hike took longer than expected. The trail twisted and turned through the forest, the terrain uneven and damp. Flashlights bobbed ahead of me like fireflies, casting eerie shadows on the surrounding trees. The further we walked, the quieter it became. The chorus of crickets seemed to thin out, replaced by an unsettling stillness that made every snap of a twig underfoot feel deafening.
Finally, the trees parted, revealing the river. It was wider than I’d imagined, its surface black and glassy, reflecting the faint light of the crescent moon. We set up near a fallen log that jutted out into the water, a perfect spot for casting our lines.
“This is it,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic.
Luke cracked open a beer while Danny set up the rods. Matt sat on the log, staring at the water, his face lit by the faint glow of his phone. “Looks quiet enough,” he said, though his voice carried an edge of unease.
The first hour passed uneventfully. The river was calm, its surface occasionally rippled by the splash of fish or the faint ripple of the current. We chatted, our voices breaking the stillness, and for a while, it felt like any other fishing trip.
Then, it started.
A low, guttural noise drifted from the tree line behind us. At first, I thought it was an animal—a coyote or maybe a raccoon. I brushed it off and kept fishing. But the sound came again, louder this time, and closer. It wasn’t a growl, exactly. It was deeper, almost like a wet cough mixed with the sound of heavy breathing.
“Did you hear that?” Matt asked, his flashlight trained on the woods.
“It’s nothing,” I said, though my gut twisted.
Danny chuckled nervously. “Relax, it’s probably a deer. They snort, don’t they?”
The sound didn’t match anything I’d ever heard in the woods, but I forced a laugh to play along. Still, my eyes kept darting toward the dark mass of trees behind us.
Minutes passed in uneasy silence, but then the noise came again—closer, more guttural, and undeniably menacing. Danny swung his flashlight toward the tree line, its beam slicing through the darkness. For a second, it illuminated nothing but underbrush, but then—movement. Something darted between the trees, too fast to make out.
“What the hell was that?” Luke hissed, standing abruptly.
“Could’ve been a bear,” I said, though my voice betrayed my nerves. Bears don’t move like that.
We tried to focus on our fishing, but the mood had shifted. Every rustle of leaves, every crack of a branch, sent a jolt of adrenaline through me. The guttural noise circled us, moving with deliberate purpose. Whatever it was, it was aware of us, and it wasn’t leaving.
Then, I saw it. A figure, hunched and shadowy, slipped between two trees. It lingered just long enough for me to make out its shape—a man, or something resembling one, thin and disheveled. My breath hitched.
“We need to go,” I said, my voice firm.
No one argued. We scrambled to pack up, our movements clumsy and rushed. The shadowy figure darted closer, weaving between trees with unnatural speed. I caught glimpses of its face—gaunt and pale, with wide, unblinking eyes that seemed to reflect the light from our flashlights.
As we made our way back to the trail, the figure stepped out from the shadows, blocking our path. My flashlight caught him fully this time—a man, barefoot and wild-looking, his clothes torn and filthy. In his hand, he clutched a jagged piece of metal, its edges rusted and sharp.
“Leave,” he muttered, his voice guttural and broken, like he hadn’t spoken in years.
None of us moved.
“Leave!” he roared, raising the weapon.
Panic erupted. We bolted off the trail, crashing through the underbrush, our gear abandoned. Branches clawed at my face and arms as we ran, the sound of snapping twigs and heavy breathing all around me.
We didn’t stop until we reached the car. Danny fumbled with the keys, his hands shaking so badly it took three tries to unlock the door. As we piled in, I glanced back. The man stood at the edge of the clearing, his head cocked to one side. His eyes caught the glow of the car’s taillights, shining eerily red.
We didn’t stop driving until we were miles away, the silence in the car broken only by our heavy breathing.
The next morning, we called the sheriff. Deputies went to investigate, but they found nothing—no man, no gear, not even footprints. They chalked it up to a squatter or a drifter, but we knew better.
I haven’t been back to those woods since. Sometimes, I’ll hear that guttural noise in my dreams, and I’ll wake up sweating, convinced I see a shadow lurking at the edge of my bedroom. It always feels like a warning: stay away.
"The Watcher in the Shallows":
I still can’t believe I agreed to this trip. A weekend escape at Birchwater Lake, nestled deep in northern Canada’s forest, sounded like a great way to unwind. But now, as I sit here recounting the events of that fateful weekend, I can’t shake the feeling that something beyond my understanding lurked in those woods.
My best friend, Nicole, was the instigator. She was always the adventurous one, coaxing me and our mutual friend, Ethan, out of our comfort zones. “Three days of fishing, campfires, and no cell service,” she’d said with that infectious grin of hers. “What could go wrong?”
I, Alex, wasn’t entirely sold, but Ethan, our self-proclaimed survival expert, was all in. “Come on, Alex,” he teased. “What’s the worst that can happen? Bears?”
We arrived at the lake Friday afternoon. It was breathtaking—crystal-clear waters, towering pines, and absolute silence, except for the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze. The lake was far from any town, isolated and serene. A local we’d met at a gas station warned us not to linger after dark, muttering something about "unseen watchers" in the area. Ethan dismissed it with a laugh, calling it “small-town ghost story nonsense.” Nicole joined in, and I, ever the skeptic, rolled my eyes but couldn’t shake a subtle unease.
The first day was perfect. We caught a few fish, grilled them over an open flame, and spent the evening swapping stories by the fire. Nicole was in her element, regaling us with tales of her past trips. Ethan played the part of the jester, keeping us laughing with his over-the-top impressions of the gas station attendant.
By the second night, the laughter had faded, replaced by an unsettling stillness. Around midnight, I woke up. My tent was unzipped just enough for a sliver of moonlight to filter in, casting long, shifting shadows. A faint splashing sound reached my ears. Groggy, I assumed it was Nicole or Ethan checking the fishing lines. I called out softly, but there was no response. The splashing stopped abruptly, and silence returned.
The next morning, I was the first to wake. The fire had burned down to smoldering embers, and Ethan’s tent flap was open. I called his name, expecting him to stumble out groaning about the early hour. But he didn’t. His tent was empty, his gear untouched, and his boots still beside the firepit.
Panic set in. Nicole emerged from her tent, her face pale as I explained. We spent hours combing the campsite and calling his name, but there was no sign of him—only a trail of wet footprints leading from the firepit to the edge of the lake. The water rippled slightly, but there was no sign of movement beneath the surface.
We contacted the local authorities using the emergency radio Ethan had insisted on bringing. A search was launched. Divers combed the lake, while search teams swept the surrounding forest. Days passed, and no trace of Ethan was found.
Nicole and I left the area, shaken and heartbroken. We stayed in touch during the weeks that followed, but both of us struggled to process what had happened. Then, about a month later, Nicole called me, her voice trembling.
“You need to see this,” she said.
She emailed me a photo she’d taken at sunset on our first night at the lake. It was a gorgeous shot of the fiery sky reflected on the water’s surface. But in the shallows, almost blending into the darkening lake, was a shadowy figure. It was too tall to be a person kneeling and too defined to be a trick of light. Its elongated shape gave the impression of something standing, watching us from just below the surface.
We showed the photo to the authorities, but they dismissed it as pareidolia—the human tendency to see patterns in random stimuli. Nicole and I weren’t convinced. Locals shared their own theories when we pressed them: an ancient guardian spirit, an animal guarding its territory, or even something unexplainable tied to the lake’s dark past. Birchwater Lake had a history of strange disappearances, whispered about but rarely documented.
I haven’t been camping since, and I doubt I ever will. Nicole moved to the city and has sworn off remote trips entirely. The photo, still saved on my phone, haunts me. I often find myself staring at it, searching for answers. What was it? Was Ethan still out there somewhere? Or was he taken by something we were never meant to understand?
I’ll never know. But every so often, in the quiet of the night, I wake to the memory of that faint splash and the haunting feeling that, somehow, it wasn’t just the lake watching us—it was something older, darker, and infinitely more patient.