"Shadows at Deadman’s Bend"
There’s a stretch of river about ten miles north of my hometown called Deadman’s Bend. Locals say it’s cursed. The stories range from drownings to disappearances, but they’ve always been just that—stories. The real draw for me wasn’t the rumors but the fish. The bend is home to some of the biggest catfish you’ll find, and I was determined to hook one.
It was late August, the air thick with humidity and the kind of stillness that makes the night feel heavier. I told my wife I’d be back by midnight. She gave me her usual “Don’t be stupid” look as I loaded my gear into the truck, but I just laughed it off. I’d fished there plenty of times before, though never alone. I didn’t think much of it.
I arrived at the dirt pull-off just as the last of the light was fading. The path down to the water was narrow, bordered by tall grass and gnarled trees. The river itself was dark and calm, its surface glinting faintly under the rising moon. I set up on a flat rock that jutted out over the bend, baited my hook, and cast into the deepest part. The plop of the bait breaking the water echoed, then faded into the quiet.
An hour passed with nothing but a few weak nibbles. I was starting to wonder if the legends of monster catfish were just local tall tales when my line suddenly went tight. The rod jerked hard enough to pull me forward, and my heart started pounding. Whatever was on the other end was big. Bigger than anything I’d ever hooked before.
The fight was brutal. The fish dove, ran, and thrashed, each tug testing the limits of my line. My arms burned, my boots slipped on the wet rock, but I held on. Slowly, I gained ground, reeling it closer inch by inch. And then I saw it—just a shadow beneath the surface at first, but as it rose, my breath caught in my throat. It was a catfish, all right, but massive, easily five feet long. The head alone was the size of a basketball.
Just as I thought I had it, the fish made one final lunge, veering toward the far bank where the current was strongest. I stepped to the edge of the rock to follow, but the ground crumbled underfoot. I slipped, landing hard on my side, and the rod flew out of my hands. By the time I scrambled up, the line was slack. It was gone.
Frustrated, I sat on the rock, catching my breath and cursing my luck. That’s when I heard a voice behind me.
“Lose something?”
I whipped around, my headlamp cutting through the darkness. A man was standing at the edge of the trees, just outside the beam’s reach. He was tall and thin, dressed in a ragged jacket and muddy jeans. His face was gaunt, his eyes shadowed beneath the brim of a dirty baseball cap. He didn’t look like someone out for a casual night of fishing.
“Yeah,” I said cautiously. “Big one got away.”
He stepped closer, the soft crunch of his boots on gravel unsettling in the otherwise quiet night. “Always does around here,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “Not many people fish Deadman’s Bend alone. Brave of you.”
I shrugged, trying to act casual, but my gut told me something was off. “Just chasing the big ones.”
The man chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “Big ones, huh? You ever think there’s a reason they get so big?”
I didn’t answer. He was close enough now that I could see his face more clearly. His eyes were sharp and unblinking, and his lips curled into a thin smile that didn’t reach them.
“You see anything strange out there?” he asked, gesturing toward the water.
“No,” I lied, gripping my tackle box a little tighter. “Just a fish.”
“Hmm,” he said, tilting his head like he didn’t believe me. “Folks around here say there’s more than fish in that water. Say the bend keeps secrets.”
I laughed nervously, but he didn’t join in. Instead, he just stared at me, his gaze uncomfortably steady. “You should leave,” he said finally. “It’s not safe after dark.”
Before I could respond, he turned and walked back into the trees, disappearing as quickly as he’d appeared. I sat there for a moment, my heart pounding, before I decided he was right. I packed up my gear and started up the path, my headlamp casting jittery shadows on the ground.
As I neared the truck, I glanced back toward the bend. The river was still, its surface reflecting the moonlight. But on the far bank, just at the edge of the water, I thought I saw a figure standing in the shadows. Watching.
I didn’t wait to find out. I threw my gear into the truck and drove off, the tires kicking up gravel. The entire way home, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t alone, that those sharp, unblinking eyes were still on me.
I haven’t been back to Deadman’s Bend since. Some places aren’t meant to be figured out.
"The Watcher Beneath"
It started as a quiet, promising day on the water. The air was crisp, the sun barely peeking over the horizon, and the lake's surface shimmered like glass. The stillness was the kind you only get out in the middle of nowhere, where the forest presses in around you and the only sounds are the distant calls of birds waking up to the day. Lake Aster, tucked deep in the dense pine forests of northern Minnesota, was my haven. I’d been coming here for years, escaping the noise of my life for the tranquility of this secluded spot.
I’d never had a bad experience here—until that day.
The locals had their stories, of course. They always do. Fishermen are born storytellers, weaving tales about the one that got away or the mysterious thing they glimpsed just below the surface. At the bait shop in town, old-timers loved to warn newcomers about “the middle,” a stretch of deep water at the lake’s center. “Bad things happen there,” they’d say, their voices low and serious. Someone once claimed it was bottomless, that a sinkhole had swallowed part of the lake decades ago. Others said it wasn’t just the depth that made it dangerous, but something living down there—something old.
I’d always dismissed it as superstition. I wasn’t here for ghost stories or folklore. I was here for the fish. Big fish.
That morning, I decided to try my luck in the middle. It wasn’t a choice I made lightly—I’d never ventured that far out before. But something about the day felt right. The lake was calm, and there wasn’t another soul in sight. I loaded my gear into the boat, fired up the motor, and headed out.
The farther I went, the darker the water grew. It wasn’t just the color—it was the feeling. The stillness that had been so comforting near the shore started to feel oppressive. I couldn’t shake the sense that I was being watched, though I hadn’t seen a single bird or ripple since I’d started out.
When I reached the middle, I killed the motor and let the boat drift. I grabbed my rod, baited the hook, and cast my line. The splash echoed unnaturally loud in the stillness, and I paused, looking around. The horizon seemed farther away than usual, as if the lake had expanded while I wasn’t paying attention.
The first hour was uneventful. I caught a few small fish but nothing worth keeping. I told myself I was just warming up. The big ones always took time. But as the minutes dragged on, I found myself glancing over the side of the boat more often than at the water's surface.
Then it happened.
The line went taut, almost yanking the rod from my hands. My heart leapt. I tightened my grip, bracing myself. Whatever was on the other end was enormous. It felt like I’d hooked a freight train. The rod bent nearly in half as the line screamed out.
I grinned, adrenaline surging. This was it. This was the story I’d be telling for years.
But as the fight dragged on, my excitement turned to unease. Whatever I’d hooked wasn’t acting like any fish I’d ever caught. It wasn’t darting or thrashing; it was pulling steadily, almost methodically, like it knew exactly what it was doing.
Minutes passed, then more. My arms ached, my hands blistered. Still, I couldn’t see what was on the other end. I tried reeling it in, but it was like trying to pull up an anchor.
And then, as suddenly as it had started, the line went slack.
I nearly toppled backward, stumbling in the boat. My heart pounded as I reeled in the line. The hook was intact. No fish. No weeds. Just... nothing.
I leaned over the side of the boat, peering into the dark water. For a moment, all I saw was my own reflection. Then the shadow appeared.
At first, it was faint, just a darker shape against the blackness. But as it rose closer to the surface, my stomach twisted. It was massive—easily larger than my boat. Its body was pale, almost translucent, with a sickly sheen that made it seem otherworldly.
And its eyes... they were wrong. Too large, too round, and disturbingly human.
I froze, every instinct screaming at me to move, to start the motor, to get out of there. But I couldn’t. I was locked in place, staring at those eyes.
The creature circled the boat, slow and deliberate. The air grew colder with each pass, a damp chill that settled in my chest. My breath came in short, shallow gasps. It felt like the lake itself was holding its breath.
Then it disappeared.
The shadow sank into the depths, leaving only ripples behind. My rational mind tried to explain it away—a sturgeon, maybe, or a trick of the light. But deep down, I knew better.
I scrambled to start the motor, my hands trembling so badly I could barely grip the pull cord. Just as the engine sputtered to life, the boat rocked violently.
It wasn’t the wind. Something had hit me.
I screamed—a raw, primal sound I barely recognized as my own. The boat tilted, water spilling over the sides. I grabbed the edge, trying to steady myself, but another impact nearly sent me overboard.
Through the churning water, I saw it again, circling faster now. Its movements were purposeful, predatory. I knew it wasn’t just trying to scare me—it was toying with me.
I grabbed the oars, abandoning the motor. My only thought was to get to shore. I rowed like a madman, each stroke sending my boat lurching forward. My chest burned, my arms felt like lead, but I didn’t dare stop.
The shadow followed.
Even as the water grew shallower, it stayed with me, just out of sight. The closer I got to shore, the louder the forest seemed—the rustling trees, the calls of birds I hadn’t heard all morning. It was like the world was waking up again, urging me to make it to safety.
When the boat scraped against the rocky shallows, I jumped out, not caring about my gear. My legs were trembling so badly I nearly collapsed, but I forced myself to run.
I didn’t look back.
To this day, I don’t know what I saw. I’ve tried to rationalize it—a freakishly large fish, a hallucination brought on by exhaustion. But every time I close my eyes, I see those terrible, human-like eyes staring back at me.
I haven’t been back to Lake Aster since.
And I never will.
The Fisherman's Chant
I had set out that morning with the promise of tranquility. The sun climbed lazily into a pale blue sky as I followed a narrow dirt track weaving through the woods. My rod rested lightly on my shoulder, and a small pouch of tackle jingled softly with every step. It was my first time fishing in this part of the river, a spot rumored to test the skills of even the most seasoned anglers. Yet, the thrill of the unknown kept me moving forward.
The track hugged the riverbank, separated by a dense thicket of bushes. I paused to listen to the sound of water gently lapping against the stones, a melody broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves. Suddenly, a voice, low and rough, carried through the foliage:
"This spot’s taken."
The words weren’t shouted, nor were they particularly welcoming. I froze, momentarily startled. I hadn’t been making much noise and prided myself on moving quietly. How had the angler noticed me? Still, his tone wasn’t overtly hostile, just curt. Deciding there was no harm in introducing myself, I pushed aside the undergrowth and crouched low to avoid casting a shadow on the water.
When I emerged, I found myself facing an older man seated on a folding stool. His setup was peculiar and somewhat antiquated. A weathered string keep-net dangled in the water at his feet, though it appeared to have seen better days. Its frayed edges hinted at years of use—or neglect. His rod, however, was a thing of beauty: a vintage cane adorned with a Mordex Merlin reel. The sight of it warmed me; here was someone who clearly appreciated the art of angling.
“Any luck?” I asked casually, trying to sound friendly.
“Plenty,” he replied without looking at me. His voice was flat, almost mechanical. Before I could ask him for tips on navigating this stretch of the river, he turned his head slowly in my direction.
It was then I noticed something was... off. His pale eyes seemed to flicker, and as he opened his mouth to speak again, an unsettling burbling sound escaped his lips.
“Pop-up snowman boilie,” he muttered, his voice a bizarre mix of guttural tones and precise enunciation. “Hair rig... helicopter rig... spod... back-leaded, self-hooking bolt rig.”
The string of jargon tumbled from him like an incantation, each word sharper and stranger than the last. Though I understood none of it, a creeping sense of dread settled over me. His tone was not one of sharing tips but of something far more alien and foreboding.
“Sorry, what was that?” I asked, my voice shaking slightly. But he didn’t respond. Instead, he stared at me with a hollow intensity, as though waiting for something—some reaction or acknowledgment I didn’t know how to give.
The air seemed to thicken around us, and I realized with a jolt that my instincts were screaming at me to leave. My heart pounded as I stumbled backward into the bushes. Branches clawed at my arms as I scrambled through the undergrowth, desperate to put distance between us. His eerie chant seemed to echo in my ears as I finally reached my bike.
I didn’t look back.
I pedaled hard, the forest blurring around me as my breath came in ragged gasps. It wasn’t until I burst through my front door and collapsed onto a kitchen chair that I allowed myself to pause. My hands trembled as I poured a cup of tea, the familiar routine grounding me. A biscuit on the saucer remained untouched as my mind churned over the encounter.
What had I just witnessed? There had been nothing overtly menacing about the man. He was dressed like any other angler, and his gear—while old—wasn’t unusual. Yet, something in his presence, in the nonsensical words he spoke, had felt profoundly wrong.
As the tea cooled in my hands, a chilling thought struck me: perhaps it wasn’t what he said, but how he said it. That strange rhythm, the almost ritualistic cadence—it lingered in my memory like a dark shadow. I shuddered, setting the cup down.
The river, it seemed, held more mysteries than just the challenge of catching fish. And some mysteries, I decided, were best left undisturbed.