TW: Swearing, Graphic descriptions of violence, Fishing typical animal cruelty, Injury, Helplessness, Implied drowning/death
My name is Sam. I don’t want to say anything more about myself. I already feel like a total loser posting this, but people should know about what happened.
Don’t go anywhere near Lake Geneva! Not even the surrounding area, stay as far away from this thing as you can.
My best friend, Patrick, and I went to North Dakota over the weekend. He had some relatives in Steele who offered to let us stay but we were determined to camp the night outside. His uncle told us that the local fishing access at Lake Geneva had been closed for a while now but that didn’t stop anyone from fishing.
He even recommended, we should keep to the south side of the lake since the few trees would shield us somewhat from view if the cops decided to stop by. I could tell, he was a man of experience.
Pat was also far more experienced than me, always reminiscing about the good old days his dad took him camping in summer. Premium father-son bonding, as he called it. I would have been jealous, if my old man hadn’t been such a geezer.
Pat was so shocked to hear I never went fishing that he decided to drag me out in the middle of nowhere to catch me up on what he called a “mandatory life experience”.
He tried to run me over the ropes in my pickup but stopped a good 20 minutes in as he decided it was easier to teach me by doing than just throw words, I wouldn’t understand at me. We left the truck in the run-down parking lot of the old fishing spot. We had to walk for a while until we found a good spot to set up camp. It was around afternoon when we finished setting everything up.
I struggled a lot with the tent, since Pat had taken out the instructions. He busied himself with the crafting a fireplace and occasionally laughed at my misery, but I was determined to go down trying. In the end he set up both the fire and the tent.
The struggle felt all the more worth it as we opened the camping chairs and took a beer out of the cooler. Although Pat could be a huge dick sometimes, I really enjoyed spending time with him like this.
He tried to teach me how to prepare a rod but I blanked out for most of the time. He swapped out the reel to weight a new fishing line with lead. Catfish mostly keep to the ground, he told me. Apparently, they are the biggest catch we could make in this area and a single one should make a great dinner for the two of us.
They would only bite on life baith though. I wouldn’t consider myself as squeamish, I can handle as much as the next guy but something about watching Pat impale a worm three times on a triplet hook really made my stomach turn.
The nightcrawler squirmed even more than when Pat picked it up from the box. Having a metal pike stabbed through its body wouldn’t kill it, at least for some time. The worm could never comprehend that it’s every struggle was futile.
The more it squirmed, the better it would be at attracting fish, Pat explained. His numbness to the practice alienated and calmed me at the same time.
He probably learned it at a young age, never bothering to question the example of his father. The precision in his action made it feel like a necessary step, easing my mind by telling me:
“This was the way things had to go,” and I wasn’t keen on skipping dinner.
He opened the reel so the line could flow freely and demonstrated how to throw it before reeling it back and handing me the rod.
The worm was still writhing on the hook but I couldn’t let that stop me. I drew back and replicated Pat’s train of motions. I watched the hook fly and hit the water moments later. The weighted line would have been sucked into the water completely, were it not for the bopper Pat added for my sake.
A bopper was more of a hinderance when you were trying to fish at ground level but since it was my first time, Pat tried to make it easier for me. He pat me on the back before he went to prepare a rod for himself.
I sat back down in my chair. There wasn’t anything else to do but wait for the fish to bite. This was far more boring that Pat had made it out to be. I don’t get how fishing can be fun, you literally sit around in silence for sometimes hours and I already had enough after 5 minutes.
Just as I was about to doze off, I heard footsteps. I tapped Pat on the shoulder to let him know someone was coming. He had been so focused on completing his rod that he zoned out.
Pat wanted to say something but I cut him off by frantically pointing in the direction of the noise. I was slightly panicking. I would have never gone illegally fishing without him so if he didn’t know what to do, I didn’t either.
“Hello, couldn’t help but notice you over here,” the intruder announced himself. “How are they biting?”
A middle-aged man had emerged from the few trees surrounding the area. He had salt and pepper hair, angular facial features and wore a beige overall together with muddy boots. He appeared like one of the locals on a hike, but his clothes looked oddly damp.
If you are reading this, What the hell is wrong with you, you sick fuck? Why didn’t you tell us what actually happens at this lake? I don’t know how you’re involved in this shit and I can’t prove, yet, but I swear to god, I will find you again and throw you into that lake myself.
Most of you probably aren’t here to listen to my one-sided threats but you have to understand, something about him just wasn’t right. He had a strange look in his eyes, forgive me the comparison but it was just like a dead fish. His sclera had spots of a grey-yellowish gradient and his gaze was slightly unfocused but not enough to be concerning right away.
If I had any other choice, I would have never approached, let alone talked to this man in my life but Pat was far less concerned than me.
“We actually just started. Nothing so far,” he said. I thought it was a common greeting among anglers and didn’t think much of it to calm my nerves.
“Good, good. I hear the fish in this lake are really something else. Harder to catch and picky with their food but quite the trophy once you actually catch them.”
“Is that why the lake is closed?” Pat laughed but genuinely curious in his question.
“Oh no, at least not quite. When I was still a boy, there was this kid named Malcolm. Kind of wimpy, black frilly hair, ugly glasses, mole under his left eye, you can imagine. One day, his father took him fishing, to make him a man, as is custom. Everything seemed to be going great until they finally got a bite.
After the first, they caught so many they stopped counting but even though they caught more than they could possibly eat, they still kept going. They decided to make it one last catch for the day and it was indeed their last.
Malcolm watched the bopper go down excitedly and grabbed the rod to reel it in. He noticed it was harder to pull than the others before but still managed to draw it closer. On the final meters, he lost his edge and the fish pulled him into the water. He clung tightly to the rod for support but was only pulled deeper because of it.
His father stared at the lake in shock, waiting for his son to resurface but the moment never came. Police didn’t even find a body.”
The man had pulled out a cigarette and lit it once he finished his story.
It might have sounded like a warning but each of us knew he was full of shit. Guess who else had a mole under his left eye and fit the description. It was just a cheap scary story and right as I wanted to call him out for his bull shit, Pat elbowed me in the side.
“Dude, your rod,” he said and pointed into the distance. The bopper was fully submerged, and more and more fishing line slipped off the coil.
I sprang up and grabbed the rod from the improvised holder, which was technically just a stick in the ground. I closed the reel and pulled it closer to the bank. It got increasingly harder and I soon began to see ripples in the water. A rainbow trout, about the size of my forearm, was dragged by towards the lake shore by its mouth. It was easy to detach oneself from what was happening but this creature was suffering because of me.
The fish was obviously struggling not to get caught but Pat made quick work of it when he scooped up the trout with his dip net.
“Your first catch,” he congratulated proudly. “You wanna do the honors?”, he asked while the fish was still flapping inside the net.
“Nah, I don’t know what to do. I’m just gonna watch,”
“Oh, right. I still didn’t explain that part,” He said and wrapped the struggling fish into the net to get a hold of it.
He pulled a small bat from the bag and repetitively struck it on the head until it ceased to move. Although I had no clue about fishing, I didn’t expect it to be so violent.
“It’s only dazed for now,” Pat explained and started rummaging through the bag. “One time my little sister hit a trout so hard, it’s eye popped out,” the two others laughed at the anecdote. I tried my best to join the banter, but I already felt more than uncomfortable.
“Ah, found it,” Pat said and pulled a plastic tool from the bag, before he unwrapped the fish now that it had stopped struggling.
“Now, we remove the hook. It can be a bit tricky at first but I’m sure you’re gonna get the hang of it in no time.” Pat inserted the smaller end into the trout’s mouth and poked a bit around until it emerged together with the hook. About half of the worm was still hanging on it but Pat absentmindedly tossed it into the grass.
He examined the fish in two hands before he presented it to me. “Not bad for a first catch. Before we go celebrate you gotta make sure it’s dead though,” Pat said and pulled a folding knife from his pocket.
“The Belly is usually the softest part so it’s easier to strike the heart. For a Trout it should be around here,” he said and moved his thumb above the area of its front fins, before he stabbed the knife a few centimeters into the animal.
Pat wiped the fish blood into the grass before he pocketed the knife again. He stored the trout in a bag he had placed in the cooler.
“Looks like you had more luck than Malcolm. Better let go before they pull you in too,” The stranger laughed and tossed his cigarette butt in the same direction Pat had disposed of the worm.
“I guess I should head off then. Have a good day, gentlemen,” he said and finally left.
We didn’t see him after that but there was also no one else that came by so he could be the only one that was involved.
Pat caught two more fish, another trout and a catfish, but I caught nothing after that. I was glad though. Every time Pat pulled a fish from the water, it made my skin crawl but Pat only looked excited. He was in his totally in his element but I was out of my depth.
I’m probably gonna become vegetarian after I watched Pat gut the day’s catch. A little unseasoned maybe but it tasted pretty good after we grilled the catfish over the campfire. The actual fishing part had been a nightmare for me, but the resolution was kind of nice.
We extinguished the fire and went to sleep in the tent. I was more than ready to call it a night and return home the next day but I was awoken at an ungodly hour by a slithering noise outside the tent.
I tried to convince myself that I was dreaming, mostly because I didn’t want it to be real but I was already too on edge to just brush it off. It was like that moment when you’ve heard a weird noise in your bedroom but don’t dare to move, in hope you could convince the source of that noise you were still asleep.
Once your mind gets kick-started though it won’t stop filling in the blanks; and out in the middle of nowhere, every thought seemed all the more plausible.
The slimy, slithering noise repeated and it seemed to be coming from more than one direcrion. My mind was only able to produce the word “Fuck” as I lay there paralyzed with fear. Pat was still snoring far too calmly for the possible danger we might have been in.
I don’t know how long it took me to finally make a move but if this was going to be my end, I didn’t want it to be this pathetic. I felt around the tent floor for the headlamp Pat had left me until my shaky fingers made contact with the plastic object.
The slithering outside grew the more I moved around but after a few moments of adjusting the lamp, I zipped open the tent cover and caught a glimpse of the happenings outside.
More than a dozen eels were slithering away from the tent and dipped into the water one after another. I knew that eels could spend a few hours on land but I had never seen one in person, let alone this many at once. My skin crawled at the thought for how long they had been watching us.
I shook Pat who slowly grumbled awake, not having noticed one bit of the happenings outside.
“I don’t wanna sleep here,” I said.
“What, why?”
“There are eels outside and they were watching us and I’m-” I interrupted myself before I continued.
“And I’m scared,” I finished, knowing I would soon be made fun of. I was fine with that though, cause as soon as Pat had stopped making fun of me, he would reluctantly agree to sleep in the car.
After Pat had finished taking in my statement he began to laugh. “Oh, Sammy boy, this is just like in high school. Remember that one class camping trip, we sneaked a toy spider in your tent? You screamed like a little girl and the teacher had to calm you down for hours. Man that was hilarious,” he answered his own question.
“Yes, I remember that very much but this is serious,” I yelled under my breath.
“Fine, Fine. We can sleep in the car,” Pat said and I was eternally grateful.
“We’re gonna leave the stuff here until tomorrow though.”
Everything was fine by me as long as I was getting out of here. We put on our shoes and went out into the darkness. It was a couple days after the new moon but away from the city lights, the stars offered a little comfort, but it was mostly drowned out by our headlamps.
Although both of us were more than tired from the long trip and waking up in the middle of the night, Pat was marching elatedly through the grass. My mind was trying to calm down since the obvious “threat” had been avoided successfully but a new shot of adrenaline entered my blood stream as Pat let out a blood curdling scream.
I ran to catch up with him and see what made him stop in his tracks. The fangs of a bear trap were sinking into his flesh and had possibly shattered his shin in the process.
“Fuck, man you gotta help me out of this,” he winced on hitched breath. He tried to pull his leg up, only rattling a chain in the process. These weren’t even hunting grounds. Nothing worth catching even lived in this area.
Both of us tried to pry the jaws open with combined strength but the blood made my fingers slip. The contraption bit itself into Pat’s leg again, who could only wail in return.
I could hear my heartbeat up in my ear but I still caught the rattling of the chain. It sounded like someone was giving it an experimental tug before finally reeling it in.
A sudden pull toppled Pat over and made him fall on top of me, in my crouched position. Soon enough he was pulled down further, continually shouting in pain.
“Fuck, Sam, help me!” I never expected to see such genuine fear on my best friend’s face.
I grabbed his hand to keep him from getting pulled down further, but I could only trip and be dragged along. The chain was wound back relentless, stopping in intervals that let us hope it could stop, just to crush us even further.
We approached the lake shore with every agonizing pull of the chain that tore screams and tears from Pat’s throat and eyes. The chain left ripples in the murky water and vanished from sight right under the surface.
“Shit, my leg, it hurts so much!”
I didn’t notice it at first but there were countless other chains emerging from the same spot, waiting to pull us into the unspeakable depths below.
All of you can call me a coward, I already do, but my body acted on its own.
Pat kept on screaming but I just let go. I sunk to my knees and started crying. I mouthed ‘I’m sorry’ as he kept on stammering “Please” and “Help me” before it was ultimately drowned out by gurgling.
It was completely silent again. The only remaining sound were the ripples of the lake that would have otherwise been calming. The last trace left of Pat was the light of his headlamp, but it only grew fainter and fainter until it vanished altogether.
The last moments I noticed of him reminded me awfully of an angler fish, tempting me to jump in and chase the light but there was no telling what would happen once I touched the water.
I waited there for a while.
Crying.
Breathing.
I knew he wouldn’t come back up again. I just couldn’t move.
I didn’t call the cops after.
There was no point.
Patrick is dead.
They would just fine me for illegal fishing.
Regardless I will never go fishing again.
You shouldn’t either.