I used to spend a lot of time fishing on farm pines, and back
when I was younger, there were pines like that everywhere, and many of
them actually had water and good fish in them. But today finding a farm
pond with good fish is like being struck by lightning, only not as painful.
Most of our ponds have dried up due to drought. Healthy farm ponds
are their own finite ecosystems. Fish like largemouth bass and crappie, and channel
cat and bluegill thriving these ponds. But aside from that, those ponds are
a stable source of water for animals, both wild and domestic, and sometimes
they are a source of water for the stranger creatures of this world. Literally,
they are places where the things go bumping the night. A few years
ago, I was fishing in one of these ponds. It wasn't especially big,
but it was still a pretty good size. It had a marginal population
of bass and a nice community of croppie, and though I had not witnessed
it, I was told there were even a few channel cats lurking in the
depths. My friend Terry and I decided we were going to do some night
fishing to see if we might tangle with some of those mythical catfish we had
heard about. We had seen some crawdads and water dogs in preparation for bank
fishing that we were planning just before dark. When we got there, we
quickly set up for the night. There was a nice spot on the bank
that gave us full access to the main part of the pond. Now in
the middle of the pond was a large tree with a few smaller trees scattered
around it. There were lines and lures and bobbers hanging from those tree lambs
like Christmas ornaments in silent testament to the misfortune the farmer had suffered while fishing
there. I had caught my sharebas and crappie around those trees, but on
that night we were fishing for channel cats. We had what we considered a
full proof plan, mapped out completely with the kind of bait that was like
fried chicken to a catfish. To our left, the pond narrowed a bit
and curved around. Access to the water there was partially blocked by brush and
patches of cattails. Not far beyond that the area was choked with brush,
but we managed to get five lines set out along that region, We walked
a narrow cow path with the pond on our right and the brush on our
left, and nothing but brush and a few tall trees and gullies and washes
to our left, and they stretched out to a horizon of small hills and
bluffs. We set our lines in places where the shore opened up, with
the idea that the fish could easily make their way to the struggling crawdads and
water dogs that we had hung just below the water's surface. Any movement the
bait made would be like ringing the dinner bell. Once we got that done,
we set up our little camp. We gathered wood to build a fire
and some cowboy coffee, and opened a couple of cans of beans heat on
a flat rock. Then we cast out a few riots right in front of
us and settled in for a long night of good fishing. For extra light,
we had a lantern and a flashlight. The night was warm and pleasant
and the sky was clear with little to no wind. Doesn't get any better
than that. We'd been sitting there while talking about the fish that we were
going to catch and spinning tails when Terry remarked, you know, this is
the pond where that old man drowned? Right? Uh? No, I
answered, I didn't know that. When was that? Well, it was
back in the seventies, Terry said, I was still in high school.
I thought for a minute, and I said, I guess I never knew
about that one. And then Terry said, I'm pretty sure it was here
that it happened. It was a sad thing and kind of weird. He
took a sip of coffee and added, folks said they found him up on
the bank. Well, how was that weird? I asked, not quite
getting his point. He wasn't in the water. Terry answered, okay,
Well, I shrugged it off. Seeing that I wasn't understanding the gravity of
his statement. Terry explained further, he was on the bank. If he
drowned, why wasn't he in the water. I scratch my head and suggested
that maybe the wind blew him up on the bank, or maybe somebody moved
him. Terry said, quick to reply, Now, why would anybody do
that? I asked him, more than a little disgusted by the thought.
Well, folks said he drowned, but he had been on the bank for
a few days before they found him. Terry said, yeah, I agree,
that is a bit weird, I admitted, makes you wonder. I
was beginning to get a little uncomfortable with the subject matter, so I suggested
that we walk the bank and check those other lines. Terry offered to help,
but I told him, now, you stay here and watch our riots.
Maybe a big one. We'll try to pull one in. Okay,
I said, we'll trade off. You go this time and I'll take the
next. That's a deal, I said, as I hit it down the
path hoighly. If you need help with the big one, he called after
me. It was good and dark by then, but the lantern that I
was carrying cast a nice halo of light on the path around me. The
water dog on the first line was still alive and wiggling, so I moved
to the second. I was bent over pulling the crawdad on that second hook
out of the water when the hair stood up on the back of my neck
and I got the eeriest feeling that I was being watched. I lowered the
bait back into the water and I turned around, and with the lantern held
as high as I could get it, I scanned back into the brush,
but it was too dark to see anything. I think that damn story about
that old man drowning on dry land has got me spooked, and I was
telling myself that as I moved on down the bank to the next line.
I was almost to it when I heard a rustling in the brush to my
left, and again I held the lantern up and I searched the brush,
but it hadn't gotten any loft, so I still couldn't see. At the
next line, the sound came from directly behind me. It was crunching sounds
like footsteps. Had to be a raccoon, I thought, or maybe it
was some other animal moving around back there. The lantern light that felt so
adequate before now seemed pretty feeble. I needed to get better light, and
the noise stopped when I turned around. I rushed to check the rest of
the lines, and each time I stopped, I could hear the rustling and
the bushes behind me and to my left, But whenever I turned to look,
I didn't see anything, and we didn't catch any fish either. I
made my way back and a passing thought occurred to me, what if Terry
was messing with me? First he tells me this spooky story, and then
he follows me down here and makes noises to scare me. But when I
came around the little ben and top of the rise in the trail, I
had a clear view of Terry sitting by the fire. He would have had
to have hustled to get back there ahead of me. It wasn't his style.
You catch anything, he asked, and I walked into the firelight.
Now nothing, I answered, and the bait was still on. I sat
the lantern down and asked if he had any luck. Look in the ice
chest, he said, with a grin. Opened the lid. I saw
a nice three pound bass. Oh that's nice, I said, what you
catch him on? Terry smiled and he said I caught him on your rod,
the one with the crawdad. Oh that's cool, I said, and
I shut the lid. I settled in with a cup of coffee, and
I was debating about whether or not to tell Terry about the noises I heard,
but I decided not to. Half an hour later, it was his
turn to check the bank poles. He had it out with the lantern while
I assured him that I'd be watching the rods, and I watched him disappear
round the bin, and I wondered if there would be any fish on those
lines, and if he would hear the same noise as I had heard.
Fifteen minutes later, he came back empty handed and I asked about it,
and he said that the bait was still hanging. He made small talk about
possibly moving the lines in a bit while he poured himself some coffee. Then
he asked me about the rods we had out right there, and I told
him we didn't get a bite. While we talked, I watched him.
I was staring at the fire, but I was watching him. He seemed
a bit off. He kept looking in the direction of our bank lines,
but he didn't say anything. I considered asking him if he'd heard the noise,
but I decided there wasn't any point in getting him worked up if he
hadn't heard anything. After a while, he blurted out, you know,
some folks say that old man's ghost haunts this place. I sat straight up
and I stared right at him. Get the hell out you believe that crap?
You don't, he asked, But you're a Catholic, aren't you.
Yeah, Well, what does that have to do with anything? The father
son and the holy ghost? He said? Isn't that a Catholic saying?
I rolled my eyes. Dude, cut it out. You're killing me,
I said, as I threw the rest of my coffee out on the ground.
He laughed and said, whatever, it's your turn to check the lines,
all right, I grumbled, and I grabbed the lantern. I was
walking away and Terry called out to me, watch out for the Holy Ghost.
I displayed a prominent finger over my shoulder and I kept walking. By
the time I got to the first line, I had convinced myself that Terry
was messing with me somehow. He had to be making those crunching noises,
and I had an idea for how I was going to prove it, assuming
that something would happen. Even though the first line still had bait and no
fish, I was relieved because there was also no noise. I was halfway
to the second line when it started crunch, crunch, crunch. It was
coming from the brush to my left again, and this time I didn't hold
the lantern up to look around. Instead, I turned in ran back to
the camp to determine to beat him back to the fire and catch him coming
out of the brush. But when I came around the turning up the rise,
I stopped and shot. Terry was sitting at the campfire right where I
left him. There was no way he could have beat me back to the
camp through the brush while I was running down that path. The run back
in the adrenaline rush had me breathing hard, so I stepped back for a
minute to catch my breath, and while I stood there, I kept an
eye on Terry while checking over my shoulder. I took that opportunity to look
for a second path, just in case. And while I stood there,
Terry got up and bent over one of the rods. He messed with it
for a minute and probably tightening the line. Maybe he had a bite.
After a minute, he returned to his seat, and finally I decided it
was time to return to the campfire. Terry threw another log on it while
I took a seat. Well, that didn't take long. He said,
yeah, there's still nothing on those lines. I told him. Did you
see any holy ghost? He asked, as he added a few more pieces
of wood. I ignored his chuckle and I said I was going to check
my bait, and afterward, I asked if he had any bites. While
I was gone, not sure. He said, this one here had slackened
the line, but I didn't see anything hit it. Maybe I should check
my bait too, he said, getting up and reeling in the line.
After that, we sat in silence. We watched our rods, and we
sat by the fire, and we stared into the night, but we never
talked. Terry finally got up and said, this fire is making me sleepy.
I'm going to go check our lines, and if we don't have anything
this time, we should move on. Sounds good to me, I said,
not sure if he heard me. Terry was right, the fire was
making me sleepy too. We were out of coffee, so I got up
and stretched. I just sat back down. When I saw Terry coming back
down the path, he was walking pretty fast. He was clearly upset.
That's it, he barked at me. You need to cut the crap.
His eyes were wild and he was agitated by something. I knew then that
he had heard those sounds too, but I wasn't sure what he was accusing
me of. What I asked, you heard me. It's not funny.
I don't know how you're doing it, but cut it out. It really
isn't funny. What the hell are you talking about, I asked, even
though I was beginning to understand you were making noise back in that brush.
Well, I started, it's not funny. He was hot. I thought
it was you. I said, it's not funny. He exclaimed, you
heard noises too, I asked, at the same time. Wait, he
said, looking at me, that wasn't you. Hell, no, it
wasn't me, I answered. You never left the fire while I walked down
there. I stayed right here, I said. We stood there looking at
each other for several minutes, and then together we turned and looked back down
the trail. I think we were thinking the same thing. What the hell
was it. Terry turned back to me and asked one more time. Now,
that wasn't you. You're not lying to me. I swear it wasn't
me, I assured him. I heard the stuff too. I thought it
was you, especially after all that talk about that guy drowning and ghosts and
stuff. Terry shook his head. I started talking about that stuff because the
first time I went back there, I heard that crap and I thought it
was you. So I thought i'd creep you out so you'd stop. Now,
I was shaking my head exactly what did you hear? I asked him.
I heard footsteps back in the woods and stuff being stepped on. Did
you hear the same thing, same thing? I said, Well, maybe
it's a cow or an ornery old bull, he suggested. We decided that
we would check the lines together. I took the flashlight, Terry carried the
lantern, and we set off down the bank. Terry checked the first line.
The bait was there, so he dropped it back in the water.
As he did so, we heard it. It was the same crunching footsteps
we had heard before. The flashlight was a weak little thing, but it
shined into the brush to try to see something while Terry held the lantern high.
There was no movement back there and no shapes to be seen. And
as soon as I turned the flashlight back down the path, the crunching in
the brush started again. Were we hearing footsteps? If so, what was
back there walking around? How about we pick up our lines and get the
hell out of here, Terry said, it's a damn good idea. I
answered, well, I kept the flashlight on the brush. Terry pulled up
the pole and threw the bait into the water, and then we moved to
the next pole. He was pulling up that pole, and we heard it
again, this time. When I aimed the weak beam of light into the
brush, I thought I saw a vague figure of something. Hey, did
you, I began, and then I stopped abruptly. Terry was standing beside
me, now in the area where I thought I saw the shape. I
was now looking at a pair of red eyes. Terry lifted the lantern higher
and they disappeared, or maybe they blinked. A few seconds later, the
eyes were back. They were six feet off the ground, maybe thirty feet
back in the brush, and those two red eyes were staring right at us.
What the hell is that, I whispered, I don't know. Terry
whispered back, it ain't no holy ghost. Let's get the hell out of
here, Come on, let's go. I didn't argue with him. We
both took off down the trail at a brisk pace, and behind us and
off to our right, we could hear those footsteps following us. Terry led
the way with the lantern held high, and I falled, with the flashlight
shining at all around us, and we cleared the little rise and found ourselves
back at the dying fire. Immediately, we turned and looked back to see
if the eyes were behind us. We didn't see anything at that moment.
Let's reel up and get the hell out of here, Terry said, after
a minute, all right, I'm with you. We reeled in our lines
as fast as we could, and we kicked dirt on the fire. Now.
I took the rods and both the lantern and the flashlight, while Terry
carried the ice chest in our bait bucket. We climbed the slope up to
where the truck was parked, thankful that we had let the tailgate down,
and while I started the truck, Terry set the ice chest in the back
of the truck and opened it. When I went back to shut the tailgate,
he was standing there staring into the ice chest. Where the hell's that
fish, he demanded. It's not there, No, it's not there.
I looked into the chest myself, but he was right. The three pound
bass was gone. Did you throw my fish back? Terry accused, Now,
why the hell would I do that? I demanded to know. He
threw his hands up in exasperation. Fish don't get out of an ice chest
and walk off on their own. He said, Look, I swear I
didn't throw that fish back in the water. The last time I saw it
was when you had me look at it after my first trip to check those
lines. The only time we were both away from that fish was when we
went to check the lines together and we both turned and looked back toward the
pond. Well, forget it, Terry said, let's get out of here.
As we drove toward the gate, we were both looking for reasonable explanations.
Terry said, it had to be a big old bull out there.
Do bulls have eyes that glow red? I countered. We passed a dozen
cows as we neared the gate, and so I swung the truck around to
shine my headlights on them. Their eyes all shine yellow. Okay, so
it's not a bull, I said. Terry was quiet. I think he
was still angry about the missing fish. What about our bank lines? I
asked, We can come back in the morning and get those, he answered,
and I agreed. In the daylight, he said. Now, nodded
my head, maybe about eleven, well after daylight. He said, that
sounds like a real good idea, I replied. I picked Terry up early
and we went to have some breakfast before heading back to get our bank lines,
And when we got to the pond, Terry raised his brows when I
pulled a shotgun out from behind the seat. It's just in case, I
told him, as I put a shell into the chamber and put the safety
on. Well, maybe there'll be sufficient on the hooks after being out there
all night, Terry said. Together, we walked down the slope to where
our fire had been the night before. We realized that we had left our
coffee pot and cups behind, and our haste to vacate the premises that gave
us both a chuckle. The laughter stopped when we ventured down the bank to
retrieve our lines. The brush beneath the high bluff on our left didn't seem
nearly as foreboding as it had in the dark, but we still couldn't see
much back there. We could see now that there was quite a bit of
water standing back in there that we hadn't seen the night before. It was
odd that we hadn't noticed it before. What was even stranger was that all
three of the bank lines that we had left were gone. Something or someone
had taken them through the years. Terry and I speculated quite a bit on
what we might have experienced that night. We always came up with more questions
than answers. What was making those footstep sounds? Where those red lights really
eyes? If so, what did they belong to? And what happened to
Terry's fish? And what happened to our bank lines? We tried to find
rational explanations for what happened. It was an animal back in the brush,
maybe a deer. The eyes could have been an owl in a tree,
or maybe a possum or a raccoon, And then we'd wander into less logical
territory. Did it have anything to do with the old man who had drowned?
Their was the place haunted? Maybe someone or a group of someone's was
messing with us. They took the fish in the bank lines, or maybe
someone wandered up on those lines the next morning before we got back there and
took them. We wondered if they had been hooked up with fish, or
maybe just maybe something we didn't know stalked us that night and it took the
lines, something with the red eyes