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I used to spend a lot of
time fishing on farm pines, and back

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when I was younger, there were
pines like that everywhere, and many of

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them actually had water and good fish
in them. But today finding a farm

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pond with good fish is like being
struck by lightning, only not as painful.

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Most of our ponds have dried up
due to drought. Healthy farm ponds

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are their own finite ecosystems. Fish
like largemouth bass and crappie, and channel

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cat and bluegill thriving these ponds.
But aside from that, those ponds are

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a stable source of water for animals, both wild and domestic, and sometimes

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they are a source of water for
the stranger creatures of this world. Literally,

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they are places where the things go
bumping the night. A few years

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ago, I was fishing in one
of these ponds. It wasn't especially big,

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but it was still a pretty good
size. It had a marginal population

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of bass and a nice community of
croppie, and though I had not witnessed

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it, I was told there were
even a few channel cats lurking in the

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depths. My friend Terry and I
decided we were going to do some night

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fishing to see if we might tangle
with some of those mythical catfish we had

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heard about. We had seen some
crawdads and water dogs in preparation for bank

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fishing that we were planning just before
dark. When we got there, we

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quickly set up for the night.
There was a nice spot on the bank

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that gave us full access to the
main part of the pond. Now in

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the middle of the pond was a
large tree with a few smaller trees scattered

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around it. There were lines and
lures and bobbers hanging from those tree lambs

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like Christmas ornaments in silent testament to
the misfortune the farmer had suffered while fishing

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there. I had caught my sharebas
and crappie around those trees, but on

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that night we were fishing for channel
cats. We had what we considered a

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full proof plan, mapped out completely
with the kind of bait that was like

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fried chicken to a catfish. To
our left, the pond narrowed a bit

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and curved around. Access to the
water there was partially blocked by brush and

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patches of cattails. Not far beyond
that the area was choked with brush,

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but we managed to get five lines
set out along that region, We walked

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a narrow cow path with the pond
on our right and the brush on our

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left, and nothing but brush and
a few tall trees and gullies and washes

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to our left, and they stretched
out to a horizon of small hills and

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bluffs. We set our lines in
places where the shore opened up, with

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the idea that the fish could easily
make their way to the struggling crawdads and

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water dogs that we had hung just
below the water's surface. Any movement the

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bait made would be like ringing the
dinner bell. Once we got that done,

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we set up our little camp.
We gathered wood to build a fire

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and some cowboy coffee, and opened
a couple of cans of beans heat on

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a flat rock. Then we cast
out a few riots right in front of

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us and settled in for a long
night of good fishing. For extra light,

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we had a lantern and a flashlight. The night was warm and pleasant

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and the sky was clear with little
to no wind. Doesn't get any better

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than that. We'd been sitting there
while talking about the fish that we were

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going to catch and spinning tails when
Terry remarked, you know, this is

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the pond where that old man drowned? Right? Uh? No, I

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answered, I didn't know that.
When was that? Well, it was

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back in the seventies, Terry said, I was still in high school.

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I thought for a minute, and
I said, I guess I never knew

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about that one. And then Terry
said, I'm pretty sure it was here

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that it happened. It was a
sad thing and kind of weird. He

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took a sip of coffee and added, folks said they found him up on

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the bank. Well, how was
that weird? I asked, not quite

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getting his point. He wasn't in
the water. Terry answered, okay,

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Well, I shrugged it off.
Seeing that I wasn't understanding the gravity of

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his statement. Terry explained further,
he was on the bank. If he

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drowned, why wasn't he in the
water. I scratch my head and suggested

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that maybe the wind blew him up
on the bank, or maybe somebody moved

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him. Terry said, quick to
reply, Now, why would anybody do

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that? I asked him, more
than a little disgusted by the thought.

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Well, folks said he drowned,
but he had been on the bank for

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a few days before they found him. Terry said, yeah, I agree,

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that is a bit weird, I
admitted, makes you wonder. I

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was beginning to get a little uncomfortable
with the subject matter, so I suggested

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that we walk the bank and check
those other lines. Terry offered to help,

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but I told him, now,
you stay here and watch our riots.

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Maybe a big one. We'll try
to pull one in. Okay,

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I said, we'll trade off.
You go this time and I'll take the

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next. That's a deal, I
said, as I hit it down the

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path hoighly. If you need help
with the big one, he called after

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me. It was good and dark
by then, but the lantern that I

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was carrying cast a nice halo of
light on the path around me. The

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water dog on the first line was
still alive and wiggling, so I moved

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to the second. I was bent
over pulling the crawdad on that second hook

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out of the water when the hair
stood up on the back of my neck

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and I got the eeriest feeling that
I was being watched. I lowered the

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bait back into the water and I
turned around, and with the lantern held

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as high as I could get it, I scanned back into the brush,

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but it was too dark to see
anything. I think that damn story about

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that old man drowning on dry land
has got me spooked, and I was

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telling myself that as I moved on
down the bank to the next line.

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I was almost to it when I
heard a rustling in the brush to my

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left, and again I held the
lantern up and I searched the brush,

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but it hadn't gotten any loft,
so I still couldn't see. At the

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next line, the sound came from
directly behind me. It was crunching sounds

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like footsteps. Had to be a
raccoon, I thought, or maybe it

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was some other animal moving around back
there. The lantern light that felt so

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adequate before now seemed pretty feeble.
I needed to get better light, and

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the noise stopped when I turned around. I rushed to check the rest of

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the lines, and each time I
stopped, I could hear the rustling and

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the bushes behind me and to my
left, But whenever I turned to look,

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I didn't see anything, and we
didn't catch any fish either. I

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made my way back and a passing
thought occurred to me, what if Terry

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was messing with me? First he
tells me this spooky story, and then

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he follows me down here and makes
noises to scare me. But when I

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came around the little ben and top
of the rise in the trail, I

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had a clear view of Terry sitting
by the fire. He would have had

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to have hustled to get back there
ahead of me. It wasn't his style.

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You catch anything, he asked,
and I walked into the firelight.

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Now nothing, I answered, and
the bait was still on. I sat

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the lantern down and asked if he
had any luck. Look in the ice

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chest, he said, with a
grin. Opened the lid. I saw

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a nice three pound bass. Oh
that's nice, I said, what you

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catch him on? Terry smiled and
he said I caught him on your rod,

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the one with the crawdad. Oh
that's cool, I said, and

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I shut the lid. I settled
in with a cup of coffee, and

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I was debating about whether or not
to tell Terry about the noises I heard,

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but I decided not to. Half
an hour later, it was his

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turn to check the bank poles.
He had it out with the lantern while

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I assured him that I'd be watching
the rods, and I watched him disappear

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round the bin, and I wondered
if there would be any fish on those

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lines, and if he would hear
the same noise as I had heard.

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Fifteen minutes later, he came back
empty handed and I asked about it,

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and he said that the bait was
still hanging. He made small talk about

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possibly moving the lines in a bit
while he poured himself some coffee. Then

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he asked me about the rods we
had out right there, and I told

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him we didn't get a bite.
While we talked, I watched him.

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I was staring at the fire,
but I was watching him. He seemed

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a bit off. He kept looking
in the direction of our bank lines,

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but he didn't say anything. I
considered asking him if he'd heard the noise,

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but I decided there wasn't any point
in getting him worked up if he

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hadn't heard anything. After a while, he blurted out, you know,

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some folks say that old man's ghost
haunts this place. I sat straight up

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and I stared right at him.
Get the hell out you believe that crap?

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You don't, he asked, But
you're a Catholic, aren't you.

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Yeah, Well, what does that
have to do with anything? The father

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son and the holy ghost? He
said? Isn't that a Catholic saying?

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I rolled my eyes. Dude,
cut it out. You're killing me,

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I said, as I threw the
rest of my coffee out on the ground.

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He laughed and said, whatever,
it's your turn to check the lines,

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all right, I grumbled, and
I grabbed the lantern. I was

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walking away and Terry called out to
me, watch out for the Holy Ghost.

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I displayed a prominent finger over my
shoulder and I kept walking. By

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the time I got to the first
line, I had convinced myself that Terry

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was messing with me somehow. He
had to be making those crunching noises,

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and I had an idea for how
I was going to prove it, assuming

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that something would happen. Even though
the first line still had bait and no

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fish, I was relieved because there
was also no noise. I was halfway

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to the second line when it started
crunch, crunch, crunch. It was

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coming from the brush to my left
again, and this time I didn't hold

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the lantern up to look around.
Instead, I turned in ran back to

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the camp to determine to beat him
back to the fire and catch him coming

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out of the brush. But when
I came around the turning up the rise,

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I stopped and shot. Terry was
sitting at the campfire right where I

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left him. There was no way
he could have beat me back to the

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camp through the brush while I was
running down that path. The run back

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in the adrenaline rush had me breathing
hard, so I stepped back for a

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minute to catch my breath, and
while I stood there, I kept an

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eye on Terry while checking over my
shoulder. I took that opportunity to look

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for a second path, just in
case. And while I stood there,

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Terry got up and bent over one
of the rods. He messed with it

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for a minute and probably tightening the
line. Maybe he had a bite.

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After a minute, he returned to
his seat, and finally I decided it

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was time to return to the campfire. Terry threw another log on it while

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I took a seat. Well,
that didn't take long. He said,

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yeah, there's still nothing on those
lines. I told him. Did you

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see any holy ghost? He asked, as he added a few more pieces

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of wood. I ignored his chuckle
and I said I was going to check

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my bait, and afterward, I
asked if he had any bites. While

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I was gone, not sure.
He said, this one here had slackened

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the line, but I didn't see
anything hit it. Maybe I should check

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my bait too, he said,
getting up and reeling in the line.

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After that, we sat in silence. We watched our rods, and we

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sat by the fire, and we
stared into the night, but we never

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talked. Terry finally got up and
said, this fire is making me sleepy.

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I'm going to go check our lines, and if we don't have anything

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this time, we should move on. Sounds good to me, I said,

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not sure if he heard me.
Terry was right, the fire was

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making me sleepy too. We were
out of coffee, so I got up

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and stretched. I just sat back
down. When I saw Terry coming back

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down the path, he was walking
pretty fast. He was clearly upset.

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That's it, he barked at me. You need to cut the crap.

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His eyes were wild and he was
agitated by something. I knew then that

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he had heard those sounds too,
but I wasn't sure what he was accusing

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me of. What I asked,
you heard me. It's not funny.

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I don't know how you're doing it, but cut it out. It really

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isn't funny. What the hell are
you talking about, I asked, even

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though I was beginning to understand you
were making noise back in that brush.

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Well, I started, it's not
funny. He was hot. I thought

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it was you. I said,
it's not funny. He exclaimed, you

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heard noises too, I asked,
at the same time. Wait, he

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said, looking at me, that
wasn't you. Hell, no, it

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wasn't me, I answered. You
never left the fire while I walked down

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there. I stayed right here,
I said. We stood there looking at

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each other for several minutes, and
then together we turned and looked back down

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the trail. I think we were
thinking the same thing. What the hell

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was it. Terry turned back to
me and asked one more time. Now,

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that wasn't you. You're not lying
to me. I swear it wasn't

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me, I assured him. I
heard the stuff too. I thought it

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was you, especially after all that
talk about that guy drowning and ghosts and

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stuff. Terry shook his head.
I started talking about that stuff because the

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first time I went back there,
I heard that crap and I thought it

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was you. So I thought i'd
creep you out so you'd stop. Now,

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I was shaking my head exactly what
did you hear? I asked him.

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I heard footsteps back in the woods
and stuff being stepped on. Did

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you hear the same thing, same
thing? I said, Well, maybe

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it's a cow or an ornery old
bull, he suggested. We decided that

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we would check the lines together.
I took the flashlight, Terry carried the

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lantern, and we set off down
the bank. Terry checked the first line.

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The bait was there, so he
dropped it back in the water.

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As he did so, we heard
it. It was the same crunching footsteps

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we had heard before. The flashlight
was a weak little thing, but it

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shined into the brush to try to
see something while Terry held the lantern high.

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There was no movement back there and
no shapes to be seen. And

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as soon as I turned the flashlight
back down the path, the crunching in

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the brush started again. Were we
hearing footsteps? If so, what was

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back there walking around? How about
we pick up our lines and get the

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hell out of here, Terry said, it's a damn good idea. I

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answered, well, I kept the
flashlight on the brush. Terry pulled up

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the pole and threw the bait into
the water, and then we moved to

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the next pole. He was pulling
up that pole, and we heard it

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again, this time. When I
aimed the weak beam of light into the

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brush, I thought I saw a
vague figure of something. Hey, did

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you, I began, and then
I stopped abruptly. Terry was standing beside

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me, now in the area where
I thought I saw the shape. I

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was now looking at a pair of
red eyes. Terry lifted the lantern higher

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and they disappeared, or maybe they
blinked. A few seconds later, the

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eyes were back. They were six
feet off the ground, maybe thirty feet

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back in the brush, and those
two red eyes were staring right at us.

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What the hell is that, I
whispered, I don't know. Terry

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whispered back, it ain't no holy
ghost. Let's get the hell out of

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here, Come on, let's go. I didn't argue with him. We

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both took off down the trail at
a brisk pace, and behind us and

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off to our right, we could
hear those footsteps following us. Terry led

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the way with the lantern held high, and I falled, with the flashlight

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shining at all around us, and
we cleared the little rise and found ourselves

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back at the dying fire. Immediately, we turned and looked back to see

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if the eyes were behind us.
We didn't see anything at that moment.

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Let's reel up and get the hell
out of here, Terry said, after

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a minute, all right, I'm
with you. We reeled in our lines

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as fast as we could, and
we kicked dirt on the fire. Now.

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I took the rods and both the
lantern and the flashlight, while Terry

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carried the ice chest in our bait
bucket. We climbed the slope up to

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where the truck was parked, thankful
that we had let the tailgate down,

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and while I started the truck,
Terry set the ice chest in the back

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of the truck and opened it.
When I went back to shut the tailgate,

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he was standing there staring into the
ice chest. Where the hell's that

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fish, he demanded. It's not
there, No, it's not there.

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I looked into the chest myself,
but he was right. The three pound

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bass was gone. Did you throw
my fish back? Terry accused, Now,

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why the hell would I do that? I demanded to know. He

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threw his hands up in exasperation.
Fish don't get out of an ice chest

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and walk off on their own.
He said, Look, I swear I

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didn't throw that fish back in the
water. The last time I saw it

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was when you had me look at
it after my first trip to check those

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lines. The only time we were
both away from that fish was when we

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went to check the lines together and
we both turned and looked back toward the

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pond. Well, forget it,
Terry said, let's get out of here.

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As we drove toward the gate,
we were both looking for reasonable explanations.

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Terry said, it had to be
a big old bull out there.

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Do bulls have eyes that glow red? I countered. We passed a dozen

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cows as we neared the gate,
and so I swung the truck around to

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shine my headlights on them. Their
eyes all shine yellow. Okay, so

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it's not a bull, I said. Terry was quiet. I think he

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was still angry about the missing fish. What about our bank lines? I

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asked, We can come back in
the morning and get those, he answered,

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and I agreed. In the daylight, he said. Now, nodded

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my head, maybe about eleven,
well after daylight. He said, that

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sounds like a real good idea,
I replied. I picked Terry up early

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and we went to have some breakfast
before heading back to get our bank lines,

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And when we got to the pond, Terry raised his brows when I

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pulled a shotgun out from behind the
seat. It's just in case, I

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told him, as I put a
shell into the chamber and put the safety

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on. Well, maybe there'll be
sufficient on the hooks after being out there

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all night, Terry said. Together, we walked down the slope to where

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our fire had been the night before. We realized that we had left our

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coffee pot and cups behind, and
our haste to vacate the premises that gave

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us both a chuckle. The laughter
stopped when we ventured down the bank to

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retrieve our lines. The brush beneath
the high bluff on our left didn't seem

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nearly as foreboding as it had in
the dark, but we still couldn't see

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much back there. We could see
now that there was quite a bit of

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water standing back in there that we
hadn't seen the night before. It was

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odd that we hadn't noticed it before. What was even stranger was that all

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three of the bank lines that we
had left were gone. Something or someone

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had taken them through the years.
Terry and I speculated quite a bit on

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what we might have experienced that night. We always came up with more questions

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than answers. What was making those
footstep sounds? Where those red lights really

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eyes? If so, what did
they belong to? And what happened to

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Terry's fish? And what happened to
our bank lines? We tried to find

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rational explanations for what happened. It
was an animal back in the brush,

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maybe a deer. The eyes could
have been an owl in a tree,

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or maybe a possum or a raccoon, And then we'd wander into less logical

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territory. Did it have anything to
do with the old man who had drowned?

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Their was the place haunted? Maybe
someone or a group of someone's was

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messing with us. They took the
fish in the bank lines, or maybe

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00:20:08.519 --> 00:20:12.240
someone wandered up on those lines the
next morning before we got back there and

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00:20:12.279 --> 00:20:18.440
took them. We wondered if they
had been hooked up with fish, or

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maybe just maybe something we didn't know
stalked us that night and it took the

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lines, something with the red eyes