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Okay, I'm going to read you
some stories from a book. This book

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is authored by a man named Rob. He says he recently published the book.

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It's titled Campfire Tales from Uncle Rob. He says you can find the

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book on Amazon that's Campfire Tales from
Uncle Rob. And he claims that every

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one of the stories in his book
is true. So I said he published

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it recently. I don't know when
I got this email. It could have

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been a year ago. But I'm
going to read these stories. It's really

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good. So let's start with the
first one. It's called the pond Stalker.

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I used to spend a lot of
time fishing on farm pines. 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 crappy and channel cat

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

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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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there 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 of

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

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I was told there were even a
few channel cats lurking in the depths.

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

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

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about. We had seen some crawl
dads 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,

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

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

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Lambs like Christmas ornaments in Silent Testament. To the misfortune the farmer had

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suffered while fishing there. I had
caught my sharebas and crappie around those trees,

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but on that night we were fishing
for channel cats. We had what

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we considered a full proof plan mapped
out, complete with the kind of bait

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that was like fried chicken to a
catfish. To our left, the pond

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narrowed a bit and curved around.
Access to the water there was partially blocked

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by brush and patches of cattails.
Not far beyond that the area was choked

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with brush, but we managed to
get five lines set out along that region.

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We walked a narrow cow path with
the pond on our right and the

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brush on our left, and nothing
but brush and a few tall trees and

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gullies and washes to our left,
and they stretched out to a horizon of

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small hills and bluffs. We set
our lines in places where the shore opened

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up, with the idea that the
fish could easily make their way to the

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struggling crawdads and water dogs that we
had hung just below the water's surface.

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Any movement the bait made would be
like ringing the dinner bell. Once we

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got that done, we set up
our little camp. We gathered wood to

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build a fire and some cowboy coffee, and opened a couple of cans of

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beans to heat on a flat rock. Then we cast out a few rids

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right in front of us and settled
in for a long night of good fishing.

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And for extra light, we had
a lantern and a flashlight. The

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night was warm and pleasant and the
sky was clear with little to no wind.

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Get any better than that. We'd
been sitting there while talking about the

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fish that we were going to catch
and spinning tails when Terry remarked, you

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know this is the pond where that
old man drowned. Right? Uh?

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No, I answered, I didn't
know that. When was that, Well,

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it was back in the seventies,
Terry said, I was still in

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high school. I thought for a
minute, and I said, I guess

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I never knew about that one.
And then Terry said, I'm pretty sure

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

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weird. He took a sip of
coffee and added, folks said they found

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him up on the bank. Well, how was that weird? I asked,

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

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okay. Well, I shrugged it
off, seeing that I wasn't understanding

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

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If he drowned, why wasn't he
in the water. I scratch my

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head and suggested that maybe the the
wind blew him up on the bank,

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or maybe somebody moved him. Terry
said quick to reply, Now, why

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would anybody do that? I asked
him, more than a little disgusted by

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the thought. Well, folks said
he drowned, but he had been on

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the bank for a few days before
they found him. Terry said, yeah,

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I agree. That is a bit
weird, I admitted, makes you

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wonder. I was beginning to get
a little uncomfortable with the subject matter,

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so I suggested that we walk the
bank and check those other lines. Terry

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offered to help, but I told
him, now, you stay here and

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watch our riots. Maybe a big
one. We'll try to pull one in.

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

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I'll take the next turn. That's
a deal, I said, as I

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hit it down the path, Holly, if you need help with the big

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one, he called after me.
It was good and dark by then,

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but the lantern that I was carrying
cast a nice halo of light on the

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path around me. The water dog
on the first line was still alive and

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wiggling, so I moved to the
second. I was bent over pulling the

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crawdad on that second hook out of
the water when the hair stood up on

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the back of my neck and I
got the eeriest feeling that I was being

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watched. I lowered the bait back
into the water and I turned around,

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and with the lantern held as high
as I could get it, I scanned

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back into the brush, but it
was too dark to see anything. I

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think that damn story about that old
man drowning on dry land has got me

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spooked, and I was telling myself
that as I moved on down the bank

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to the next line. I was
almost to it when I heard a rustling

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in the brush to my left,
and again I held the lantern up and

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I searched the brush, but it
hadn't gotten any lighter out, so I

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still couldn't see At the next line. The sound came from directly behind me.

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It was crunching sounds like footsteps.
Had to be a raccoon, I

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thought, or maybe it was some
other animal moving around back there. The

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lantern light that felt so adequate before
now seemed pretty feeble. I needed to

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get better light, and the noise
stopped when I turned around. I rushed

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to check the rest of the lines, and each time I stopped, I

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could hear the rustling in the bushes
behind me and to my left. But

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whenever I turned to look, I
didn't see anything, and we didn't catch

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any fish either. I made my
way back, and a passing thought occurred

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to me, what if Terry was
messing with me? First he tells me

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this spooky story, and then he
follows me down here and makes noises to

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scare me. But when I came
around the little ben and top the rise

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in the trail, I had a
clear view of Terry sitting by the fire.

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He would have had to have hustled
to get back there ahead of me.

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It wasn't his style. You catch
anything, he asked, and I

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walked into the firelight. Now nothing, I answered, and the bait was

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still on. I sat the lantern
down and asked if he had any luck.

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Look in the ice chest, he
said, with a grin opened the

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lid. I saw a nice three
pound bass. Oh, that's nice,

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I said, what'd you catch him
on? Terry smiled and he said,

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I caught him on your rod,
the one with the crawdad. Oh that's

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cool, I said, and I
shut the lid. I settled in with

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a cup of coffee, and I
was debating about whether or not to tell

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Terry about the noises I heard,
but I decided not to. Half an

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hour later, it was his turn
to check the bank polls. He had

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it out with the lantern while I
assured him that I'd be watching the rods,

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and I watched him disappear round the
bin, and I wondered if there

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would be any fish on those lines, and if he would hear the same

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noise as I had heard. Fifteen
minutes later, he came back empty handed,

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and I asked about it, and
he said that the bait was still

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hanging. He made small talk about
possibly moving the lines in a bit while

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he poured himself some coffee. Then
he asked me about the rods we had

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out right there, and I told
him we didn't get a bite. We

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talked. I watched him. I
was staring at the fire, but I

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was watching him. He seemed a
bit off. He kept looking in the

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direction of our bank lines, but
he didn't say anything. I considered asking

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him if he'd heard the noise,
but I decided there wasn't any point in

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getting him worked up if he hadn't
heard anything. After a while, he

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blurted out, you know, some
folks say that old man's ghost haunts this

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place. I sat straight up and
I stared right at him. Get the

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hell out you believe that crap?
You don't, he asked. But you're

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a Catholic, aren't you. Yeah, well, what does that have to

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do with anything the father son and
the Holy Ghost? He said, isn't

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that a Catholic saying? I rolled
my eyes. Dude, cut it out.

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You're killing me, I said,
as I threw the rest of my

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coffee out on the ground. He
laughed and said, whatever, it's your

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turn to check the lines, all
right, I grumbled, and I grabbed

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the lantern. I was walking away
and Terry call out to me, watch

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out for the Holy Ghost. I
displayed a prominent finger over my shoulder and

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I kept walking. By the time
I got to the first line, I

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had convinced myself that Terry was messing
with me somehow. He had to be

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making those crunching noises, and I
had an idea for how I was going

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to prove it, assuming that something
would happen. Even though the first line

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still had bait and no fish,
I was relieved because there was also no

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noise. I was halfway to the
second line when it started crunch, crunch,

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crunch. It was coming from the
brush to my left again, and

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this time I didn't hold the lantern
up to look around. Instead, I

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turned and ran back to the camp
to determine to beat him back to the

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fire and catch him coming out of
the brush. But when I came around

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the turn and up the rise,
I stopped and shot. Terry was sitting

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at the campfire right where I left
him. There was no way he could

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have beat me back to the camp
the brush while I was running down that

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path. The run back in the
adrenaline rush had me breathing hard, so

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I stepped back for a minute to
catch my breath, and while I stood

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there, I kept an eye on
Terry while checking over my shoulder. I

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took that opportunity to look for a
second path just in case, And while

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I stood there, Terry got up
and bent over one of the rods.

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He messed with it for a minute
and probably tightening the line. Maybe he

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had a bite. After a minute, he returned to his seat, and

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finally I decided it was time to
return to the campfire. Terry threw another

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log on it while I took a
seat. Well, I didn't take long.

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He said, yeah, there's still
nothing on those lines. I told

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him. Did you see any holy
ghost? He asked, as he added

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a few more pieces of wood.
I ignored his chuckle and I said I

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was going to check my bait.
And afterward, I asked if he had

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any bites while I was gone.
Not sure. He said, this one

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here had slackened the line, but
I didn't see anything hit it. Maybe

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I should check my bait too,
he said, getting up and reeling in

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

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and we sat by the fire and
we stared into the night, but

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we never talked. Terry finally got
up and said, this fire is making

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me sleepy. I'm going to go
check our lines, and if we don't

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have anything this time, we should
move on. Sounds good to me,

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I said, not sure if he
heard me. Terry was right, The

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fire was making me sleepy too.
We were out of coffee, so I

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got up and stretched. I just
sat back down when I saw Terry coming

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

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

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crap. His eyes were wild,
and he was agitated by something. I

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knew then that he had heard those
sounds too, but I wasn't sure what

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he was accusing me of what.
I asked, you heard me. It's

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not funny. I don't know how
you're doing it, but cut it out.

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It really isn't funny. What the
hell are you talking about? I

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asked, even though I was beginning
to understand. You were making noise back

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in that brush. Well, I
started, it's not funny. He was

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hot. I thought it was you. I said, it's not funny.

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He exclaimed, You heard noises too, I asked, at the same time.

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Wait, he said, looking at
me. That wasn't you. Hell,

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no, it wasn't me, I
answered. You never left the fire

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while I walked down there. I
stayed right here, I said. We

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stood there, looking at each other
for several minutes, and then together we

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turned and looked back down the trail. I think we were thinking the same

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thing. What the hell was it? Terry turned back to me and asked

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one more time. That wasn't you. You're not lying to me. I

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swear it wasn't me. I assured
him. I heard the stuff too.

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I thought it was you, especially
after all that talk about that guy drowning

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and ghosts and stuff. Terry shook
his head. I started talking about that

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stuff because the first time I went
back there, I heard that crap and

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I thought it was you. So
I thought i'd creep you out so you'd

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stop. Now. I was shaking
my head. Exactly what did you hear?

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I asked him. I heard footsteps
back in the woods and stuff being

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stepped on. Did you hear the
same thing? Same thing? I said,

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Well, maybe it's a cow or
an ornery old bull, he suggested.

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We decided that we would check the
lines together. I took the flashlight,

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Terry carried the lantern, and we
set off down the bank. Terry

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checked the first line. The bait
was there, so he dropped it back

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in the water. As he did
so we heard it. It was the

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same crunching footsteps we had heard before. The flashlight was a weak little thing,

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but it shined into the brush to
try to see something while Terry held

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the lantern high. There was no
movement back there shapes to be seen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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it again. And this time,
when I aimed the weak beam of light

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

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did you? I began, and
then I stopped abruptly. Terry was

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

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

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

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

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thirty feet back in the brush and
those two red eyes were staring right at

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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ourselves 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 and 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 and

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

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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 fish,

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

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

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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 threw

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

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walk off on their own, he
said. Look, I swear, buddy,

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

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

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

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when we went to check the lines
together, and we both turned and looked

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back toward the pond. Well,
forget it, Terry said, let's get

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out of here. As we drove
toward the gate, we were both looking

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for reasonable explanations. Terry said,
it had to be a big old bull

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out there. Do bulls have eyes
that glow red? I countered, We

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passed a dozen cows as we neared
the gate, and so I swung the

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truck around to shine my headlights on
them. Their eyes all shine yellow.

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Okay, so it's not a bull, I said. Terry was quiet.

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I think he was still angry about
the missing fish. What about our bank

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lines? I asked. We can
come back in the morning and get those,

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he answered, and I agreed.
In the daylight, he said,

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And I nodded my head. Maybe
about eleven, well after daylight. He

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said. That sounds like a real
good idea, I replied. I picked

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Terry up early and we went to
have some breakfast before heading back to get

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our bank lines. And when we
got to the pond, Terry raised his

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brows when I pulled a shot out
from behind the seat. It's just in

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case, I told them, as
I put a shell into the chamber and

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put the safety on. Well,
maybe there'll be sufficient on the hooks after

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being out there all night, Terry
said. Together, we walked down the

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slope to where our fire had been
the night before. We realized that we

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had left our coffee pot and cups
behind, and our haste to vacate the

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premises that gave us both a chuckle. The laughter stopped when we ventured down

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the bank to retrieve our lines.
The brush beneath the high bluff on our

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left didn't seem nearly as foreboding as
it had in the dark, but we

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still couldn't see much back there.
We could see now that there was quite

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a bit of water standing back in
there that we hadn't seen the night before.

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

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was that all three of the bank
lines that we had left were gone.

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Something or someone had taken them through
the year. There's Terry and I speculated

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quite a bit on what we might
have experienced that night. We always came

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up with more questions than answers.
What was making those footsteps sounds? Were

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those red lights really eyes? If
so, what did they belong to?

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

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We tried to find rational explanations for
what happened. It was an animal back

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

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in a tree, or maybe a
possum or a raccoon, And then we'd

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wander into less logical territory. Did
it have anything to do with the old

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man who had drowned? There was
the place haunted. Maybe someone or a

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group of someone's was messing with us. They took the fish in the bank

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lines, or maybe someone wandered up
on those lines the next morning before we

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got back there and took them.
We wondered if they had been hooked up

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with fish, or maybe just maybe
something we didn't know stalked us that night

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and it took the lines. Something
with the red eyes. Okay, that

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is a really good story. I'm
going back to the top here to I

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want to tell you the name of
the book again, so you guys,

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I may buy this book. This
is pretty good. Let's see Campfire Tales

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from Uncle Rob. It's on Amazon. Just do a search for Campfire Tales

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from Uncle Rob. If it's still
for sale on Amazon, it'll still be

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00:21:33,559 --> 00:21:37,400
there. You guys buy his book. I'm sure it's in an electronic version

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00:21:37,640 --> 00:21:42,200
or probably in paperback. I don't
know how that works. But that's a

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00:21:42,240 --> 00:21:45,279
good story. And if this book
is full of stories like this might be

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worth a good read. So I
thought i'd share with it. You share

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00:21:48,599 --> 00:21:55,319
that with you. Thanks Rob for
sending Thanks Rob for sending this to me.

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This was really good. The title
of that story was the Pond Stalker.

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I thought it was an excellent story. I hope you guys enjoyed this

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video. We'll see you on the
next one. Thanks