WRITER – Ethan Walker
Story 1: The Man Near the Lake
I never liked fishing at night.
But my older brother, Peter, loved it.
He said the lake was calm after sunset. No people. No noise. Just water, insects, and the small sound of fish moving under the surface.
That night, we went to Cold Pine Lake.
It was 10:30 PM.
The sky was clear. The moon was bright enough to see the trees around the lake. Our small boat moved slowly across the dark water.
Scary TRUE Fishing Horror Stories Peter smiled and said, “This is perfect.”
I did not feel the same.
The lake looked too still.
After one hour, Peter caught two small fish. I caught nothing. Then my fishing line pulled hard.
“Big one,” Peter whispered.
I held the rod tight. Something heavy moved under the water.
Then the line stopped.
Not snapped.
Stopped.
Like someone under the lake was holding it.
Peter leaned forward. “Pull slowly.”
I pulled.
The boat moved a little toward the middle of the lake.
Then we heard it.
A voice.
“Help me.”
It came from the water.
Peter froze.
I looked around. There was no other boat. No swimmer. No light.
Again, the voice came.
“Help me.”
This time it sounded closer.
Peter cut my fishing line with his knife.
The moment the line broke, the boat rocked hard.
Something hit the bottom.
Once.
Twice.
Then silence.
“Start the motor,” I said.
Peter tried.
Nothing.
The motor made a dry clicking sound.
Then we saw a man standing near the shore.
He was very still.
Too still.
He stood between two trees, wearing dark clothes. His face was pale in the moonlight.
Peter shouted, “Hey! Do you need help?”
The man did not answer.
He raised one hand and pointed at the water beside our boat.
I looked down.
A face was under the water.
White eyes open.
Mouth open.
Looking straight at me.
I screamed and fell backward.
Peter grabbed the oar and pushed hard. The motor suddenly started.
We rushed back to shore.
But the man between the trees was gone.
Next morning, we told the police.
They searched the lake.
They found an old car under the water, near the same place where my line got stuck.
Inside was a body.
The police said the car had been there for almost seven years.
But the strangest thing was this.
The dead man inside the car was wearing the same dark clothes as the man we saw on shore.
And his right hand was raised.
Like he was still pointing.
Story 2: The Boat That Followed Us
My friend Cole and I went fishing every summer.
We always used the same river.
It was narrow, silent, and surrounded by thick forest. Most people avoided that place because the road was bad and there was no phone signal.
Cole liked that.
“No people means more fish,” he always said.
That day, we reached the river before sunset.
We took our small boat into the water and moved slowly downstream.
The air was cold. The trees were black shadows on both sides.
For two hours, everything was normal.
Then Cole looked behind us.
“Do you see that?”
Far behind us, another boat floated in the river.
No light.
No motor sound.
Just a dark boat moving in the same direction.
“Maybe another fisherman,” I said.
Cole did not answer.
We kept fishing.
Ten minutes later, the boat was closer.
Still no sound.
Still no light.
I waved my flashlight.
The beam touched the boat for one second.
I saw a person sitting inside.
He was facing us.
His head was low.
His hands were on his knees.
Cole whispered, “Why is he not using oars?”
The river current was not strong enough to move that fast.
Cole started our motor.
We moved faster.
The boat behind us also moved faster.
That was impossible.
My stomach became cold.
Cole turned the boat toward a small muddy bank.
“We get out here,” he said.
We jumped out and pulled our boat halfway onto the shore.
The dark boat stopped in the river.
The person inside did not move.
Cole shouted, “What do you want?”
No answer.
Then the boat slowly turned by itself.
Now it faced the shore.
The person inside lifted his head.
His face was covered with a dirty cloth.
Then he stood up.
The boat did not shake.
Not even a little.
That scared me more than anything.
Cole grabbed my arm.
“Run.”
We ran into the trees.
Branches hit my face. My shoes sank into mud. Behind us, I heard water moving.
Not footsteps.
Water.
Like someone wet was walking through the forest.
We hid behind a large fallen tree.
Cole covered my mouth with his hand.
Something passed near us.
I could smell river water.
Rotten leaves.
Old fish.
Then I heard breathing.
Slow.
Heavy.
Right on the other side of the log.
After a few seconds, the breathing moved away.
We waited almost one hour before we returned.
Our boat was still there.
But something was inside it.
A fishing hook.
Old, black, and rusted.
Tied to it was a small piece of cloth.
The same cloth that covered the person’s face.
We never went back to that river.
One week later, Cole’s uncle told us a story.
Years ago, a fisherman disappeared there. People found his boat empty, floating in the river. His face cloth was missing.
They never found his body.
But sometimes, late at night, fishermen see a second boat behind them.
And if it reaches you…
You do not come back.
Story 3: Something Under the Ice
This happened in northern Minnesota.
My cousin Adam loved ice fishing. I did not.
I hated sitting on frozen lakes. I hated the sound of ice cracking under my feet. But Adam said it was safe.
“The ice is thick,” he told me. “Don’t act scared.”
We reached the frozen lake early in the morning.
The whole place was white and silent.
No wind.
No people.
Just us.
Adam drilled a hole in the ice. Then another. We sat in a small ice shelter and waited.
For a while, it was peaceful.
Then I heard tapping.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
I looked at Adam.
He smiled. “Fish hitting the line.”
But the sound was not from the line.
It came from under the ice.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Like fingernails.
I moved away from the hole.
Adam laughed. “Relax.”
Then his fishing line dropped fast.
He grabbed the rod.
“Big fish!”
He pulled hard.
The rod bent.
Something heavy moved below us.
Then the ice shelter shook.
Adam stopped smiling.
“What was that?” I asked.
Before he answered, a hand came up through the fishing hole.
A human hand.
Blue skin.
Long nails.
It grabbed the edge of the ice.
Adam screamed and fell backward.
The hand disappeared.
We ran out of the shelter.
The ice around us began making deep cracking sounds.
Not small cracks.
Loud ones.
Like something huge was pushing from below.
Adam pointed toward the truck.
“Go!”
We ran carefully, but fast.
Halfway to the truck, I looked back.
The ice shelter was moving.
Not sliding.
Lifting.
Something under it pushed upward.
Then the shelter fell sideways.
A dark shape moved under the ice.
Long.
Slow.
Human-like.
But too big.
We reached the truck and drove away without our fishing gear.
Adam called the local sheriff.
They searched the lake later that day.
They found our shelter broken.
They found Adam’s fishing rod snapped in half.
And near the hole, they found scratches on the ice.
From the inside.
The sheriff told us something strange.
Twenty years ago, a man went missing while ice fishing on that lake. His body was never found.
His name was Samuel Price.
That night, Adam showed me an old newspaper article.
There was a photo of Samuel.
His right hand had one missing finger.
I remembered the hand from the ice.
It also had one missing finger.
I still hear that tapping sound in my dreams.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Like someone under the ice is asking to be let out.
Story 4: The Last Fish
My father took me fishing when I was sixteen.
It was our last trip before he moved to another city for work.
He wanted the day to feel special.
We went to a lonely beach where the sea was calm and dark blue. There were no tourists. Only rocks, sand, and old wooden poles from a broken pier.
We fished until sunset.
My father was quiet that day.
I knew he felt guilty about leaving.
He looked at the water and said, “Life changes, Ethan. But I’ll always be your dad.”
I nodded, but I was angry.
I did not want to talk.
Then my line pulled.
Hard.
My father smiled. “There you go.”
I pulled the rod with both hands.
Something strong fought under the water.
My father helped me.
Together, we pulled the line in.
But it was not a fish.
It was a small metal box.
Old.
Covered in seaweed.
My father opened it with a knife.
Inside was a photo.
A young woman.
And a note.
The paper was wet but still readable.
It said:
“Please don’t let him take me back.”
My father’s face changed.
“What is it?” I asked.
He did not answer.
Then we heard a sound from the broken pier.
Wood creaking.
Someone was standing there.
A man in a long coat.
His clothes looked dry, but he stood near the waves.
My father put the box down.
The man stepped closer.
His face was hidden in shadow.
My father whispered, “Pack everything.”
The man called out, “That belongs to me.”
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
My father stood in front of me.
“We found it in the water,” he said.
The man pointed at the box.
“Give it back.”
I picked up our bag.
My father held my shoulder.
We walked backward.
The man followed.
Then I saw something impossible.
He left no footprints in the wet sand.
My father saw it too.
We ran.
Behind us, the man screamed.
Not like a person.
Like metal tearing.
We reached the car and locked the doors.
The man stood near the beach road, holding the box.
I don’t know how he got it.
He looked at me through the windshield.
Then he smiled.
His mouth was full of black water.
My father drove away fast.
Years later, after he died, I found something in his old drawer.
The same photo.
The same young woman.
On the back, someone had written:
“Found near Blackwater Pier, 1989.”
I searched online.
A woman had disappeared there many years ago.
People said her husband killed her and threw her into the sea.
They never found her body.
But every few years, fishermen pulled strange things from the water near that pier.
Photos.
Notes.
Small boxes.
And sometimes, when they tried to keep them…
A man came out of the dark and asked for them back.
That was the last time I ever went fishing near the sea.
And I never opened anything I found in the water again.
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