Halloween Writing: A Fishing Trip Gone Wrong

PROMPT: “A fishing trip at the lake goes wrong.”

Inky black water waved at Marlow as he hobbled into his handed-down boat, wood splintering against his calloused fingertips. Supplies from his last boating trip still sat in the corner, gathering dust and mold. He avoided getting too close to the old sandwiches he had packed that now gave off a distinct odor. 

The moon, not entirely full that night, coaxed its way up the sky, the darkness getting more and more heavy with each wasted moment. Marlow balanced his pole on his knees as he pushed away from the rotting pier, unaware of the masked figure hanging out by the tree-line. 

Marlow set up his pole, muscle memory letting the moment be done within a minute. The water lazily rocked against his boat, shadows moving beneath the waves. He leaned back and scooted till he got comfortable, rubbing his hands together for some semblance of warmth. A brisk chill rang through the night, nipping at the loose clothes he decided to wear on the late fishing trip. 

The pole bounced against the boat, something beneath the waves played with the bait he set up. Marlow crossed his arms, the night birds and swaying of the boat rocking him into a quick sleep. 

Unbeknownst to the fisherman, the figure followed the boat along the shoreline. A mask, painted white and nothing else, covered his face beside the eyes. A crystal blue gaze clung onto Marlow’s solitary boat, not once pulling away. The boat creaked and moaned against the water, but the fisherman remained soundly asleep, one hand wrapped protectively around his fraying fishing pole. 

The figure paused in his trek, noticing the quickening pace of the waves. He lowered himself to the ground, slipping his fully clothed lanky body into the water. The darkness of the lake swallowed the masked figure within seconds. 

And for a moment, there was a stillness. 

Marlow carried on napping, no fish taking the bait hanging at the end of his pole. He dreamt of nothing other than a fruitful catch, a dinner that could last him a few days. Even as something lurked directly beneath him, peculiarly human hands gripping either side of the rickety old boat, Marlow felt no fear, and let himself sleep for the first time in days. 

As though the moon could see the disaster about to be on display, clouds crossed the sky, covering the faint light and snuffing out the stars. Marlow stirred in his sleep as the darkness of midnight overtook him. He rustled awake, yearning for the moon’s soft coaxing light to protect him throughout the chilly evening.

Marlow scooted in his seat, about to check the progress of his pole, but stopped, something else catching his eye.

Fingers, much like his own, curled around either side of the boat, as though someone stood beneath him, gripping upwards to the left and to the right. Unlike any other person Marlow had seen, these hands were stained grey, long fingers extending further than the average human’s. He looked around. The pier was no longer in sight. Each side of the lake extended far enough that the shore was too far away. The trees along the bank waved and swayed, as though they said “goodbye and goodnight” to Marlow. 

He grasped his fisherman’s pole, and it was the last move he ever made.

The fingers became hands, outlandishly long arms stretching over each side of the pole before they gripped onto Marlow’s old clothes, ripping and clawing. If Marlow screamed, no one would know. The boat capsized within seconds, and any sound was swallowed up by the lake’s waves. 

And as the water took any trace of the fisherman down to its bellows, a singular mask floated to the surface, now slowly floating down the lake, no man in sight.