“Gone Fishing“
David loved fishing with his dad.
It was their thing.
They were up at 4:00 a.m., out the door by five. The sky was still black, the air cool and quiet. They stopped at the little convenience store like they always did.
Thirty guppies.
One tub of night crawlers.
Routine.
But today someone new stood behind the counter.
Dave had gotten to know everyone who worked there over the years. This girl couldn’t have been more than twenty. Brown hair. Pale skin. Calm eyes that lingered just a second too long.
“I’m Dave,” he said proudly. “Me and my dad fish all the time. We come here for bait every weekend. I’ve never seen you before.”
“I’m Karen,” she replied, scanning the bait without looking down.
She looked at him then.
“You ever think about how the little fish feel?” she asked softly.
Dave blinked. “What?”
“When you push a razor-sharp hook through their mouths… pull them from the water… and let them suffocate.”
The words didn’t sound angry. They sounded curious.
John, standing in the aisle nearby, heard every word but stayed quiet.
Dave shifted his weight. “We eat what we catch,” he said. “We take them home. Clean them. Cook them.”
Karen tilted her head.
“I never eat anything that has a face,” she said. “Fish have faces.”
Her eyes flicked toward the bait bucket.
“You and your father will understand one day,” she added. “Killing innocent creatures is a sin. And all sins are answered.”
John stepped around the corner.
“That’s enough,” he said firmly. “He’s eleven.”
Karen smiled — not embarrassed. Not apologetic.
Just knowing.
She muttered a quick apology anyway.
They paid. They left.
John didn’t bring it up on the drive.
Neither did Dave.
The lake was calm that morning.
The fishing was good. Dave Caught Seven bluegills.
Three crappie.
John had five crappie and a yellow perch.
They laughed. They kept score. It was perfect.
After a while, Dave got hungry.
“Dad, I left the sandwiches in the truck. I’ll grab them.”
“Don’t fall in,” John called, grinning.
Dave jogged up the narrow dirt path toward the parking lot.
Halfway there—
He heard something.
A low, muffled sound.
Not wind.
Not water.
Something strained.
He stopped.
Listened.
Silence.
Just birds.
He shook it off and continued to the truck.
Grabbed the sandwiches.
Jogged back down.
His dad was gone.
The fishing chair was still there.
The tackle box open.
Rod lying in the dirt.
“Dad?” Dave called.
Nothing.
He stepped toward the shoreline—
—and walked face-first into something solid.
He stumbled back, confused.
His hands reached forward.
They wrapped around a line.
Not fishing line.
This was thick. Heavy. Taut.
He followed it down.
At the end—
A hook.
Massive.
Barbed.
The kind you’d use to catch something enormous.
His throat tightened.
The line didn’t go into the water.
It went up.
Straight up.
Into the sky.
So high he couldn’t see where it ended.
His phone shook in his hands as he dialed 911.
And that’s when he saw them.
Up on the hillside.
His father’s boots.
Lying on their sides as if something had pulled him straight out of them.
The line hummed.
Just slightly.
Then it snapped tight.
And was gone.
The police searched for six days.
Divers combed the lake.
Dogs tracked the shoreline.
No blood.
No body.
No signs of struggle.
The boots were collected as evidence.
By the time officers asked Dave about the fishing line—
It wasn’t there.
There was no mark in the dirt.
No hook.
No indentation in the ground.
Nothing.
The store owner later confirmed no employee named Karen had ever worked there.
John was never seen again.
Dave never went fishing after that.
But sometimes—
Late at night—
He looks up at the sky.
Wondering, waiting, knowing.
One day, it could return.