The Devil’s Catch: A Fly-Fishing Horror Story
I. The Whispering River
Tom Weaver had fished the remote streams of Montana for most of his life.
But the stretch of the Gallatin River he was approaching this October evening wasn’t marked on any map.
His friend Jake had mentioned it before disappearing without a trace.
“They say the trout there are bigger than anywhere else,” Jake had whispered, his voice uneasy.
“But the place… it ain’t right. The fish… they don’t act natural.”
Tom never believed in ghost stories. He believed in cold water, the right fly, and patience.
But he couldn’t shake a strange sense of unease as the autumn sun dipped behind the mountains, leaving the world drenched in twilight shadows.
The river’s surface was eerily still, yet a peculiar hum floated through the air—like distant whispers carried on the breeze.
Dismissing it as nerves, Tom cast his line into the dark water, the fly landing with a soft plop.
II. The First Bite
The silence was absolute. No wind, no rustling leaves. Just the hum.
Tom grinned as adrenaline surged. “Gotcha,” he muttered, reeling with expert precision.
The rod bent dangerously, the line slicing through the water as the fish darted, fast and violent.
This was no ordinary trout. It had strength unlike anything Tom had ever encountered—almost like it was pulling him.
He adjusted his stance, but the fish surged again, yanking the rod toward the river with unnatural force.
And then, just as suddenly, the line went slack. Tom stumbled backward, heart pounding. “Damn,” he whispered, checking the fly.
It was gone—snapped clean off.
He never saw the fish. But the water shimmered oddly like something beneath the surface was watching.
III. The Corpse in the Current
Determined not to be outdone, Tom tied a new fly—a black streamer, perfect for night fishing.
He cast again. And again. Each time, the same result: a powerful strike, then nothing.
The hum grew louder, the whispers more distinct.
They sounded like a voice—faint, garbled, yet unmistakably human.
Tom’s hands trembled as he made another cast, just as the clouds swallowed the moon, drenching the river in darkness.
That’s when he saw a shape floating downstream, pale and bloated. At first, he thought it was a deer carcass. But as it drifted closer, he realized the awful truth: it was Jake.
His friend’s face, slack and lifeless, stared up at the sky. His arms floated at odd angles, broken. But what made
Tom’s blood ran cold with the fish—huge trout with black,
empty eyes, their jaws latched onto Jake’s body, pulling it downstream.
Tom stumbled backward, gagging, but his feet tangled in the weeds along the riverbank. The water rippled, and the fish released Jake’s corpse. The current shifted unnaturally as if waiting for Tom to step forward.
IV. The Hooked Hand
Panicking, Tom fumbled with his gear, desperate to leave. His fly rod slipped from his grip, the tip dipping into the water. And that’s when something seized the line—more complex than before, yanking the rod violently.
Tom tried to let go, but his hand wouldn’t release. It was as if the rod had fused to his skin. With a sickening pull, it dragged him toward the riverbank. The whispers were now clear—Jake’s voice, desperate and garbled: “You can’t leave… You can’t leave…”
Tom screamed, thrashing, but his boots slid helplessly in the mud. Cold, wet pressure wrapped around his ankle, pulling him toward the water.
He glanced in horror—one of the trout was latched onto him, its black eyes staring into his soul.
The whispers filled his mind, Jake’s voice growing louder. “The river… it takes you… You’ll fish… forever…”
Tom screamed as the water surged over his legs, the rod pulling, dragging him deeper. His hand—his hand—snapped unnaturally, bending backward as if hooked by an invisible force.
He knew then that he wasn’t just fishing; something was fishing for him.
V. The Final Catch
When the search party found Tom’s truck abandoned the next day, they assumed he had gotten lost. They combed the riverbank for days but never found his body. Only his gear remained—a tangled rod, bent and twisted as if by something monstrous.
Weeks later, a hiker spotted a figure standing in the middle of the river—tall, gaunt, and motionless. It looked like a man casting a line, but something was wrong with his movements. His arms jerked unnaturally as if guided by invisible strings.
Locals say that when the moon is hidden on certain nights, you can still see him—a shadowy figure casting endlessly into the dark waters.
And if you listen carefully, you’ll hear the whispers:
“The river takes you… You fish forever…”
The man in the river looks like Tom. But his eyes are gone—just two black, empty holes staring into eternity.
And somewhere beneath the surface, the fish wait patiently for their following catch.