The Empty Reel

The summer I turned twelve, my cousin Marie and her father, and my cousin Thomas and his father, and me and my dad all piled into two station wagons for a week at a rented cabin on Lake Chenoa in northern Saskatchewan. It was Canada Day, July 1st, and the sky, usually a pale blue, had deepened into a crisp, clear twilight. The air was so cold it bit the inside of your nose. We’d just finished a dinner of hot dogs and beans, and the fathers, wanting to cap off the holiday, announced we’d all go down to the dock to watch the fireworks over the water. The cabin’s dock was a rickety wooden structure that jutted out about thirty feet, with a small rowboat tied to the far side. Another dock stood across the narrow bay, belonging to a deserted property that had been for sale for years. The trees there stood like dark sentinels, and a faint path through the weeds showed it was rarely used.

As the sky erupted in reds and golds, the grand finale lit the lake like a daytime storm. But in the middle of that cacophony, we all heard a distinct *plink* from the opposite dock, as if someone had just cast a lure. The noise was sharp, cutting through the booms, and we all froze, the fathers pretending to watch the last bursts, though I saw my dad’s hand tighten on his beer. The kids exchanged glances; Marie, Thomas, and I nodded—we’d all heard it. Then, from the water near that old dock, came a frantic splashing. A fish—a big one by the sound of it—thrashed at the surface, and the noise was accompanied by a regular, metallic *crank-crank-crank*, like a reel being turned. The splash moved toward the dock, as if something were pulling the fish in. We watched, mesmerized, as the splashing grew more violent, then stopped abruptly, and we heard a heavy *thud* on the wooden planks, followed by silence.

After the fireworks ended, the fathers laughed it off, saying it was probably a muskrat or a branch. But we kids knew better. The next morning, we decided to row over and investigate. My dad and uncle were still asleep; we took the rowboat without asking. We found the old dock slick with algae, and at the far end, lying in a shallow puddle of water, was a huge northern pike. It was dead, its body split open from gill to tail, but not by any fish knife—the flesh was shredded as if something had bitten into it, and there were odd, tooth-like marks. More disturbing was the fishing line still attached to its mouth, leading up to a rusty, ancient reel that sat on the dock, unattended. The crank was slightly bent, and the line was taut. Thomas poked it with a stick, and the reel gave a single, sharp *crank* on its own, making us all jump.

We decided to take the fish back to the cabin to show the dads, but when we arrived, the cabin’s kitchen had a strange smell—like rot and old metal. The fathers claimed they’d seen nothing, but the smell got stronger each day. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I looked out my window and saw a figure standing on the opposite dock—a tall, thin shape that seemed to be reeling in something at the water’s edge. It was too dark to make out features, but I saw the silhouette of an arm moving in a cranking motion. When I blinked, it was gone.

The next afternoon, we found our own fishing rods on the shore, their lines tangled and cut. My dad’s reel was missing, and later we found it in the lake, dangling from a dead branch. Thomas swore he saw a misty hand rising from the water, clutching at the line. Marie started crying and said she wanted to go home. The dads packed us up early, but as we were driving away, we passed the opposite dock, and I saw the water churn as if something large had just broken the surface. A single, clear *crank* resonated through the car window, and I could have sworn I saw the glint of a metallic object sinking into the depths.

Years have passed, and I’ve never gone back to that lake. But occasionally, in the quiet of night, I hear that cranking sound, like a reel being turned in the dark, and I know something is waiting for the next cast. The fathers still deny it, but the memory of that empty reel, and the fish with the impossible wounds, haunts me. Sometimes I wonder if the water is the true fisherman, and we were never meant to leave.