This happened during a trip a while back. I love fishing, so I used to go on out-of-state trips all the time.
Taking the highway for four or five hours to somewhere new, catching fish you can't get back home or sizes that don't exist locally—there's nothing quite like that feeling.
I know it sounds like an old man's hobby, but I was still a fresh-faced 23-year-old. My trip crew was always the same guys.
There was K, who had the sheer grit to keep casting lures endlessly and guaranteed a catch, and T, who had incredible fishing instincts and a wealth of info to skillfully land targets. And then there was me—the driver with zero instinct and zero grit.
That group of ours stopped fishing in the ocean last fall. Now we exclusively target things like white-spotted char, cherry salmon, largemouth bass, and snakeheads.
Did we get tired of ocean fishing? No, not at all. Truth is, I'd love to go to the ocean right now. I want to turn freshly caught reef squid into sashimi and eat it. But that's never going to happen again.
What on earth happened? September 2020: the single most terrifying, horrific event of our lives.
That fishing trip was planned two months earlier, in July 2020.
Apparently K and T had watched a YouTube video on 'eging'—fishing for reef squid—and said, 'Let's go catch some reef squid!'
Just a week before that, I'd eaten reef squid for the first time at a sushi restaurant, so I was totally on board.
From then on, we met up almost every week to research destinations and squid gear. Back and forth we argued, our heated planning sessions running past midnight every night.
I won't name the location, but we chose a spot on the Sea of Japan. We picked routes and lodgings, calculated highway tolls and room rates, totally hyped up. I wasn't the only one who couldn't focus on work until departure day.
Finally, departure day arrived. We met at 5:00 AM and set off for our destination.
The drive took over six hours. We had a blast on the way, stopping at tackle shops and grabbing food.
We fished from around 6:00 PM to 9:00 PM and caught nothing. Exhausted from the drive, we gave up early, hit a public bath, and slept in the car.
The next morning, we woke up at 2:00 AM and hit the fishing spot. That was how we planned to spend our four-day, three-night trip.
The incident happened on the night of the third day.
Having caught over ten reef squid each on day two, we were pretty satisfied and decided to scout new spots for our next trip.
We checked out fishing ports, of course, but also rocky shores. Around 5:00 PM, as the sun was starting to set, we hit one last rocky shore to inspect it. The path there was brutal.
First off, the mountain path to get down to the rocks was rough—steep and muddy.
Usually, rocky fishing spots have ropes set up or a beaten path carved out, but this place had none of that. At first we were hyped, talking about how untouched it was, but anxiety slowly started setting in.
Was it untouched, or did no one come here because you couldn't catch anything? Or maybe it was so dangerous people were forbidden to enter?
Getting onto the rocks themselves was brutal too. You didn't slip, but you had to leap from boulder to boulder, and there were razor-sharp rocky crags. We huffed and puffed as we pushed further out.
When we finally reached the tip of the rocky point, we found a deep spot with strong currents that was blatantly prime for fishing.
Jackpot! we cheered, casting our rods in high spirits. For the next hour or two, we pulled in reef squid and young yellowtail like we were at a stocked fishing pond. But that's where the trouble started.
We got so caught up in the action that the sun had set on us, on an already dangerous rocky ledge. Luckily, we had headlamps and flashlights, so we decided to fish a little longer, calm down, and take our time heading back.
After night fell, the fish stopped biting, so we decided to pack it in. That was when it happened.
Ching, ching... A clear, delicate sound like a wind chime drifted over. Even though it sounded pretty, it felt eerie. We all tried to turn on our headlamps, but they wouldn't turn on.
Flashlights, phones—none of them would respond at all. On top of that, we couldn't even hear the sound of the waves anymore.
"What is this?"
T said in a trembling voice.
Neither K nor I could answer. We had no idea what this situation was or what was happening.
Pitch black all around. Since it was a rocky shore and not a port, there were no streetlights. All we could see were the distant lights of a harbor and streetlamps illuminating the mountain road far off.
Right below us, waves should have been crashing back and forth, but it was total, absolute silence. A silence so heavy you could almost hear your own heartbeat.
"Whoa!!!!!"
K suddenly shouted out loud.
"What's wrong?!" "Are you okay?!"
After a few seconds of silence...
"Scare ya?"
We heard K's smirking voice.
"Man, come on..."
It spooked us, but I was grateful to K for cutting the tension.
No sound of waves. Lights won't turn on. Terrible footing. We had zero plan on how to break out of this situation.
Was it something paranormal? Had we all lost our minds at the exact same time?
Not to brag, but we weren't stupid. Well, we did stupid things all the time, but IQ-wise, we weren't stupid.
So we stayed calm and brainstormed a way out.
(T) Right now we can't see our feet, so don't move a single inch. -> Cliché horror rule: the guy who panics and moves dies.
(Me) Scary stories near water usually end with someone drowning without realizing it. -> Keep a sharp head.
(K) If it's a ghost thing, maybe we should chant Buddhist prayers. -> Might end surprisingly easily?
So, our conclusion was: 'Keep our wits about us, don't move an inch, and chant every prayer we know.'
There was just one problem: none of us knew the first thing about Buddhist prayers. We were just babbling things like 'Namu Amida Butsu,' so naturally, nothing changed.
I think about an hour passed like that. Slowly, the moon rose, making things a bit brighter.
The view was no different from what we'd seen at dusk. Waves quietly lapping against the treacherous rocks. Still not a sound from the water—an unsettling atmosphere.
Stuck in an unstable posture, our exhaustion reached its limit. I wanted to squat down. I wanted to sit.
But I was terrified that if I made a move, something terrible would happen.
We kept muttering half-remembered chants, but it wasn't doing anything to break the stalemate.
That was when T lost his balance and fell on his butt.
But nothing happened.
Next, K and I took a step too, and still nothing happened. Guided by the faint moonlight filtering through a break in the clouds, we walked over to T.
Being close together multiplied our courage. Should we head back to land while we have moonlight? Or wait here until morning?
We couldn't check the time, but it was probably around 7:00 or 8:00 PM. And high tide was supposed to be at 10:00 PM.
If high tide hit, the way back might be submerged. Move now, or endure until morning? It was an ultimate crossroad.
In the end, we decided to head back to land. We didn't have the endurance or physical strength to handle this until morning, nor the mental fortitude to conquer the fear.
Besides, we didn't even know if waiting until morning would fix anything.
Relying on the faint moonlight, we slowly backtracked the way we came. Climbing, descending, leaping over rocks—there were some dangerous moments, but we finally made it to the base of the mountain path.
Still no sound of waves, and no sound of cars that should have been driving above us.
A silence like being locked in a sealed room. Only the sound of our breathing filled the air.
Just as we were about to climb the mountain path... The path was extremely narrow, only wide enough for one person, so we had to go in single file. Back when we were discussing whether to leave, we'd set K in front, T in back, and me in the middle.
Suddenly, K stopped dead in his tracks. I called out to him, but no response.
Panicking a bit, I assumed he was trying to scare us again. I waited for K to make a move while glancing nervously at our surroundings, terrified that something might be out there.
My bad feeling was right on the money. I hadn't noticed it when we arrived, but right between the base of the path and the entrance to the rocks, there it was. Standing about four feet tall, built of stacked stones, looking like a scarecrow wearing a straw hat. It was dark, so I couldn't see it clearly, though.
Sensing an unnatural vibe, I called out to K again. Still no response.
I looked past K's shoulder toward the front.
I haven't told anyone this, but I leaked a little in my pants right then.
Standing there was a petite woman who looked like the literal model for that stone scarecrow. She wore a straw hat and no clothes.
Long hair completely covered her face, and her entire body was covered in barnacles, shellfish, and gashes.
Neither K nor I could move. A ghost with a hideous appearance was standing just a few yards ahead of us. With no experience with the supernatural, we had no way to fight back.
Only T couldn't grasp what was going on, muttering quietly, "What's wrong?" "Is there something there?" Then, suddenly—HONKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!—a loud car horn blasted.
The woman let out a sound like "Gyaoooh... oooh..." and began writhing in agony. Before we knew it, the sound of the waves returned too.
Looking back now, this is the only funny part, but right then, we desperately started screaming, mimicking the horn. "HOOONNNNK!!!!" we yelled.
In about ten seconds, the woman collapsed as if melting away. Well, less like melting and more like dissolving into nothingness. Strange bodily fluids, barnacles, and what looked like rotten pufferfish fell with wet thuds. The woman was gone.
When our headlamps finally flickered on, we saw hair, rotten fish, and barnacles scattered on the ground. We tried to convince ourselves the wet ground was just water, but I'm pretty sure it was blood. T apparently never fully understood what happened until the end.
As we stood there dazed, an older guy's voice called out, "Are you boys okay?!" Ah, relief washed over me completely—help had arrived.
According to the guy, paranormal occurrences like this had been happening here since ancient times. It was a prime fishing spot, so plenty of out-of-town anglers came, but you were never, ever supposed to come on a full moon night. It was an unspoken rule well known among locals.
Long ago, when it was a small fishing village, a woman with a tragic life ended her story here on a full moon night, and it's said her ghost still appears.
Supposedly, she harbored deep resentment over her husband screaming at her and abusing her, and his grandparents had taught him that making loud noises or big sounds would save you from her.
Seeing a car parked there on a full moon night made him worried, so he came to help.
Local residents usually put up 'Do Not Enter' signs when the full moon neared, but apparently strong winds the day before had blown the sign away, which was how we ended up trespassing.
He told us to throw away all the fish we caught there, so we tearfully dumped them. Then he told us, "You shouldn't fish at night anymore." We didn't fish for the rest of that autumn, got into snowboarding over the winter, and didn't have a chance to go fishing again.
But spring came, and we just had to go fishing, so the three of us went out to our local sea one evening.
Hyped to be fishing after so long, time flew, and before we knew it the sun was setting, so we decided to head home before it got completely dark.
But the car engine wouldn't turn over. It was an old car with over 120,000 miles on it, so failing to start happened occasionally. "Of all times..." we grumbled, trying desperately to turn it over, but it just wouldn't catch.
By the time the engine finally sputtered to life, it was already night. Feeling a strange, creepy vibe, I slammed on the horn.
From outside the slightly cracked window...
Splat. Splat. A sickening sound echoed.
Ever since then, none of us have gone sea fishing again.
