Hook, Line, and Sinker
An unsettling story about fishing.
Fishing. That’s what David called it. A ritual inspired by days spent with his father under a willow tree, by the lake, waiting for something to bite.
“There ain’t nothing like this, son,” he remembered his father saying, watching as he unhooked metal from flesh and slid the fish back into water, free to live another day. “I promise you that. This is what it means to be alive.”
For years, David tried to believe that. He tried to appreciate the things that made his father so happy.
The weather.
The quiet.
The way scales glistened under summer sun.
But the more they fished, the more David realized the thrill nestled in something different.
For him, happiness didn’t hide in size or the sensation of scales on fingertips but in the way fish thrashed on the line, or their tails tangled in nylon.
David liked the fear that infected their eyes as they struggled. The way the hook glistened in an opening, closing mouth.
“You finding everything okay?”
“What?” David said, sucked from the thought.
“Can I help you find something?”
“Oh, no,” David said. “I’m just browsing.”
“No worries. Give me a shout if you need anything.”
David thanked the young man, watching until he disappeared behind an aisle of tinned soup.
The fishing he was doing now wasn’t the same as the fishing he did when his father was alive. There was no lake. No willow. No hook, line, or sinker, but the rules were the same.
Choose your spot.
Be patient.
Think like a fish.
He thought about his last catch. A catch he was, days later, still enjoying.
Just yesterday, he’d carved out some time to hear her struggling.
He had sat on a bench in the sun, under an elm, taking a moment before making the call. And then he had listened to her floundering; twitching on the line, hook firmly in mouth.
“I know where you live,” he had hissed, phone pressed to his ear. “I know what you do. What you look like. The route you take home. I know everything about you.”
Some would laugh.
Others would get angry.
If he was lucky, and managed to hold them on the line long enough, they would cry.
It was the discomfort he lived for. Hearing them squirm under the weight of being caught.
He forced himself out of the memory, focusing on the colourful boxes of cereal in front of him. He had fishing to do, and the promise of another catch was making David hot under the collar.
A static-smothered voice fell from the heavens.
Cleanup in aisle 12.
David grabbed the box that looked the loudest, carrying it to the front as the heat turned to sweat.
Cashiers served small lines of customers with high-pitched hellos and false smiles. David surveyed them. Analyzed them, one by one, until he picked his spot behind a woman whose voice he thought would sound nicest.
Cereal crackled in the box as he clutched it, pressing it to his chest with one hand as he slid his phone out of his pocket with the other. He thought back to the second rule of fishing, triggering the memory of his father’s nicotine-stained voice.
“Be patient,” he heard him say. “The win’s in the waiting.”
So, that’s what he did.
Waited.
Bided his time as the cashier took payment from the first person, the second, and David’s fish drew closer to the hook with her basket of bread and fruit.
When it was her turn, and the woman greeted the cashier with a smile and a soft hello, excitement swelled in David’s gut. He liked her voice. Heard the possibility. Clutched his phone, ready.
The cashier scanned her items. Bagged them, and then it was the moment of truth. The line was almost out and all David wanted to know—needed to know—was whether or not she would bite.
“Alright,” the cashier announced. “Are you a member with us?”
Choose your spot.
“I am,” the woman said, smiling.
Be patient.
“Awesome. What’s the phone number on the account?”
Think like a fish.
Before you go
I write books! My latest, The Flowers at Flood House, is out now. It’s a horror novella about memories, grief, and lots of flowers. Feel free to check out reviews on Goodreads or click here to grab a copy.
Before that, I published Waxwing Creek, a collection of interconnected horror stories about a haunted motel. You can grab that here.
Want to read some free short stories?
Below are a few to get you started but you can check out all the fiction I’ve shared on Substack here.
Lightbulb 💡 - A short horror story about a haunted lamp.
A Gentle Rain 🌧️ – A short horror story about loss.
Checkmate ♟️ – A short horror story about long-distance chess.
I love hearing from readers. I keep an Instagram updated and post regularly to Threads and Notes. You can also find me on TikTok.
/ JJW