WEBVTT
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The ice is solid, but the air is razor sharp.
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You're alone on the lake until the wind dies. The
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world goes silent, and something slides beneath you, like a
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shadow with teeth. Then the cracking starts and your nightmare begins.
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What's that you want to be scared? He come with me.
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You will experience tales over over ang ghosts and it
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is not recommended for the weeded heart listeners. In the
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dark crk, it's more fun than way way. This is
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weakly speaking, Hello, my spookies. It's Wednesday, and you know
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what that means. It's time for a little spooky in
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your weekly. I'm your host and narrator, Enrique Kuto, and
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tonight we're heading up to Michigan for a cold and
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icy fishing trip that is more than it appears. But
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before we get to that, I just want to say
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thank you all so much for joining us. We bring
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you scary stories, true crime, and so much more all
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year long, because October is far, far too short, so
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make sure you're subscribed on your favorite podcasting app. And
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if you love what we're doing here and want to
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support us, just head to Weeklyspooky dot com slash join
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for as little as one dollar a month, you get
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two bonus shows and over five years of exclusive creepy
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pasta readings and audiobooks at weeklyspooky dot com slash join
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ninety other spookies have already signed up, and now is
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the best possible time to join them. But now, as
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for tonight, they tell you the rules like their prayers,
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test your steps, read the cracks, trust the thickness. Out
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here the lake is a wide white nothing, quiet enough
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to hear your own thoughts echo. But tonight the quiet
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feels staged. A man who's already lost too much heads
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onto the ice for a few hours of peace, just
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a drill, a line, and the cold doing what the
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cold always does, until the surface gives him something back,
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not a bite, not a tug, a presence, something that
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moves where nothing should, A shadow sliding beneath the frozen
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skin of the lake as if it's choosing him. And
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when the ice starts to answer with that deep, hungry crack,
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he realizes the worst fate isn't falling through on the ice.
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By Douglas Waltz. Every time I go ice fishing, there's
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one thing I'll do before I haul any equipment to
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the shore. I test the ice. I'll put the toe
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of my boot near the shore that tends to crack
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a little, and ain't nothing to worry about. I go
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a little farther out and take its's low and easy,
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listening for any noise. Last thing a man my age
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needs is to take a slip and break a damned hip.
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The air was nice and crisp, and thanks to a
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polar vortex, whatever the hell that was, it had been
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in negative numbers for over a month. Lake Paul Dune
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was frozen pretty good, probably a nice three to five
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inches of solid ice, strong as steel and going nowhere regardless,
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I still checked the ice. Goes back to when I
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was seven and my Grandpa Clyde was going to show
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me how to ice fish. I love the cold, and
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I was the only kid of mother's brood of five
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that showed any interest in going. He had a huge
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pond in the back of his property, a nice spring
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fed thing full of fish. There was even a little
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island in the middle that US kids would swim to
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in those hot Michigan summers and try to look for
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frogs and turtles. But now the air was still and
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crisp and cold. And we were going ice fishing. We
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got about halfway across the pond to where Grandpa Clyde
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said the fish always bit when we heard the crack.
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Have you ever heard the ice on a lake give
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that loud crack, threatening to give way at any second?
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I never seen my Grandpa Clyde move so fast. He
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dropped the equipment, scooped me up, and ran like his
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life depended on it, thrown over his shoulder. I saw
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the crack in the ice, and I could swear it
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was chasing us. My eyes were as round as saucers
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as the jet black water appeared closer and closer. But
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my Grandpa Clyde out ran the ice and we both
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flopped in the snowba next to the shore. He was
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huffing and puffing, and when he saw my worried seven
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year old face, he stopped and grinned that huge grin
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of his. Sometimes, that rainery old ice don't want you
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on it, no matter how thick it is. You remember that,
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always check the ice. I nodded my head and we
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went back inside, and he just told everyone the ice
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was too thin to fish. And now I always check
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the ice. I decided I had nothing to worry about,
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and went back to my truck for my gear. I
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almost grabbed the gas powered auger, but decided to get
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some exercise with the manual one. I grabbed my two
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five gallon buckets, one for my equipment and one for
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my ass. I never used those little enclosures you see
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on the ice. Like I said, I like the cold,
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and besides, the last place I would want to be
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if the ice decided to crack was in one of
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those things. They'll haul your corpse out of the water
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in one of those damned things. It seemed like I
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was out on the ice more and more the last
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couple of years since my wife of forty years passed away.
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It's true what they say, cancer sucks, and it took
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her away from me. I found things to occupy my
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mind because I'm pretty sure if I didn't i'd go
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stark raving mad. I got a good start with my
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small pick axe for the auger to catch, and it
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really didn't take long before I reached water. Then I
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cleared the hole with my ice scoop, turned over the
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empty bucket and set up a couple of tip up
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and proceeded to get my bait soggy. I'm a fan
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of stinky bait, and ever since I caught that sturgeon
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near the railroad bridge with a cane pole and a
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hunk of liver sandwich, I swore by that. My children
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always referred to it as cat food, but I thought
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it was pretty tasty. So did the fish. Lake Paul
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Dune was an odd lake. A third of the shore
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was wooded, with a huge woodland that stretched for a
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few acres before it hit farmland. A third of it
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was a nice shoreline where people swam and brought their
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boats and like me, fished. Then there was the odd part.
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See back in the early nineties, these three fellas came
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up with the idea of putting up a housing development
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along the shore of Lake paul Dune. Everyone thought they
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were crazy. The lake was pretty far out in the
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country past Vicksburg towards Fulton. It was a glorified cow
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path that they just called a road which would get
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you there. But they were determined to put up about
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twenty houses around scenic Lake Paul Doon and started with
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the foundations. They poured concrete with the intention of the
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houses having finished basements when they were done. Not anything
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like the typical Michigan basement that has a shelf about
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three feet up all the way around the perimeter of
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the basement. Well then the money started being a problem,
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and everyone discovered later that their idea of raising funds
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were by selling a popular recreational drug of the nineties.
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If you guessed cocaine, give yourself a gold star. After
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that bad element that tends to go with that particular
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drug reared its ugly head, it didn't help that two
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of the three gentlemen building these houses got a taste
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for it. When it all came to a head, two
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of them were dead and one went to prison in Jackson.
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For a very long time, no one ever did anything
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with the foundations. Mother nature took hold and they just
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laid there and slowly crumbled away. There's always talk in
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town of demolishing them to make the area safe, but
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who's paying for that? Not me. So there I was
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just listening to the wind blow and noticing that I
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was the only one on the lake today, not too odd.
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I had the cell phone my oldest son makes me
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take everywhere with me in case an emergency came up.
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Pretty sure I'd be too busy saving my sorry ass
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to be making a phone call, but if it gave
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him peace of mind, so be it. That was when
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I heard the crack. The sound went through me like
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a cutlass from one of those old pirate movies, and
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my eyes checked the surface of the lake. I didn't
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see anything, and there was nothing making my feet vibrate.
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If you're on the ice and your feet start to vibrate,
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you move it before you lose it. The ice was calm,
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and I told myself it must have settled. That was
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when I noticed something odd. There was no noise, no
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birds making a fuss, no wind making the bones of
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the trees rattle. It was still. I checked my fishing
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hole to see what might be causing it. After all,
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I did hear a crack. Then something slid past my hole.
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It was black and shiny. One of my tip ups
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must have caught it, because it got yanked in that
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hole like it was nothing. I dropped the pole in
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my hand, you know, just in case. Before I tell
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you what happened next, I feel it's necessary to take
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a side trip to explain what I learned later on
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was pretty damned important. Back in the day, there was
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Watkins family farm, the patriarch of the farm, Emil Watkins
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ran the place with an iron fist. His youngest son,
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Franklin Watkins, was what you would call a sickly child, short, small,
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and most likely on the spectrum. As they would say nowadays.
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All of that would be fine, but Emil couldn't see
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how the Good Lord had given him offspring like Franklin.
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But Emil wasn't a heartless man. He loved his son
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and was determined to make a farmer out of him,
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until at age la, Franklin fell off the tractor his
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father said he could drive, and managed to run himself
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over with it. If Franklin looked in rough shape before
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the accident, it just got a lot worse. Emil washed
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his hands of the whole business and just left Franklin
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to his own devices. Unfortunately, he spent a lot of
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time in the attic of the massive Watkins farmhouse. It
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was there that he found the notebooks of his great grandfather,
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Jebediah Watkins. No one in the Watkins clan talked about Jebediah,
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and for good reason. He was a sorcerer of the
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dark arts. I know it sounds weird and unbelievable, but
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you would be surprised at how many backwoods, small town
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sorcerers there are in the world. It's a lot, really. Anyway,
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Franklin pored over these notebooks and was fact but he
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wasn't stupid. He mentioned none of this to any of
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his family. He kept to himself, bided his time, and waited.
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Twenty years later, Emial was dead for four years and
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his mother was just a sad alcoholic. Franklin started going
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deeper and deeper into Jebediah's notebooks. Shortly after that, children
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started going missing in the small towns of the area.
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People gossiped as they are wont to do, and no
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one ever found any children. The local law enforcement blamed transience,
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and people mourned their dead until the Tompkins twins went missing.
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Alfred Tompkins, owner of Tompkins's garage, was a mountain of
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a man, six and a half feet tall and weighing
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in at around three hundred and fifty, a thick shock
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of red hair and a curly beard to match. Alfred
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Tompkins had one joy in his life, his twin sons,
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Harry and Barry. They were seven when they went missing.
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Alfred decided to act on what everyone else whispered about
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in town. He hopped into his pickup truck and made
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a bee line for Watkins family farm. The huge farmhouse
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had been fallen into disrepair for years, and Alfred skidded
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to a stop in front of the house and bolted
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up the stairs to the giant oaken front door with
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a solitary kick. It shattered into pieces, and Alfred started
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bellowing the name Watkins so loud people swore they could
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hear it. Three towns over, Franklin appeared from a side
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door into the foyer, where Alfred towered over him. He
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went to speak, and Alfred picked up him up by
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his neck. Where are they? Franklin started to speak, and
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Alfred rattled his entire form like a hound dog with
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a bone. Answer me, Then the sirens came. Sheriff Monahan
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and Deputy Williams came running into the house. Alfred put
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him down. Sheriff Monahan talked slow and quiet. He knew
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what kind of damage Alfred was capable of. He whirled around,
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his eyes blazing with a red fire. There was no
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dealing with him at this point, and both lawmen knew it.
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The sheriff saw his deputy pull his revolver. He stared
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him down and shook his head, motioning for him to
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just put his gun away. This is how it works,
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Alfred bellowed. This fucking freak has taken my chin children.
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He produces them unharmed, and he lives or I tear
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him into pieces right before your very eyes, Sheriff, I
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recommend you tell Franklin to cooperate now. Franklin's eyes were
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bugging out from lack of oxygen. Alfred heard him gasping
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for air and dropped him to the floor. Franklin went
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to crawl away, and Alfred's size fourteen boot crushed his foot,
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pinning him to the floor. Stay put, you fucking freak,
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Franklin howled in anguish. Sheriff Monahan thought it was a
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reasonable request and told Franklin so he just sniveled and
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cried in pain Alfred. Sheriff Monahan finally spoke up, why
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don't you go get your kids and we'll keep an
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eye on Franklin. Here. Franklin found his voice at that.
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You have no right. Where's your search warrant? I'll sue
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this whole town back to the stone Age. Sheriff Monaghan
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crouched down in front of Franklin son. The way I
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see it is, you got two choices. You let Alfred
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get this out of his system and clear your name
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if you're innocent, or me and my deputy will just