As a writer, I’m a big fan of the short story. I’ve penned a few short stories over the years, and have been working on a collection called “Dark Water Tales” – an anthology of spooky stories that all revolve around the central theme of water. I posted one of these last year, and thought it was time to publish another one, so dim the lights, curl up under a warm blanket, and be prepared to be taken on a terrifying journey.

“ROCK BOTTOM”

They say fishermen are the biggest liars.  Fish stories are peppered with tales about the one that got away, the fight to land that record breaker that ended in a broken line or pole, or the huge catch that they did bring in but let go – without a camera along to record the achievement.

Fishermen always have stories and advice to share about their craft.  They can tell a fellow angler where the fish are always biting, what baits are consistently successful, and point out stretches of water where one can relax and enjoy a good morning or afternoon just sitting on a boat (without any luck at all).

They can also tell of places to avoid.  Darker tales – sometimes told only in whispers – as if the water itself might hear them.  Accounts passed on in such earnestness and relayed in such a somber, serious tone that they are instantly believable – even to the most skeptical.  Areas of a river that aren’t marked on any map, but once known, will sober a man up if his boat even begins to drift near them. 

Places that are genuinely feared.

The locals of Western Maryland know of such a place.

They call it “Rock Bottom”.

“Rock Bottom” isn’t even a place, actually – just a section of the Potomac River that separates Maryland from West Virginia.  It’s located (though no one will come out and actually acknowledge it) on the upper side of Dam #5, one of several dams that span the river as it rolls eastward from the mountains of Western Maryland to eventually empty out into the Chesapeake Bay.  The twenty foot high stone dam at Dam #5 creates a deep pool of trapped water up river.  Even on a bright summer’s day, the water held back by the dam is murky, black, and uninviting.

The dam itself has a long and colorful backstory.  Built in 1835, it was part of the historic C&O Canal, supplying water for the canal and lock system that provided a trade route for goods and resources to a young and growing United States of America.  During the Civil War, it was once attacked by Confederate forces under the command of General Stonewall Jackson.  Dam #5 has a storied history, but you won’t find its latest claim to fame on any website, in any history book, or on any park map.

Accidents happen along a river all the time – especially where there is dam.  Dam #5 is no exception.  Unknowing (or ignorant) boaters, swimmers, or fisherman will ignore the posted signs, warning of the dam from upstream.  At Dam #5 there is even a set of marker buoys stretched across the breadth of the Potomac about a quarter of a mile above the dam itself as a clear sign that danger is close at hand.  Sadly, these are sometimes ignored, and the surprisingly strong current will sometimes grab hold of someone too close to the dam and toss them over, causing equipment damage, injuries, and occasionally – even death.

“Occasional” is a word that has been severely tested at Dam #5.  Beginning in 2015, the number of deaths along this stretch of the Potomac had become unnerving.

3 in 2015.

5 in 2016.

6 in 2017.

4 in 2018.

This was way beyond any statistical anomaly.  In addition, there were no longer any injuries when an accident occurred at the dam.  Bodies were no longer being recovered. 

People just disappeared.

Wrecked canoes and fishing boats washed up along the shore – downstream from the dam, but there were never any traces of survivors.  Anglers who fished the shoreline never came home.  There was even one hiker along the C&O Canal who went missing – their last reported sighting was along the river above Dam #5.  As the death toll mounted, the rumors began.

Something was out there.

Something was lurking in the waters at “Rock Bottom”.

Tom Repp had heard the stories.  He knew what people thought about Dam #5 and “Rock Bottom”, but Tom Repp was a rational man – a scientific man.  Tom had worked as a marine biologist for the Maryland Department of Natural Resources (or “DNR” for short) for over ten years.  He’d traveled the waterways of Maryland from Garrett County at the state’s western edge to the Atlantic Ocean on the state’s eastern borders.  In his tenure with the DNR, Tom Repp had seen a lot of strange things, but nothing had scared him.  There was always a plausible, identifiable explanation for any problem – if given the right amount of time and resources.

Tom was in town studying invasive fish species.  Specifically, he was here to check out reports of Maryland’s “number one” problem on the DNR list.

The Northern Snakehead.

The Northern Snakehead, a native species of the Yangtze River in China, had taken a foothold in Maryland waters back in 2002, somehow getting introduced into a pond in Crofton, MD.  It soon began to turn up in other waterways, like the Potomac River.  Brown and covered in dark splotches, with long dorsal fins running almost the length of its back and underside, the Snakehead soon made its presence known.  Reaching lengths of up to four feet and sporting a mouthful of sharp, razor-like teeth, it entered the waterways at the top of the food chain.  With no natural predators and a diet of basically every other fish in the ecosystem, the Snakehead decimated all other species it came in contact with.  To contend with the threat, Maryland actually opened up a “bounty” of up to $200 per fish for anyone who could catch and kill one. 

“A good Snakehead is a dead Snakehead”, read one DNR pamphlet.  A pretty telling judgment – especially coming from a state agency charged with protecting natural resources.

Two Snakehead “kills” had recently been confirmed in this part of the state.  Tom was here to check out the river and see if he could find any more and determine to what extent the fish had taken a foothold in this part of the Potomac.

Tom was driving east along Route 56, his state-issued Dodge pulling a trailer that sported a 16 foot Tracker Pro-160 bass boat with all the bells and whistles.  He pulled off the road and into the small parking lot of Caton’s Grocery.  The family run general store would be his last stop for a few supplies before hitting the river.

He opened the door to find several older men – regulars – sitting on a long bench in front of the meat case, wasting away the morning and swapping stories.  The proprietor was behind the counter and all the men were laughing at the most recent tall tale.

“Good morning,” said Tom.

“Morning,” said Fred Caton, the store’s owner.  “What can I do for you?”

“Would you happen to have any turkey or chicken necks?” said Tom, glancing over at the meat case.

“I can probably find you a few,” said Fred.  He walked over to the meat case to fill Tom’s request.

“Doing a little fishing, Ranger?” asked Carl – one of the regulars who was sitting on the bench.

“Something like that,” chuckled Tom.  “Doing a little dip-netting.  I’m trying to get a count on the Snakehead population in the Potomac.”

“Damn fish,” said Floyd – another regular.  “They eat everything in the river.”

“They do indeed,” nodded Tom.

“Best bet would be to drop some dynamite in that water and blow the sons-a-bitches up, if you ask me,” said Carl.

“Let’s find out if you have any first,” said Tom, calmly.

Fred came back to the counter with Tom’s wrapped package.

“There you are sir – that’ll be $4.00,” said Fred.  Tom paid for his purchase.

“Where you putting in at?” asked Floyd.

“McCoy’s Ferry – or maybe Four Locks,” said Tom.  “I’ll probably float all the way down to Dam #5 before the day is out.”

The words “Dam #5” had barely left his mouth when Tom could instantly sense a change in the room.  Fred, Carl, and Floyd cautiously looked at each other, then all seemed to be staring at Tom like he was a crazy man.  Their smiles were gone.

“You should stay away from the dam,” said Fred.

“Nothing but trouble down there,” added Carl.

“I’ll take my chances,” said Tom.  “After all, it’s my job,” he added, pointing at his DNR baseball cap.

“Ain’t no job worth dying over,” muttered Floyd – to no one in particular.

“Well,” said Tom, “I guess I’ll be off.  You fellas have a good day.”  He picked up his package of necks and slowly turned to leave.

“You be careful,” said Fred, sounding worried.

“I always am,” said Tom.

Carl and Floyd just stared at Tom as he left.  As the door shut behind him, Tom could have sworn he heard Floyd add in –

“Rock Bottom – – – he’s a dead man.”

Tom slid into the truck and eased back onto the roadway.  Even though he had heard the parting shot given by the Caton’s Grocery regulars, he paid it little mind.  Every corner of the state seemed to have its own version of the “bogeyman”, and there were plenty of these fables and legends to listen to – especially in the foothills of the Appalachians – which dominated the landscape in this area.

Tom passed the turnoff for McCoy’s Ferry and headed on to Four Locks, so named for the remnants of four canal locks from the C&O Canal days.  He dropped the bass boat gently into the water, parked the truck, and fired up the outboard motor long enough to get him out into the middle of the stream.  He then cut the engine and began floating down river.

Tom set up his dip-net, which was large and square in shape, with ropes tied at each end.  The ropes all came together above the net in a knot, forming a large pouch.  The pouch was then further attached to a long boom – which could then be raised and lowered off of the side of the boat.  Tom baited the net with the chicken necks acquired from the general store, occasionally lowering it into the water at various points as he floated downstream.  After letting it rest overboard for 5-10 minute intervals, Tom would then haul the net up and look at any samples he happened to catch, documenting the contents and his position on the river.  So far he had found a whole lot of nothing.

Four Locks was a mile or two upriver from Dam #5, so Tom had only taken about two samples before he could see the buoy line stretched cross the river just ahead, signifying the upcoming and imminent dam.  There was also a large sign to his right on the shore.  In bold red letters it read “Dam Ahead – Turn Around Now!” 

Tom wasn’t worried.  With his big outboard motor, the Tracker Pro-160 bass boat could easily fight the current and get back upstream to safety – even if he were almost on top of the dam’s spillway.

Tom lazily sat in one of the bass boat’s comfortable swivel chairs, which were elevated above the decking.  He looked around, taking in the scenery.  This was the best part of his job.  He was out in the fresh air on a beautiful morning.  He could hear the birds in the trees along the riverbank.  There was a slight breeze blowing.  It felt good to be alive.  He was born for this type of work.  He couldn’t imagine being tied down to a desk from 9-to-5.  He’d go absolutely mad.

The bass boat slowly floated over the buoy line and continued lazily downstream.  There was a strange but perceptible change in the air.  Tom gazed over the side and into the water below.  The dip-net was still lowered, snapped into a metal cradle along the side of the boat, but he could no longer see it in the murky darkness of the river.  He glanced at his fish finder, which was mounted in the stern of the craft.  The depth was now registering at 9 feet – and getting deeper by the minute.  This would be a great place to settle in and take some samples. 

Tom could hear the faint roar of the dam, which was finally visible further downstream.  The water churned and frothed as it went over the twenty foot spillway and crashed into the rocks below.  From this angle; however, the water on this side of the dam was as smooth as glass.  Not a ripple could be seen – right up to the wall of the dam.  He tossed the anchor tied to the front of the boat over, creating a loud splash.  The boat gently turned as the anchor took hold on the river bottom.  Tom looked at the fish finder again.  The depth now registered 14 ½ feet.

The ripples from the anchor splash fanned out in a circle away from their entry point.  Tom watched them as they made their way towards the shore, touched the bank, and began their return journey, back across the river.

That’s when he saw it. 

A large hump of water slowly moved out from the opposite shore into the middle of the waterway, just above the dam.  Even from Tom’s current location, it was clearly visible.  He watched in fascination as the wave moved upstream, meandering slowly towards the bank, but definitely travelling with a purpose.  Tom squinted hard at the water’s surface, but the dark water revealed nothing from this distance.  The hump of water was parallel with the boat now, passing it – and continuing to move upstream.  It made a sudden turn just below the buoy-line and moved back out into the middle of the river.

Tom had never seen anything like it.

The wave had turned back downstream and was moving slowly towards the boat again.  This time it passed closer, and Tom glanced at the fish finder, trying to get a handle on what could be causing the disturbance. 

A large mass appeared on the finder’s view scope.  Whatever it was, it was down deep – running at about the 12 foot mark.  The wave passed by the boat again, but the mass remained visible on the fish finder.  In fact, it filled the scope for another 3 seconds before disappearing again.  Tom glanced back and forth – from the view screen to the water.  The river here was just too dark.  He couldn’t see anything over the side. 

The hump of water made another slow turn above the dam.  After a slight pause, it suddenly accelerated towards the boat at an incredible rate.  Tom was anchored in about 150 yards above the dam, and the wave covered that distance in seconds.  This time, it passed dangerously close to the boat and slammed into the submerged dip-net, which was still lowered over the boat’s right side.  It tore the boom right out of the cradle and pulled the entire mechanism off of the deck, dragging it under and up river.

Tom was shaken, but still fascinated.  What the hell had just happened?  It was if the dip-net had been attacked.  This was no accident.  There was something in the water, and it wasn’t friendly.  The bass boat bobbed back and forth from the wake of the incident.

The hump of water had disappeared – for now.  The river’s surface was slowly returning to its normal and smooth equilibrium.  While he watched the river, Tom suddenly took notice to something else.

The birds. 

They had stopped chirping. 

Tom stared first at one shoreline and then the other.  The whole river had gone deathly quiet.  Even the breeze had stopped.  The air was deathly still. 

It was an unnatural quiet – as if nature itself had stopped for a moment to watch.

Tom Repp felt a cold shiver run up his back.  His arms prickled up with goose bumps. 

“The stories,” Tom thought to himself.  “The stories may be true.”

That single realization changed him.  His mind was beginning to race.  What should he do?  Should he call this in? And tell them what – that there was a monster stalking him in the Potomac River?  The main office would laugh at him right over the radio.  Tom took a deep breath.  His heart was racing.  He needed to keep taking deep breaths.  He needed to calm down and think.

His senses seemed overly-sensitive to the world around him.  His eyes darted from shore to shore, looking for any returning sign of whatever it was that seemed to inhabit the water.  The air felt electric.  Tom slowly eased out of his chair and carefully moved to the front of the boat.  He reached around his belt and unsnapped the sheath which held his outdoor utility knife.  Tom had decided.  He’d cut the anchor line and then quickly fire up the outboard motor and make his escape. 

His hands were shaking as he started to work on the rope.  He took another calming breath and steadied himself.  As he sawed away, the ripples fanned out where the anchor rope met the water, moving away from the boat and towards the shore.  He continued to cut.  Beads of sweat were beginning to form on his brow.   The first ripples crossed the glassy water, reached the water’s edge, and bounced off of the shoreline.

The hump appeared again.

Tom froze, too paralyzed with fear for a moment to move.

The wave slowly came upriver, taking its time.  It was going to pass right beside the boat again.  This time, Tom was staring right into the water.

He first saw the glint of what he swore was a row of sharp teeth. 

Then a long snout.

Then he saw the eye.

It was large and yellow, as big as a man’s balled up fist, and it stared at Tom as it slowly continued to pass the boat.  A long brown body followed, covered in dark splotches.  Then he saw a spiny dorsal fin, almost a foot in height, barely under the surface of the water.  The massive shape continued to lazily swim past the boat, moving upstream.

Tom swallowed hard.  He knew what he was looking at.

It was a Northern Snakehead.

The biggest Snakehead Tom had ever seen.  To be precise, it was the largest living thing Tom had ever seen in fresh water.  It was easily 14 feet long, if not longer.  It had to weigh – what – over a thousand pounds?  Those teeth  – – and that eye.  It had stared straight into Tom’s very soul.

Tom was shaking again.  His eyes were locked on the slowly moving hump of water as it made its way to the buoy-line, slowly turned, and started back downstream again.  He unclipped his cell phone from his belt, never taking his eyes from the river, pushed “#1” on his speed dial, and heard the ringing on the far end.

“DNR Operations, this is Jeff – can I help you?”  said a voice on the other end of the line.

Tom tried to speak, but nothing came out.  He swallowed hard and tried again.  To his horror, the wave of water was turning around again at the dam

“Help me,” said Tom – in a faint whisper.

He dropped the phone and reached out with both hands to start the outboard motor.  The electric start button gave a click, and the outboard roared to life, shattering the silence along the river.

The hump suddenly accelerated, and was coming straight for the bass boat like a torpedo.         

The boat lurched forward and was beginning to pick up speed, but the wave of water was much too fast.  Tom held on for dear life.  There would be no doubt as to what was coming.

He closed his eyes and heard the sickening smash of the impact.  Then he was airborne.  Time seemed to stand still.  Everything was floating around him.  It was if he was in a dream. 

Maybe it was a dream.

Tom was jolted back into reality by the harsh, stinging flash of cold water all around him.  He opened his eyes, and even under the water, all he could see was murky blackness.  His head broke the surface and he gasped out loud, drawing in a huge breath and splashing aimlessly, trying to get his bearings.  The boat motor was demolished, pieces were floating in the river all around him.  The boat itself was overturned.  Anything and everything in the water was slowly starting to be pulled by the current towards the dam.

Tom flailed his head from side to side, trying to find the location of his attacker.

He felt a sharp and sudden pain in his left leg.  He glanced down and saw that large yellow eye – right next to him.  It glanced up at him as it passed, the huge dorsal fin rubbing up against his left hip as the beast’s body nudged against Tom’s splashing form and swam away again.  There was suddenly an even darker cloud in the water, slowly rising to the surface. 

He ferociously tried to kick away from the creature with his left leg, but nothing happened.  The dark cloud grew larger.  Tom pulled his hands through it, and they were covered in the dark, sticky substance, which was a rusty, reddish-black in color.

It was blood.

Tom’s blood.

He stared down into the murky water.

Tom’s left leg was gone, just below the knee.

He screamed out in agony, but there was no one to hear him.

Total panic had set in.  Tom paddled frantically, but was making no progress.  He had to get to shore.  He’d even risk going over the dam – anything to get away from this monster. 

Tom was bleeding badly from his wound.  His heart was pumping so fast.  He was feeling light headed and cold, but he had to make it to shore. He couldn’t locate the massive fish.  Where was it?

His pace began to slow.  The water didn’t feel that cold anymore.  Why was he in the water again?  His vision was starting to blur and his tongue felt thick in his mouth.  What was happening?  He felt dizzy.  He just wanted to close his eyes and sleep.  Something was coming toward him.  It looked like a wave.  A wave – like at the beach.  He lazily smiled at the thought.  Maybe that wave coming towards him would help take him in to shore, just like when he was a kid at the ocean.

Tom Repp’s last vision on planet Earth was the open mouth and long white fangs of the massive Snakehead, its gargantuan form breaking the water’s surface and pulling Tom under – head first.

The water churned and frothed in a crimson fury for a brief moment.  A bird screeched from the shoreline, and then calm quickly returned to the river as nature and Dam #5 washed away the evidence.  Soon, even the ripples on the water were gone, and the river again turned glassy again above the dam.

The smashed boat was found downstream three days later.  No body was ever recovered.

Two weeks later, a family was visiting from Philadelphia and spending the day on the C&O Canal.  They stopped to have a picnic at the water’s edge, just above the dam.  It was so peaceful and beautiful along the Potomac River.  Such a nice change from the bustling city.  A relaxing day together was just what the family needed.  The couple’s young son patiently tried to skip rocks at the water’s edge.  The stones created ripples on the glassy water, and the rings fanned out and touched the edge of the river bank.

A noticeable hump of water appeared on the opposite shoreline, just above the dam.  It slowly began to make its way up river….