The Pond Eats Those Who Dig / Chapter 1: The Thing in the Pond
The Pond Eats Those Who Dig

The Pond Eats Those Who Dig

Author: Michael Branch

Chapter 1: The Thing in the Pond

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When I was seven, there was a big old fishing pond at the edge of our small town, and the banks had collapsed more than once. I can still remember that number—seven. It sticks with me, like the start of everything.

The place was the kind of spot folks would warn you about—half wild, with cattails and willow branches hanging over the water, and the banks always soft and crumbling. It was the last place any kid ought to mess with. All the more reason for us to go. Even the grown-ups swapped stories about it at the diner, shaking their heads like it was just another one of those small-town mysteries.

I wanted to go play there, but all of a sudden I saw these bright, eerie green eyes blinking from the water. And something waving that looked way too much like a human hand—like it was actually waving me over.

My heart was about to bust out of my chest. The hair on my arms stood straight up, and I could swear the air around the pond turned cold as the inside of a meat locker. I was frozen for a second.

I’d barely taken two steps—

—when my grandpa, face pale as old milk, scooped me up and hurried me home.

He didn’t say a word, just grabbed me so fast my feet left the ground. He was breathing so hard I could feel it on my neck. I could feel his heart pounding through his shirt, and that—honestly—that scared me more than anything I’d seen at the pond. That’s when I knew this was real.

Once inside, he locked every door and window. Only then did he let out a shaky breath.

He paused, looking back at me. “This is bad. The thing in the pond is about to come out.”

He double-checked the locks, even pushed the old steamer trunk against the front door. I’d never seen him so rattled. Suddenly, the house felt tiny. Like the walls were squeezing us in.

Grandpa told me to stay far away. Never go near it. He said there was a monster in the pond that ate people. I just stared, trying to make sense of it all.

He got down on one knee so we were eye-to-eye. "Promise me, Mason. Never go near that pond again. I don’t care if you hear voices or see things—just run. There’s something in there, and it’s hungry."

Grandma stood in the kitchen, frowning. “That thing hasn’t shown up in years. You sure you didn’t just see a fish or something?”

She was standing in the kitchen doorway, arms folded, her voice steady but her eyes darting to Grandpa. She tried to sound skeptical, but there was worry there too—the kind you get when old stories start feeling real again.

Grandpa’s hands shook as he grabbed his mug. He took a few swallows of black coffee before he could steady himself. “No way. Only that thing in the pond has eyes that green. I know what I saw.”

He stared into the mug like he could find answers at the bottom. The kitchen clock ticked too loud, and the smell of burnt coffee hung in the air. For the first time, I realized grown-ups could be scared too. That scared me even more.

After that, Grandpa headed out to collect a handful of rice from neighbors. He put it into an old cloth pouch made from the patchwork quilt I’d used as a kid. I wondered why rice—maybe it was like how some folks hang horseshoes for luck.

He went door to door, trading stories and shaking hands, the pouch clutched tight in his fist. Folks gave him odd looks, but nobody said no. That quilted pouch was faded and soft, stitched together from scraps of my old pajamas and Grandpa’s work shirts—a little piece of our family’s history, now turned into a good luck charm.

He also scattered ashes from the fireplace all around the house. I remembered Grandpa once said ashes kept bad spirits away—maybe it was like how some people use salt for protection.

The smell of woodsmoke clung to everything. He moved slow and deliberate, drawing invisible lines at every window and door. Grandma muttered about superstition, but she didn’t stop him. When he finally sat down, his shoulders dropped, and the tension in the room eased just a bit. Safe—for now.

After that day, I never saw those green eyes in the pond again.

But sometimes, at night, I’d dream of them—floating just beneath the surface, waiting. I’d wake up sweating, heart pounding. The grown-ups stopped talking about the pond, but I could tell it was always on their minds.

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