My dad taught me the first rule of night fishing: if the float stands upright and doesn't move, reel in and leave.
I asked why. He just smoked, eyes fixed on the water, said there was no why.
Then he died. Drowned in his own fish pond, fishing rod floating on the surface, float standing upright, perfectly still.
It took me seven years to summon the courage to pick up a rod again.
Until last week, when Old Liu dragged me night fishing.
He said he'd found a perfect wild spot.
I said yes before I knew it.
Old Liu was a guy I met at the tackle shop—mid-fifties, retired worker, dark face always smiling, loud voice. He drove a white minivan, the back stuffed with tackle boxes, fish nets, rods of all lengths—like a mobile fishing warehouse.
Last Wednesday afternoon he clapped me on the shoulder: "Kiddo, I found a killer spot. That fork river upstream of Lijia'ao Reservoir. No one patrols it, crucian carp as big as your palm."
I stared at the koi swimming in my fish tank and said okay.
Seven years. The last time I touched a rod was three days after my dad's funeral. I sold all his rods, kept only one—four and a half meters, wrapped in old newspaper, hidden on the top shelf of my wardrobe.
That night I took it out. Dust caked between the sections, creaking when I pulled them apart. I stood on the balcony and cast twice at the streetlamp below. The lead sinker hit the asphalt with a *slap-slap*. Someone from the opposite building yelled, "Crazy!"
I wrapped it up again, stuffed it back in the wardrobe. Seven years gone just like that.
Old Liu said Friday night. I asked why night fishing. He said daytime too hot, night cool, better bites.
Friday at six PM, his minivan pulled up, honked twice. I carried that old 4.5m rod downstairs. He leaned out the window, tsked: "Just one rod?" I said it's enough. He laughed, didn't push.
The car drove out of town, past three villages, turned onto a dirt road. Wild grass as tall as a man on both sides, headlights cutting through, leaves scraping the door with a *shush-shush*. After twenty minutes, the road ended. Gravel beach ahead.
Old Liu killed the engine, shone his flashlight: "Here. Fifty meters down, there's a backwater bay. I tried last week—caught one after another."
It was pitch dark. No moon, but stars thick, pressing down. The river was about twenty meters wide, current slow, water black and opaque. A faint smell of rotting waterweed in the air.
Dad said that smell attracts snakes. But Old Liu had already set up his fishing platform, unfolded a plastic chair, inserted the luminous float into the holder, cast with a flick of his wrist. The fluorescent green dot sailed out, landed on the water, trembled twice, settled.
I found a flat rock five meters away and sat. Unfolded the rod, tied the main line, baited up. The lead sinker hit the water with a dull *plop*. The luminous float popped up, a green tip showing, bobbing slightly with the waves.
Old Liu lit a cigarette, flame flickering on his dark face. "Kiddo, how long since you fished?"
"Seven years."
"Seven years?" He exhaled smoke. "What'd you do all that time?"
"Nothing."
He didn't press. Just grunted, eyes on his float. The water was still. Occasional insects hit the glow stick with a soft *tap*. Far off, wild ducks quacked—one long, one short, sounding eerie.
About an hour later, Old Liu's float twitched twice, then tilted and sank. He flicked his wrist, rod bending, water splashing. He stood and stepped back, grinning: "Got one, got one."
A palm-sized crucian carp, silver belly catching the light as he lifted it. It flopped twice when he unhooked it, tail slapping his hand. He dropped it into the net, rebaiting and casting in one smooth motion.
My float hadn't moved. The water was dark, the luminous float nailed there, occasionally nudged by current, wobbling half an inch then snapping back. I was about to change bait when I caught sight of the float tip suddenly freezing.
Not the stillness of floating on waves. Like someone had reached up from below and pinched the float tail, driving it straight into the surface. Standing upright—one green needle, current flowing around it, unmoving.
My heart dropped.
Dad's words surged up, like ice water down my spine. "Standing upright, reel in and leave." I remember his eyes exactly—fixed on the water, a sliver of moonlight in his pupils. That was the last time I saw him alive.
Next morning Mom found him floating in the pond, rod beside him, line hanging from the tip. When they pulled the rod up, the float was standing just like that.
I stared at my float. Three seconds? Five? The water beneath was pitch black, nothing visible. Old Liu hooked another fish, splashing, yelling, "Big one, big one!"
My float released. Without warning, it resumed bobbing, green dot wobbling. Like nothing happened.
I slowly released my grip on the rod, palm sweating. I didn't reel in. Could be waterweed snagging it. Or a branch below. Or the luminous float not deep enough, caught by current. Plenty of rational explanations.
Seven years. I wasn't running over one weird float. Dad's incident—Dad's incident was an accident. Police said nighttime hypoglycemia, dizziness, fell in. The pond was less than 1.2 meters deep. He probably hit his head when he fell.
Old Liu carried the second fish over, flashlight hitting my face, making me squint. "How's the bite?"
"Nothing."
He squatted beside me, eyeing my float. "Your bait's too hard—fish can't suck it in." He pinched some of his own bait, rolled two small balls, helped me switch them. "Try this."
I recast. Bait hit the water, float sank then popped back, normal. Old Liu watched for ten seconds, said, "Alright, wait." He stood and walked back, stopped two steps away, turned: "Oh right, kiddo—there's a saying around here."
"What saying?"
He shone the flashlight on the water, beam dancing on the surface. "Locals say this fork river's drowned a few night fishermen. All alone. So they made a rule—night fishing needs at least two people. Watch each other in case something happens."
I asked what kind of something.
He said he didn't know, just a rule. Better listen to the old folks. Then he went back to his rod.
I stared at the water, nerves stretched tight. But nothing else happened that night. Old Liu caught four more crucian carp, I caught zero. When the sky turned pale, he reeled in: "Let's go, bite's over." I packed up, fingers trembling when I disassembled the line—from cold, or something else.
On the drive back, I sat in the passenger seat watching the gray fields outside. Old Liu hummed as he drove. "Come back next week, I got another spot." I said okay.
I should've said no. I should've wrapped that rod back up, stuffed it on the top shelf, erased night fishing from my mind entirely. But I heard myself say okay.
That night I took a shower, lay in bed. Closed my eyes and saw that standing float. Green, motionless, black water beneath. Tossed and turned, going through explanations. Waterweed. Branch. Buoyancy. Vortex. Dad had low blood sugar. All science. All accidents.
But I knew when my float stood upright that night, the water around it was perfectly still. No current. It was like something had grabbed it.
Wednesday Old Liu called: "This Friday, another spot—White Dragon River downstream, sluice gate where fish gather." I asked when, he said six again. I said okay.
White Dragon River was wider than the fork, current faster. Below the sluice, a backwater area with foaming water. Old Liu said oxygen rich, fish crowd here.
The bank was a concrete slope—maybe an old dock. Moss covered the surface, slippery underfoot. We found a relatively flat spot, Old Liu left, me right, seven or eight meters apart.
I caught my first fish just after dark—a small carp, half a catty. It struggled hard when I unhooked it, tail splashing my face with cold water. I dropped it in the net, rebaiting and casting. A flicker of joy.
Seven years. First fish. The bend of the rod felt familiar yet strange, like meeting an old friend.
But the joy didn't last.
Nine PM, Old Liu went to the car for water. Flashlight beam danced up the slope, fading. I sat alone by the water, luminous float bobbing on the dark surface.
It was eerily quiet. The sluice's current rumbled far off, like something breathing underwater. I suddenly felt a gaze on my back.
No footsteps or breath. Just a feeling. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, like static when you take off a sweater. I froze, eyes locked on the float. It bobbed normally—fine.
But that gaze grew heavier, pressing on my back. Like someone stood less than two meters behind me, head lowered, watching. I could *feel* their breath—cold, muddy.
I slipped my hand into my pocket for my phone, ready to call Old Liu back. When the screen lit up, my peripheral vision caught my luminous float.
It stood upright.
Straight. Motionless. Like a green nail driven into the water.
No more excuses. Waterweed doesn't hold a float perfectly vertical. Vortexes don't fix it that precisely. Something was under there. Right below my float, holding that thin tail, watching me from beneath the surface.
I clutched my phone, frozen. Was the gaze behind me the same thing as what held the float? Or were there two—one on the bank, one in the water?
Old Liu's flashlight suddenly swept down from the slope, footsteps scrambling. "Kiddo, what're you doing? Turn on your light."
The moment the beam hit me, the float returned to normal. Wobbled, wobbled again, drifting. The pressure on my back vanished, like someone stepped back and melted into the darkness.
Old Liu reached me, handed me a water bottle. "Why's your face so white?" I said fine, maybe a little cold. He said, "Wait, I'll get you a jacket." I said, "No need, Old Liu. Let's go."
He hesitated. "Now? It's only nine, night fishing just started."
"I feel sick."
He stared a few seconds, then packed up. We silently gathered our gear. I picked up the small carp to release it. Old Liu stopped me: "If you don't want it, give it to me—I'll make soup."
I handed it over. The fish flopped twice in his hand, silver belly glinting in the flashlight.
On the drive back, I said nothing. Old Liu didn't hum like last time. Halfway there, he asked, "Kiddo, did you see something?"
"No."
He grunted. After a while: "Don't come if you don't want to next time. Don't force it."
"Okay."
At my building, I got out. He leaned out the window, plastic bag with the fish in hand. "Leave the fish at your door?" I said keep it. He nodded, drove off.
I stood at the entrance, not going in. The hallway light was broken, pitch black. I leaned against the wall for a while, then pulled out my phone and searched "night fishing float standing upright."
Results were messy—crab pinching it, current pushing it, a few posts mentioning water ghosts holding floats, but all joking, comments full of LOLs. No one took it seriously.
But Dad did. He taught me that rule seriously.
I found a seven-year-old local news article. Took forever to load, old layout. "Man drowns in fish pond, suspected nighttime hypoglycemia."
A blurry photo of the scene—fish pond close-up. Half a fishing rod floating on the surface, line hanging from the tip. The float, at the edge of the frame, stood upright.
Pixelated, hard to see—but I knew it was standing.
The article didn't mention the float. Reporter wrote the cause of death, family had no objections, case closed. But Mom told me later—"That morning I went to the pond, the water was perfectly still. Your dad's rod floated in the middle. That float... stood so straight it scared me."
She said she tried pulling the line—nothing moved, like it caught on something. She called villagers to help. Several strong men pulled together. The line snapped in the middle. The float drifted away.
She said, "I don't know what was in the water."
She only said that once, never again. At Dad's cremation, she cried twice, fainting both times. When she woke, she burned all the rods, nets, bait—even the tackle shop membership card, cut to pieces and thrown in the stove. I didn't stop her.
After that Friday, I couldn't sleep for three nights. Closed eyes = standing float. Closed again = Dad floating on water. One question looped in my head: if I hadn't turned back, hadn't called Old Liu, would whatever was under the float have come up?
Or was it waiting for something?
I took Monday off. Spent the day on the couch, scrolling forums, chat rooms, blogs—searching for night fishing taboos and rules.
The more I read, the more confused. So many sayings: don't turn back when night fishing, don't shine light on your reflection in the water, don't call your partner by full name, don't point your phone screen at the water... Each one had someone swearing they'd experienced it.
But the standing float—only a few scattered posts mentioned it. All said it was an old rule passed down from elders. No one detailed what "happened next."
What happened next.
Dad died.
I closed my laptop, stared at the ceiling. Air conditioner hummed. A smell of spoiled food in the living room. The house felt too quiet. Normally comfortable silence now felt like a damp cloth wrapped around me, suffocating.
Wednesday Old Liu called again. I stared at the caller ID for a long time before answering. "Kiddo, coming this week?" I said, "Old Liu, I need to ask you something." He said shoot. "You said that sluice on White Dragon River—someone drowned there before?"
He said yeah, years ago. Local old man, slipped in while night fishing, found next day. I asked if he'd met the guy. He said no, only been fishing here two years, heard it from villagers.
"Old Liu, have you ever seen a float act weird?"
Silence on the line for two seconds. His voice dropped: "Kiddo, what did you see that night?"
"I saw the float standing upright."
He paused. "I'll teach you something. Next time that happens, don't stare at it. Stand up, face the bank, back to the water. Light a cigarette. Wait till it's done, then turn back. If the float's still standing, reel in and leave—don't look back. If it's normal, you're fine."
"How do you know this?"
"My grandpa taught me. He was an old fisherman, fished his whole life, still night fishing in his seventies. Taught me a lot of rules. I didn't tell you before because I was scared you'd get spooked. But since you saw it, I'll tell you how to handle it."
"Is your grandpa still fishing?"
Another pause. "No. He disappeared. Twenty years ago, went night fishing and never came back. We searched three days, found his rod downstream in a backwater bay. The float was standing."
My fingers tightened around the phone until my knuckles turned white. "Old Liu, why did you take me to those places?"
"What do you mean?"
"You knew those places had... problems. Why did you bring people there?"
He laughed dryly, lips smacking. "Kiddo, you know why I like fishing with you? Because I heard about your dad. Seven years ago, drowned in his pond, rod floating, float standing. I looked into it. Your dad taught you rules, right?"
"How do you know he taught me rules?"
"Because my grandpa taught me too. Rules get passed down. Generation to generation. Your dad taught you, my grandpa taught me. What your dad didn't tell you, my grandpa didn't tell me either. But I know one thing—I never go to those places alone."
"So you brought me? You knew those places were bad, and you used me as what?"
"A companion. Two people. The rule says two people are safe. I've been wanting to test this. Everyone I've gone with—none of them saw the float standing. Only you."
"Because I'm my dad's son?"
"Maybe it's blood. I don't know. I just want to understand. What did my grandpa see? What did your dad see? Kiddo—don't you want to know?"
No. I didn't want to know at all. I just wanted to wrap that rod back up, stuff it in the wardrobe, block Old Liu's number, move cities, never touch a fishing rod again.
But I heard myself say, "Friday, what time?"
"Six." He said. "Different spot this time."
"Where?"
"West Gate Reservoir. Thirty meters deep at its deepest, green water, duckweed floating on top. Locals don't let you swim there, but fishing's okay. There's an old spot—heard it belonged to a night fisherman who used to sit there. He never came back either."
"You're doing this on purpose."
"Maybe. I just want to know."
That night I couldn't sleep. At three AM, I got up, took the rod from the top shelf, cleaned it. Extended each section, wiped it down, collapsed it. My fingers brushed a mark on the handle—Dad had carved it with a knife. A lopsided character: "Ping." My name.
He carved it when I was thirteen. That year he took me night fishing, I caught a three-pound grass carp, jumping with joy. He sat beside me smiling, took a small knife and carved my name on the handle. "This rod's yours someday."
Then he was gone. I kept the rod.
Friday at six PM, Old Liu's minivan appeared on time. I carried the rod downstairs, got in. The car smelled of bait and fish. Old Liu handed me water, I took it.
We drove to West Gate Reservoir. Not much talking on the way. By dusk, we arrived. The water was indeed green, duckweed spread across the surface, pushed into clumps by the evening wind. The old spot was on a protruding rock at the dam—smooth surface, clearly worn by many fishermen.
I set up the rod, baited up, cast. The luminous float landed in a gap between duckweed, green dot against the oily green leaves, quiet as a painting. Old Liu sat four meters away, casting too.
The wind died. The water was like a mirror.
Nine o'clock sharp. My float moved. Not the twitch or pull of a bite. It trembled once, then slowly... slowly... stood upright. Straight. Exactly like the other two times. Whatever was beneath the water had arrived.
I stood up. Back to the water. Pulled out a cigarette, lit it. Flame flared in my palm. I faced the weeds on the bank, behind me the dark green water and that standing luminous float.
Old Liu spoke softly: "Kiddo, you saw it?"
"I saw it."
"Smoke your cigarette. Don't turn around."
I took a drag. Smoke burned my lungs, stinging my eyes. Behind me, the water was silent. So quiet it felt like the whole world had stopped. I counted my heartbeat: thump, thump, thump.
The cigarette burned down to the filter. I stubbed it out, slowly turned around.
The float was gone.
Not just the float. My entire line setup was gone. Line hung from the rod tip, but the float seat was empty. Like something had ripped the float away root and all.
I looked down at the water at my feet. Duckweed lay still, green and sickly. Right where my gaze fell, beneath the duckweed, a shadow. Not big—about the size of a washbasin. It hovered less than half a meter below the surface, motionless.
It was watching me. I knew it was watching me.
Old Liu's voice came from beside me, trembling: "Kiddo, is there something under your feet?"
"How do you know?"
"Same here."
I turned sharply. Old Liu stood beside his spot, rigid, facing me but eyes fixed on the water below me. His expression was unreadable—half smile, half cry.
"Kiddo, my grandpa was just like this. He went with a friend. The friend said his float stood up. Grandpa told him to stand and smoke. He did. Smoked. Turned around, float was gone. Then there was a shadow under his feet."
"What happened to that friend?"
Old Liu said, "Don't know. He went home. My grandpa didn't."
Water splashed. Soft, like a fish breaking surface. But the duckweed at my feet split open, black water showing through. That washbasin-sized shadow rose an inch. Something slippery clung to the edge of the duckweed—couldn't make out the shape.
Old Liu yelled: "Run!"
I turned and ran toward the bank. The rock was slippery, I stumbled, knee hitting a sharp edge, pain blinding me. But I didn't stop, scrambling up on hands and knees.
Cold air chased me from behind, thick with the smell of rot—like fish guts left in the sun all summer. My ankle tightened suddenly. Wet. Cold. Slippery. Something wrapped around it.
I looked down. Half a finger emerged from the duckweed—pale gray, bloated, dripping water. It hooked around my ankle, not hard, but impossible to shake off.
Old Liu grabbed my arm, yelling something incoherent, face red. We pulled together. The grip on my ankle loosened, then tightened again.
I kicked hard. The slippery finger slid off my skin. The cold retreated, with a splash—*plop*—sinking back under the duckweed.
I collapsed on the dirt slope, gasping. A ring of purple bruises circled my ankle—five finger marks.
Old Liu collapsed beside me, flashlight dropped, beam shining on the duckweed slowly closing over the water. Green leaves drifted back one by one, covering that black crack. The water returned to stillness, like nothing happened.
Neither of us spoke. After a long time, Old Liu stood first, gathering scattered rods and nets into the car. I didn't pick up the 4.5m rod. It lay in a crevice by the water, tip hanging over the surface. I didn't go for it.
Old Liu glanced at me, didn't ask. He opened the car door, I climbed in. The minivan engine roared, headlights cutting through the dirt road at the dam.
That night Old Liu dropped me at my building. My legs were still wobbly when I got out. He rolled down the window: "Kiddo, that rod..."
"I don't want it."
"Your dad's rod?"
"I don't want it."
He stared a while, nodded, rolled up the window and drove off.
I stood at the entrance, the finger marks on my ankle throbbing. The hallway light still broken, black hole staring back. I pulled out my phone, blocked Old Liu's number.
Then I opened my contacts and found Dad's number. I hadn't deleted it in seven years. I pressed call. Ringing. Busy signal. Hung up. Called again. Ringing. Busy signal.
Seventh time—it connected.
No one spoke. Just breathing. Wet, heavy, like bubbles rising from underwater. Through the phone, I smelled that faint odor.
I said three words into the receiver.
"Wait for me."
Then I hung up, went upstairs, turned on the lights, locked the door three times. The purple finger marks glowed brightly under the light, five neat impressions.
I sat on the couch until dawn. When it got light outside, I opened my phone and searched: "West Gate Reservoir drowning."
The first result popped up. Seven years ago. In the victim's name column, three characters:
Liu Jianguo.
Old Liu's surname. I remembered his license plate number when he drove off: 825. The year his grandpa disappeared, his dad had just learned to fish. Then his dad disappeared too.
Rules passed down generation to generation. But no one ever said what exactly was under those standing floats. Why they target us.
Dad knew. He wanted to tell me when he taught me, but couldn't find the words. Old Liu's grandpa knew too. Now Old Liu knows.
That rod still lies in the crevice at the dam, the handle carved with that lopsided "Ping." Duckweed has closed over the water. The float seat is empty.
But I hear something beneath the surface. Faint, like nails scraping against the rod's inside. Once. Once more.
It's waiting for me to come back.