Creepy - Day 3 - The Bait Shop

Episode Date: October 3, 2019

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Day 3. The bait shop. Written by Crispy Writes and narrated by Steve Blizzin. The last thing I remember, I was talking to some girl at this shitty little dive bar in Tampa. She said something about how she knows a guy who knows a guy. Next thing I know, it's four in the month. morning and I'm staring at a neon sign that reads bait shop at the end of a one-lane road in the middle of swampy fuck-all Florida. My phone and my wallet are gone. My clothes are soaking wet,

and I've got a piece of yellow nylon rope tied around my waist. I can see movement inside the shop, so I push open the rusty screen door, and this strange blue light swirls into view. It's an image of a grizzled old man standing. behind the counter. He looks right at me and starts rambling, like some kind of motion-activated hologram. It looks like some sort of projection, but I can't see the source or the projector. It's weird, but I'm way too fucked up to try to make sense of it. Then the image launches into this speech. South of the mouth of the Little Manatee River, there's an unmarked one-lane road that runs off the main highway.

It cuts back through the mangrove trees and ends at a kind of a natural boat ramp. It's known to the locals as smuggler's cove. I call it the road to ruin. See, this place is a fisherman's paradise. You can catch tarpon, snook, speckled trout, redfish, and flounder, hard fighters and line busters like Jacks and Pompano.

There's limited parking and it fills up fast on weekends, so if you've come to fish, you best arrive by dawn. And if you're new, don't be surprised to find all your tires flat when you get back. None of the neighbors are going to be holding out a welcome sign, and a few of them might even get a little protective if you start poking around their favorite fishing spots. Cockroach Bay is a maze of mangrove swamps, hidden inlets, open flats, and glory holes. The water's brackish, where the river's, where the river meets the Gulf. On good days, the water's crystal clear, and you can see rust-colored currents of freshwater carrying tannins out into the Gulf. Mullet jump and splash by day, and at night,

you can hear the snook chase bait up into the mangrove knees. They make a kind of a popping sound as they open their big maws and suck in everything in their reach. There's raccoons, armadillos, snakes, and alligators that amble by. Pellicans and great blue herons will snatch the fish right off your line, so watch yourself. You learn quickly that you're not the only predator out here. It's mostly peaceful living, mostly. But every now and then, the tides bring trouble. Names Chet McCullen. Most call me Skip.

I run this old Bay Jack, and I've seen some shit out here, son. Crazy shit. Something about Florida makes people go native. Maybe it's the sunshine or maybe it's the rain. But if you stay here long enough, things start to get fuzzy. I've seen happy couples move from snowy states and after a year in the heat, they're slips sliding around like a reptile in a mud patch, drowning in debt, cheating on each other,

backstabbing friends, robbing, killing, hell. And that's just the... Cops, you should see some of these God-fearing people in church on Sunday mornings. Them sermon meetings look like a swipe through a tender date list. Preachers and daughters, teachers and schoolboys. Seems people devolve and regress back to their old lizard brains. Just like the things that crawl out of these swamps. All that fucking only leads to hurt feelings.

Hurt turns to anger, and the next thing you know, they're fishing bodies out of the man. and putting the catch of the day on the six o'clock news. You want to know what I think? I think that just gives people ideas. People that's thinking about doing something evil, they don't need any ideas. I blinked and rubbed my eyes trying to make sense of what I was seeing. I was still pretty groggy as I shifted my weight from one foot to the other.

My shoes oozed water when I moved. I looked down at my feet and the old man started up again. I've been working this bait shack from sun up to sundown nearly every day for the past 29 years. I've seen my share of shady suspects. This here is the tank for live shrimp. This one here is where I keep the dead. I got sardines, pinfish, and greenbacks over there, live crab and dead mullet for tarpon over here. There's cold beer in the cooler, fresh line on the pegs, sinkers, bobbers, plastic baits and lures.

But I don't sell no ammo, so don't ask. A week ago last Sunday I had a fella come in and ask me if I had any cinder blocks for sale. Sender blocks. Now you think about that. What in the hell does anyone at a boat ramp need with cinder blocks? It don't take no FBI profiler to figure out there trying to weigh down a body. I've had folks ask me for duct tape, rope, binadrille, and trash bags. I've had people ask if I offer Wi-Fi, have cameras on the premises, or if I keep a log of license plates.

Now, why on God's Green Acres would I care what you do here? I operate an all-night bait shack and a backwater swamp on the Gulf Coast of Florida, son. I got no business getting into your business, and I'd appreciate it if you'd leave me to mind in my own. Had a couple come in here one weekday, both of them hopped up on something. They was covered in tattoos, body piercings, and dreadlocks. And both of them was wearing clothes covered in dried blood. The guy's towing this six-foot flat-bottom John boat filled with black trash bags, and he tells me he's fixing to take his girlfriend fishing.

The girl just sort of stood there and twitched and blinked at me with hollow eyes. That boat ain't fit to be on a small pond and a light breeze, let alone out in the goddamn Gulf of Mexico. The old boy buys two cold beers, a bag of Doritos, and asks me if I got me worms. Worms? I says? What do you need worms for? You ain't even got a fishing pole. The boy genius shrugs and he and his twitchy lady friend take off for parts unknown. Lo and behold, for the next three days, real fishermen are finding body parts floating all up around the mangroves. Seems our happy couple wasn't happy with their drug dealer friend and his cohort

So they chopped them both up into tiny little pieces and spread them all around the bay Every now and then I get a kid who shows up in here Curious smiling all proud of their catch Most of the time they'll ask me what they just caught Always gives me a chuckle Well young fella that one there is called a sheep's head look here look up close at its teeth. Kind of look like human teeth, don't it? They use them big chompers to bite through barnacles that grow on the piling of piers and the bottom of boats. Yes, sir, that's a good

eating fish. Now let me snap your picture and I'll post it up here on this wall. I was tugging at the knot and the rope tied to my waist when I realized the old man had gone quiet. I looked up to see he was turned away from me and pointing to a wall covered with pictures of people holding up fish. I seized the moment of silence and asked if he had a phone I could use. He snapped back around to face me and began talking like I wasn't there. I couldn't get a word in edgewise through his well-rehearsed speech. This old boy come in here one evening and buys a bucket of greenbacks and four dozen live shrimp tells me he plans to be fishing well into the wee hours. Seemed odd he'd make that distinction since most people just come to fish.

Tom don't matter once you're out on the water, unless you're wearing a badge or playing hooky from your boss, or your spouse. Anyway, he's about 50, and he's with these two fine young blonde girls who are barely contained by their bikinis, if you get my drift. The girls wait outside, smoking cigarettes and getting all giggly and jiggly next to his boat. One girl had on this American flag-patterned bikini top, the same one you see hanging up over there.

The other one had on something camo, if memory serves. So the old boy takes his buckets, the girls, and goes out with the boat. Come about three o'clock that morning, I hear him pull in all nice and quiet like. And I can see he's all alone on that boat. Now where did them two young girls get to? And why is he trying to be so quiet? Two weeks later, I'm out on my skiff, and I found this. this here bikini top, tangled up in the mangroves, all bleached by the sun.

Now it don't take no genius to figure out something's not kosher, but I don't bother with the sheriff and he don't bother with me, so unless he comes asking, I'm not going to brag about my little find. But you know all these little islands and inlets around here are plumb full of secrets, some of them good ones and some of them bad. I was only half listening and back to working on that knot again when a wave of despair washed over me. I suddenly felt weak, wet, and uncomfortable. And I was really creeped out by these stories. But since he had paused long enough for me to cut in, I asked again if I could borrow his phone.

His expression changed for a moment, like he registered my request, but then the image glitched, pixelated and trembled, like he did a hard reset. For a moment, I expected his whole speech to start over again from the beginning, but he picked up where he left off. Mr. You ever hear a square grouper? That's what they used to call it back in the day. Back when stray bales of cocaine or marijuana would wash up from some smugglers failed haul. Used to be crazy out here with all the cigarette boats blasting through these waters,

but I guess all those drones and satellites they got out. here nowadays have caused the smugglers to change tactics. A few of my neighbors found a few. Square grouper, that is. They'd spot them bobbing up and down in the water and gaff them, bring them on board. You find any of them square grouper, son, you best keep that news to yourself. These people who lose them, they don't believe in finders' keepers. These days, it's mostly meth, MDA, and heroin. The fact that you're standing here? Well, thank your lucky stars that you haven't wound up on the wrong end of a needle.

I thought, how does he know I'm standing here? But by now I figured this hologram thing was just some kind of cheeky attempt at security. I waved my arms around to see if I could trigger the motion activation and make the thing start up again. I started looking around for any sign of a telephone. The old man sparked to life again as I approached the, counter. My shoes squished, leaving wet footprint stains on the dry wood plank floor. So what's your story, friend? What brings you out here to this sportsman's paradise? The old man asked me. Before I could answer, the image flickered and jerked as it evaporated

into digital static, disappearing as quickly as it appeared. I peered over the counter hoping to find a phone or maybe the source of that projection, but there was nothing back there but barren shelves and a rustic wood plank floor. So I stepped back outside the bait shop to look for a payphone. The sun was just beginning to come up in a thick, honey-colored haze. I remember thinking how comforting it made me feel to see it. Then I looked down at my damp and sandy clothes, and I realized I still had this yellow nylon rope tied around my waist.

My head was pounding. I had this terrible taste in my mouth, like I could taste the bay, the salt, the sand, and the mangrove trees around it. I fidgeted and tugged at the knot, but my wrinkled wet fingers slipped easily off the plastic rope. I figured I would have to cut this off of me and turned back to open the bay shop door,

but the building was gone. There was no trace of it. I was standing in a clearing in the mangroves, large enough to turn a car around in. Then I could see something white near the water's edge. A concrete Celtic cross covered in plastic flowers. A great blue heron was standing vigil nearby, watching me like I was lunch. I rubbed my eyes. What was happening to me?

How the hell did I wind up here? I looked up the road towards the sunrise, then back down to the water, trying to remember anything that would help me figure out how I got here. And I heard the faint sound of approaching car wheels rolling slowly down the unpaved road. Thankfully, somebody was coming. A man in a rusted-out pickup truck towing a boat trailer pulled up beside me. Obviously a local. He seemed ready for a day on the water.

He rolled his window down, staring at it. staring at me intently before speaking. With a quizzical expression, he asked if I was okay, never moving his eyes away from mine. Before I could answer, he asked, What happened to you, son? I'm not sure, I said with a nervous tremor in my voice. He smiled with strange elation,

revealing a troop of missing teeth. My God, he said. you're one of them them i said my wet clothes weighing heavily against my skin as i approached hop in son i'll take you up to route forty-one where where am i safe son safe the man in the pickup truck responded you're going to be okay as i climbed into the cab of his truck he leaned over and opened the glove box A long fillet knife lay sheathed inside the compartment. Here, he said, use this knife to cut that rope off, coil it up and keep it, son. It's a genuine souvenir.

He smiled when he said it like he was just as happy to see me as I was to see him. How far are we from 41? I asked as he guided the truck through the tight turnaround. The rusty truck groaned, complaining as we moved. Not too far. Four miles, maybe. There's a gas station with a pay phone you can use to call for help,

the old man said. How do you... I stopped before I asked the question, realizing my predicament was more obvious than I assumed. So I asked him about the bait shop. Bates shop, he said. Son, there ain't no bait shops around here for miles. He smiled his toothless grin and said,

You ain't the first to ask about it, though. See, folks around these parts been hearing tales about that bait shop for nearly 30 years. I reckon some folks met a watery grave back near where you were standing. Seems there's a certain kind of evil that grows wild in these swamps. People say that every now and then some evildoer will take somebody out into the bay and try to drown them. sink the body back in one of those deep glory holes where no one's ever going to find the bones. That's just what happened to a local boy named Skip.

I guess some drug dealers didn't like him poking around their smuggling operation, so they sank him in the bay, tied to a piece of concrete. But the knot didn't hold, and eventually Skip come up to the surface. Skip? I asked with the stammer, Skip McCullen? The man took his foot off the gas pedal and coasted to a stop. His face turned white as he turned to look at me.

Almost angrily, he asked, Now how would you know that? We sat there for a good minute looking at each other, not sure either one of us wanted any answers. Finally, I told him, he was in the bait shop. He told me his real name was Chet. The old man's shoulders fell, and he sighed deeply.

The air felt thick and humid. A silent moment passed between us like a canyon, as he pushed his sunglasses up to wipe tears away. He spoke to you, he said, now sobbing loudly. I wasn't sure how to respond. Do I tell him the truth and upset him further, or keep this bizarre hallucination to myself. I was more confused about my circumstances than ever,

and I had to tell someone. So I told the man about the bait shop in the strange and practiced speech the proprietor had prepared. At times, the old man beside me sobbed and trembled uncontrollably. He seemed to hang on every word. When I finished my story, the man thanked me. For what? I thought. For telling him I had some weird hallucination in a backwoods Florida swamp? For soaking through the seatcloth and his antique pickup truck? For making him

give up his day on the water so he could drive me back to Route 41? I couldn't make sense of anything. Abruptly, he leaned over and pulled a wallet out from his back pocket. He fidgeted around, pulled out the driver's license, and handed it to me. Name's Robert. Robert McCullen. But most folks call me bug. Chet was my brother. I'd heard these tales about that mysterious bait shop for years.

Dismissed it all as rumor. Drunk tales told to scare kids or make my brother out to be some kind of local ghost story. I thought when I first saw you, you might be the real thing, but I held on to my suspicions until you said his name. You see that big white Celtic cross back there, son? He dabbed at his moist eyes with an old bandana. I put that there for Skip. I saw it, I said,

but only after the bait shop disappeared. I didn't look at it too closely. It sort of freaked me out. And there was this great big, tall, blue hair. The man said in almost perfect unison with me. Yeah, it just kept staring at me. But then you rolled up and... What the hell happened to me?

I blurted. How did I wind up here? Why am I soaking wet? And what the hell is with that rope? I was angry, tired, confused. I needed answers and dry clothes. The old man sighed and started up the truck again. You're safe, son. That's all that really matters, he said as the truck lurched forward, pulling the trailer off the shoulder.

Then he continued. You see, these stories, people tell. They always happen after someone gets in trouble. Someone gets hurt and they wind up back at that boat launch. They turned up wet, confused, unsure what happened. Some say they went into a bait shop trying to find a phone. Almost all say they knew they were going to die. Like this half-naked blonde girl that showed up at the gas station one morning.

She told the sheriff she'd been left to drown in Cockroach Bay. Said she was forced to watch some guy rape and murder her best friend on a boat out in the bay. Somehow she got her legs untied and got away. She tried to swim to safety, but he hit her with his boat. She couldn't explain how she survived, but there she was in all her naked splendor, talking on the payphone when I drove by. Seemed like a lot of trouble to go through just to stick to a story. They caught the old boy that done it, and he did confess to what she said.

"'So you think something like that happened to me?' "'I asked.' "'You had that rope around your waist, son. "'Look down at the end. "'Is it frayed or worn out looking, "'or does it look like a clean cut?' "'The old man asked, keeping his eyes on me. "'I picked up the coil of yellow rope by my feet.

"'I followed it to the ends "'expecting to see loose strands and frayed bits, but it was cut clean, like a surgical knife sliced through it. It was a far cleaner cut than the jagged cut I made near the knot with that sharp fillet knife laying in the glove box. It's clean, I said. Does that mean something? The old man nodded.

It means you didn't just pop up by accident. Somebody tried to hold you underwater, tied you to something so you wouldn't be. found. Somebody, or something else, came along and made sure that didn't happen. The old man paused to choke back tears. My brother always wanted a bait job. Always said, someday when I get rich, he was going to build one at the end of that road. More information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, or to suggest stories for future episodes, please visit us. All stories told on this podcast can be found at creepypastorwickia.com and are protected by a creative

commons license. Some rights reserved unless otherwise stated.