When the Fog Lifted at Dead Man's Cove

3:17AM. My thermos of bitter diner coffee trembled in the cup holder as the pickup bounced down the washed-out logging road. Somewhere through these pines, the abandoned dock at Dead Man's Cove waited - my secret spot since finding that rusted tackle box washed ashore last spring.

Dawn arrived as thick curdled milk. I cast my spinnerbait toward the skeletal remains of a submerged oak, blades cutting the fog with metallic whispers. Three retrieves. Four. Then - the sharp *pop* of a bass exploding through surface tension. My line sang as it peeled toward deeper water, drag system screeching like a banshee.

'Not today,' I growled through clenched teeth, thumb burning against the spool. When the smallmouth finally rolled onto its side, gills flaring crimson in the newborn light, I understood why old fishermen call this place haunted - some ghosts turn silver and green, fighting to drag you into the depths.