Kevin Wikse vs. The Lake Tahoe Terror Fish Summer of 1988

It was early, that thin light before dawn when the world is still gray and half-formed, and I slipped off the houseboat barefoot and quiet, careful not to wake the others. The air was cool, almost cold, and Lake Tahoe stretched out before me like glass. So still it seemed unnatural, like something in a dream or a world not yet made. The water lay flat and wide beneath the mountains, cradled by those indifferent peaks, high ridges of rock that stood like old sentinels. Watching. Waiting. The islands, rising dark from the water like the backs of sunken beasts, seemed forgotten too, as if this place had been lost for centuries. The whole lake felt that way. Like time itself had grown slow and tired here, a strange land where everything had stopped.

I liked it that way.

Inside the houseboat, my family was still asleep—Mom and Dad, my aunt and uncle, all my cousins crammed into bunks, dreaming of eggs and bacon, of whatever people dream of who have no hunger for real adventure. But not me. Ten years old, summer of ’88, and I had the jet ski all to myself. No one awake to tell me it wasn’t my turn, no older cousins trying to take it away. Just me and the morning and the water.

A grin crept across my face as I climbed onto the jet ski, feeling the rough handlebars in my grip. The thrill in my chest was a living thing, hot and wild, like I’d just caught the reins of some great animal. I pushed the button, and the engine roared to life, loud in the silence. It echoed off the water and the rocks and the trees on the shore, and I liked that too. The power of it. The way the world answered back when you made noise, when you broke through the quiet.

I shot out across the lake, the water peeling away beneath me like a road stretching into the horizon. It felt like flying, like nothing else mattered. The houseboat, my family, the weight of the world—all left behind in the wake of the jet ski and my middle finger. I could see the shore far off, a dark line against the pale sky, the mountains towering black behind it like some otherworldly wall. Tahoe didn’t feel like a lake, not this early. It felt like something else. Like a place that had slipped out of time, a space between spaces where the rules of the world didn’t apply.

For a while, it was perfect. Just me and the jet ski, the wind in my face, the water parting beneath me, and the whole lake stretched out like my own personal playground. I could stay out here forever, I thought. The cold bite of the wind and the sharp scent of the pine trees on the air only made it sweeter.

I turned toward the islands, little patches of jagged rock and twisted pine that rose from the water like the bones of old giants. The trees looked strange, their branches tangled and corkscrewed, unnatural in the way they bent toward each other. I coasted between them, into the narrow channels where the water grew darker, the air heavier. It was quiet there, so quiet you could almost believe you were the only person left alive.

I killed the engine, letting the jet ski drift in the stillness. The world around me was ancient, forgotten, and for a moment, I could almost imagine that there were others here too. Older ones. People from a time before the lake had a name. I pictured them on the shores, their faces hidden in the shadows of the caves, armed with stone axes and bone knives, watching, waiting, the way the mountains watched.

The jet ski drifted, the water soft beneath me, and I let it. I let the lake decide where I should go next, as if it knew more about where I was supposed to be than I did.

And for a while, it was enough to just be there, floating in that strange, empty place where the world felt half-formed and waiting, the silence so deep it pressed against my chest, as if the lake itself was holding its breath.

That’s when I spotted it.

At first, I didn’t know what I was looking at. Just a shape in the water behind me, a shadow maybe. I figured it was the wake I’d kicked up, the churn of the lake settling back down, but it moved wrong. Too sudden. Too fast. Too big. The kind of wrong that seeps into your bones before you even know why. I glanced back again, and it was still there, cutting through the water like some dark, unnatural thing. Not a shadow. It was unnervingly alive.

My stomach knotted, the thrill of the morning gone sour, twisted into something colder. Something heavier. On the edge of panic, I fired up the engine and twisted the throttle hard. I was sure I could outrun it. The jet ski shot forward, but the umbral mass stayed right behind me, keeping pace, close enough now that I could see the water boil and churn as it moved beneath. It was huge, bigger than anything that belonged in this lake, a living thing from some deeper, older place.

I looked back again, and that’s when I saw it—a pale flash beneath the water, a shape rising up from the depths. Massive. Ancient. The water parted just enough for me to glimpse its eyes. Dead and glassy, unfeeling, like the eyes of something that’s floated up out of a nightmare.

A catfish. But not just any catfish. This thing was enormous, prehistoric, like it had been hiding down in the murk for centuries, just waiting. Waiting for me. As if by some dark prophecy, I had called it up from the bottom of the lake, and now it was coming for me. A monster dredged from the depths of the River Styx, the kind that fed on the bones of the damned, gorging on the dead in whatever aquatic abyss it emerged from.

I slammed the throttle to full, the jet ski screaming as I pushed it for all it was worth. The engine roared, the water split beneath me, but the thing was too fast. It stayed close, too close for something that size, the waves rising behind me like the wake of a ship. I could feel it back there, hunting me, the water crashing against the jet ski, pulling me closer to the shore.

My heart pounded in my chest, the kind of fear that pushes up into your throat, choking you. I couldn’t head back to the houseboat. It was too far. I wouldn’t make it.

So I turned toward the shore, desperate, hoping to lose it in the shallow water near the rocks. I could see the jagged edges of the island ahead, those twisted trees clawing at the sky, but it didn’t matter. The thing didn’t slow down. It was coming for me, closer and closer, relentless, the water churning in its wake like a storm had blown in from nowhere.

Then it hit me.

I felt the jet ski lift, like it had been knocked from underneath. I almost went flying, had to grip the handlebars so tight my knuckles turned white and skin tore. I looked back, and the catfish was right there, its gaping mouth wider than the jet ski itself, a one-way portal to hell, ready to swallow me whole. I screamed, but the sound got lost in the roar of the water, the engine, everything.

I twisted the handlebars hard to the right, trying to shake it off, and for a moment, I thought I had. The jet ski veered, skimming across the surface, but the thing was relentless. It followed every move, its huge bulk making the lake seem small, like there wasn’t enough room for both of us, and it demanded that I occupy the space in its belly instead. 

The shore was getting closer now, but so was the houseboat. I could see it in the distance, a tiny white speck on the water. That was my only chance. I aimed for it, praying I could make it before the catfish took me down. The water behind me boiled, the beast lunging again, its jaws snapping shut just inches from the back of the jet ski. I could almost feel its breath, hot and rank, like the expulsion of gas from a corpse, bubbling up from the depths.

I pushed the jet ski harder, the engine screaming, and for a second, I thought I was done for. The catfish surged up from the deep, its mouth wide, its eyes fixed on me. But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. The houseboat was so close now, I could see my dad standing on the deck, waving his arms like a retarded chimpanzee, shouting something I couldn’t hear, and probably not worth listening to anyway.

Then the water behind me went still.

I looked back, and the catfish was gone. Disappeared back into the depths like it had never been there. Just a few ripples on the surface, fading fast. I slowed down, drifting toward the houseboat, my hands shaking, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

My dad grabbed me as soon as I got close, yanking me by the arm onto the deck. He was hollering some idiotic hot mess that I ignored. I just stood there, transfixed, staring out at the lake. It looked so calm now, peaceful, like nothing had happened at all. 

But I knew better.

There was something in that water. Something ancient, something hungry. And it wasn’t done with me yet, and maybe I wasn’t done with it either.

-Kevin Wikse

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