Some friends and I were fishing a small pond just after dark for catfish. We started to hear sounds coming off the water like someone throwing softball sized rocks, but they were coming from all over the pond. We thought someone was messing with us and we called out a few times for them to stop, but we eventually got freaked out and left. Cut to a few years later, I’m fishing a different pond and hear the same sound. Turns out it was a…
My name is Jake. That night in 2018, me and three buddies — Mike, Tyler, and Carlos — drove out to an old farm pond in rural Missouri. The catfish were supposed to be huge. We set up chairs, cracked open a few beers, and dropped our lines as the sun disappeared.
At first everything was peaceful. Crickets, frogs, the occasional splash of a fish. Then, around 11 p.m., we heard it.
Ker-plunk.
A heavy splash, like a softball-sized rock hitting the middle of the pond. Then another. And another. But the sounds came from different spots — left side, right side, way out in the center. It wasn’t one person. It sounded like multiple people throwing rocks at us from every direction.
“What the hell?” Mike whispered.
We yelled into the darkness, “Hey! Knock it off!” No answer. Just more heavy splashes. We shined our flashlights across the water. Nothing. No one on the banks. No boats. Just black water and those constant, heavy ker-plunks.
After twenty terrifying minutes, we packed up fast and got the hell out of there. We laughed about it on the drive home, calling it “the rock-throwing ghost,” but we never went back to that pond.
Three years later, in the summer of 2021, I was alone at a different pond in southern Illinois. Same kind of setup — night fishing for catfish. Around midnight I heard it again.
Ker-plunk… ker-plunk…
My blood ran cold. The exact same sound. Coming from all over the pond. I almost left right then, but this time I had a powerful headlamp. I waited, heart pounding, and pointed the light at the water every time I heard a splash.
Then I saw it.
A massive, prehistoric-looking fish exploded out of the water, twisted in mid-air, and slapped its huge tail down hard — sending a heavy splash like a rock. Another one did the same on the other side. Then another. These things were enormous, easily four to five feet long, with wide, armored heads and long whisker-like barbels.
Alligator gar.
I had heard of them but never seen one that big. These ancient monsters had moved into the pond and were hunting at night. When they breached or slapped their tails to stun prey, it sounded exactly like someone throwing big rocks into the water.
I sat there for hours, watching in awe and fear as these giant fish turned the pond into a war zone of splashes. One jumped so close to my boat I could have touched it. That night I understood why we got so freaked out years earlier. It wasn’t ghosts or pranksters. It was nature being absolutely terrifying.
I started researching and learned that big alligator gar can grow over seven feet and weigh more than 300 pounds. Their powerful tails create those loud, rock-like impacts. In the dark, with no visual reference, it sounds exactly like someone — or something — throwing stones at you from every direction.
I went back to that first pond with my friends the next summer. We returned at night with strong lights and finally saw them — at least six massive gar cruising the shallows. The same creatures that had scared us away years before were still there, ruling the pond.
That experience changed how I fish forever. Now when I hear strange sounds on the water at night, I don’t run. I shine a light and watch in wonder. Nature is full of things that seem supernatural in the dark.
Those “rocks” weren’t thrown by ghosts or people.
They were thrown by living dinosaurs still swimming among us.
And once you see them, you never forget the sound.