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He shut down the motor and let the boat drift, one hand on his pole, the other grabbing his nearly empty beer.

The late-afternoon sun warmed his face and sparkled on the waves as the craft bobbed gently, nearly lulling him to sleep.

He tossed his empty beer can on the floor, leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, and let his body relax.

This tiny slice of bliss was why he came to Door County whenever he could.

It restored his soul.

There had been reports of people catching some good-sized salmon in this part of Lake Michigan recently, and he recalled the eighteen-pounder he’d caught last summer.

Visions of a repeat performance excited him, but even if he didn’t get a single bite, it was always worth the trip.

As if the thought of a bite had sent a message into the deep, he felt a tug on his pole, hard enough that it nearly slipped from his hand.

Adrenaline flooded his veins and he bolted up in his seat, tightening his grip automatically as he went to set the hook.

But the line had gone limp.

Disappointed but also rejuvenated by the fact that he’d come so close, he settled back into his seat, popped open another beer, and waited.

An hour later he jerked awake, surprised that he’d dozed off.

His pole was on the floor of the boat, and he picked it up, figuring it was time to give up and head in.

It was getting late; the sun would be setting in another hour, and he didn’t want to be out on Lake Michigan after dark in this sixteen-foot skiff with no lights, the only rental he’d been able to get on such short notice.

Not to mention that there was a bank of fog off in the distance that looked like it was headed his way, pushed along by a roiling bank of dark, menacing storm clouds.

He realized the boat had drifted while he dozed, and it took a minute or two of studying the nearest landmarks before he guessed where he was.

He started to reel in his line, but after only a few cranks, it went taut, zipping off the reel as something on the other end took the hook and made a run for it.

Adrenaline shot through him, and he braced himself with his feet against the metal seat in front of him and let the line spin out, fearful it would break if he tried to stop it.

Whatever was on the other end would tire soon enough, hopefully before the line ran out.

Maybe he wouldn’t go home empty-handed after all.

The wind gusted, whipping his hair into his eyes and sculpting the waves into treacherous hills and valleys of froth and foam.

When he glanced over his shoulder, he was alarmed to see how much closer the fog and clouds had come in just the last minute or two.

He decided to risk a grab for the spinning handle on his reel to try to stop the line, but it rapped his knuckles so hard that the skin split open on one of them, making him bleed.

The boat bucked wildly as waves threatened to wash over the side, and he realized he was turned the wrong way.

He grabbed for the reel handle again, succeeding in holding it that time, but the line continued stripping off the reel as he struggled to adjust the tension.

Seconds later, the first tendril of fog snaked its way around his body, thick, cold, and wet.

Thunder rumbled and the wind howled as the air temperature dropped about fifteen degrees in a matter of seconds.

Whatever he had on the end of his line was now pulling hard enough to drag his boat through the waves.

The fog fully enveloped him, a phantom of mist that draped everything around him, obscuring his surroundings, isolating him in the middle of a never-ending thick grayness.

He couldn’t see more than three feet in any direction, and he felt the hair rise on the back of his neck.

Panic kicked in and he glanced around for his flotation vest, saw it back by the motor.

Cursing, he reached into his pocket and took out his Swiss Army knife, using it to cut the fishing line.

He tossed the pole into the bottom of the boat just as a huge wave washed over the side, nearly knocking him into the water.

Fear and desperation caused another release of adrenaline, making his hands shake. He knew he had to reposition himself quickly so that the bow faced into the waves. Another big wave over the side like that last one would scuttle the boat, leaving him stranded out there in deadly waters. Grabbing the oars, he frantically tried to maneuver the boat into a better position to give himself time to crawl back to the motor and start it.

The lake water began to roil crazily, bubbling and churning in a way he’d never seen.

When he looked over the side, he saw two gleaming eyes rapidly rising from the depths toward him.

He braced himself as terror flooded his veins.

Something hit the boat hard from beneath and he was tossed over the side, into the water.

He thrashed about for a few seconds, trying to reach the surface, and when he did, he sucked in a panicked breath and looked around desperately for his boat.

Waves crashed and broke over his head, seeming to come at him from every direction at once.

He couldn’t see his boat anywhere and he tried to swim, not caring or knowing which way he was going as the waves tossed him about.

Then a huge wave crashed over him, dragging him under.

He struggled to get back to the surface, to air, but something grabbed his arm and pulled him down.

His frantic efforts to break free drained away the last of the fight in him, and as he sank down into darkness, those two glowing eyes were the last, terrifying things he saw.