The town is quiet, even for a river city. Storefront windows are dim, their blinds drawn tight, and the few people on the sidewalks move with their heads down, as if rushing somewhere they’d rather not be. The locals avoid eye contact when I ask about the Frogman — most simply shake their heads and keep walking. One old man at the gas station finally spoke, but his voice carried the weight of someone who’d said too much before.
“You’re better off chasing ghosts,” he muttered, glancing toward the dark stretch of road leading out of town. “At least they don’t follow you home.”
I’ve set up camp along the Little Miami River, downstream from the old railroad bridge where most sightings have been reported. The banks here are slick with algae, each step sinking into black mud that clings like tar. The air smells faintly metallic, copper and moss woven together with the damp scent of river rot.
Just after sunset, as the last oranGe light bled out of the sky, I heard it — a sharp, wet slap against the surface of the water. It came once, then again, with the spacing of something deliberate. Too loud for a fish, too heavy to be a bird landing. I stepped closer to the edge, flashlight in hand, but the beam only caught drifting debris — sticks, leaves, and the occasional bubble breaking the surface.
Somewhere across the river, a deep croak echoed, low and resonant. It wasn’t the steady chorus of bullfrogs I’d grown up hearing. This one had weight behind it, like a voice from somewhere older, deeper. The sound faded into the current, leaving me alone with the quiet lap of the water and the feeling that I was already being watched.
The Hidden Ones 
Drop Your Cryptid Clues