Growing up in Great Bend, an "old timer" had told my brothers and I about some men who were "noodling" at the local Arkansas River a hundred years prior. Noodling means "trying to catch fish with your hands." But one man had an ingenious idea, or so he thought.

The man attached a hook (not the bloody hook on the door handle, stay tuned) to his hand and tied it around his wrist so that it was unbreakable. He was going to outsmart the other "noodlers" by getting the huge hook into a big flathead catfish, and then could land the whopper with ease.

But the catfish had other ideas. Yes, the man hooked into a huge catfish, alright -- how big is unknown -- it was a monster fish. The fish was so strong it pulled the man off the dock and underwater. The man was never seen again. Ever.

And then I remember the "Janis Ian" moment like it was yesterday. My best friend at KU, Jeff Reese, and I were sitting around the fraternity house, and I asked him: "Is the fishing any good on the Kaw River here?"

Jeff then told me about what he called "The Bowersock Catfish"----a catfish so big that a man from Lawrence (who stupidly tied a hook to his hand while noodling) hooked into a catfish so big that he was pulled underwater, and never seen again.

"But Jeff, that can't be," I protested. "That happened in Great Bend. Not Lawrence!" He was positive it happened on the Kaw, not the Arkansas out in Western Kansas.

And as I got to know people from other small towns in Kansas, they all claimed at one time or another that "the bloody hook", the "solid concrete cadillac", the "giant catfish" happened in THIER town, be it Parsons, Lawrence, Hays, Hoxie, Chicago, Overland Park. Well, you get the point.

Down deep I still believed these events happened in Great Bend. Then one summer night (I think it was 1981) I was watching a late night talk show on summer break -- and an absolutely remarkable professor from the University of Utah was talking about something he called "Urban Legends," and I was enthralled with what he was saying. He was telling the same stories, and explaining their universality, and why we tell these stories. I raced down to Great Bend's only bookstore -- "The Treasure Chest Bookstore," and asked them to order me a book called "The Vanishing Hitchhiker" by Jan Harold Brunvand. And I have that book sitting in front of me as I type this article.

Now please understand, the only urban legends I know are the ones I heard as a youth, so I am not up to date on the latest ones; nor have I seen the movie "Urban Legends." I just know the ones that scared the heck out of us as kids, and we loved every minute of it.

Of course, you know the "bloody hook" story. Allow me to tell you the Great Bend version. A high school boy and girl were "necking" on "Lover's Lane" near the Arkansas River at Great Bend. They turned on the radio and heard a shocking announcement: "A
lunatic murderer has escaped from Larned State Hospital near Great Bend and is on the loose! He is easily identifiable because he has a metal hook on one of his hands! Lock your doors!"

The boy told the girlfriend: "Don't worry about it. Larned is 20 miles away from Great Bend!" Meanwhile, the girl insisted that they quit "necking" and leave at once! They argued about it until the boyfriend got angry and started the car and peeled out like a racecar driver. He took his girlfriend home. As he walked over to her side of the car to open her door, he was stunned to see a bloody hook hanging from the door handle!
(For you millenials, car doors once had a handle with a hole in it.)

When the Brunvand book finally arrived, I was awestruck. He specifically tells about a student he had at the University of Utah. The student was from McPherson, Kansas. The student told him in elaborate detail about "the bloody hook":

"Outside of "Mac" (McPherson, Kansas) about seven miles out towards Lindsborg, north on old highway 81 is an old road called 'Hookman's Road.' It's a curved road, a traditional parking spot for the kids. When I was growing up it (the legend) was popular, and that was back in the 60's, and it was old then."

And I would be remiss if didn't mention a "legend" that Brunvand includes that involves two coeds at the University of Kansas. He details a version of the story as told by a KU student in 1965:

"These two girls in Corbin (girl's dormitory) had stayed late over Christmas vacation. One of them had to wait for a later train, and the other wanted to go to a fraternity party given that night of vacation. The dorm assistant was in her room sacked out. They waited and waited for the intercom, and then they heard this knocking and knocking outside in front of the dorm. So the girl thought it was her date and she went down. But she didn't come back and she didn't come back. So real late that night this other girl heard a scratching and gasping down the hall. She couldn't lock the door, so she locked herself in the closet. In the morning she let herself out and her roommate had had her throat cut, and if the other girl had opened the door earlier, she (the dead roommate) would have been saved."

Rural states like Kansas seem to flourish when it comes to urban legends. And that's why I don't know why they are called "urban legends." Because these stories blossom most in isolated small towns, in places like Kansas.

I loved and believed these stories as a youngster. But like Janis Ian, I learned the truth at Seventeen.

Hey, but did I tell you about the skin diver who went to the bottom of Lake Barton at Great Bend, and came rushing to the top, scrambling to get back in the boat? He said:
"I saw a catfish down at the bottom so big that I never never go down there again unless I'm in a steel cage."

It happened in MY hometown, Great Bend. You can bet on it.

Source: The Vanishing Hitchhiker: American Urban Legends and Their Meanings, Jan Harold Brunvand (1981).