Giant’s Ridge Golf Club

Some golf holes are infamous for their slope. Others for the wind. Some for the heartbreak they deal out like candy at Halloween. But at one particular course I worked on, there was a hole that earned its reputation for something far stranger.

It wasn’t because of a tricky break. Or an awkward flag position. No, this hole became legend because it was—brace yourselves—haunted.

Not by a ghost, though. That would’ve been too easy.
This hole was haunted… by a toad.

Let me explain.

It started innocently enough—an unusually quiet morning, sun high, greens freshly cut, and players happily chasing pars and birdies. I was working nearby, doing what greenkeepers do best: fixing things that no one notices unless we don’t fix them.

Suddenly, I hear commotion on the green. Confused muttering. A little yelp. One player gesturing at the hole like it had personally insulted him. I stroll over, curious and slightly concerned that maybe a sprinkler head exploded again (don’t ask).

But no. As I get closer, I see the issue.

Inside the cup—right there, dead center of the flagstick’s kingdom—sits a fat, unbothered toad.

Toad. In. The. Hole.

The player’s golf ball had hit the edge of the cup and bounced out with a little squish sound, sending it off course like it had struck a trampoline.

Now, you might think this was a one-time accident. Just a weird, harmless moment in the wildlife-meets-golf world we all know and love. But that would be underestimating the dedication of this amphibious menace.

Because every day for the next week—every single day—the toad came back. Well, it was probably a different sibling each time.

Same hole. Same position. Sitting like the grumpiest little green referee, right inside the cup, ruining putts and careers with silent judgment. Sometimes I’d remove him gently and place him near the pond. I even walked him a good distance away once, gave him a motivational speech, told him to explore new real estate opportunities. But no—next day, there he was again. Or maybe his sibling… or cousin?

It got to the point where players thought I was pulling some weird prank. One guy even asked if it was a fake toad. “Like, a Halloween prop?” he said, tapping it with his putter. The toad, thoroughly offended, hopped out with an attitude. I swear, if he had middle fingers, he would’ve used them.

Players started blaming the “Haunted Hole” for their putting misfortunes. Balls would bounce out unexpectedly, or stop an inch short with a confused wobble, as if even gravity was second-guessing itself.

From my vantage point, watching all this unfold was comedy gold. One moment in particular stands out:

A very serious golfer—let’s call him Bob—lined up his five-foot putt with textbook form. Quiet. Focused. Poised. The ball rolled perfectly toward the hole, everyone watching in suspense… and then:
BOOP.
The toad popped up like a carnival whack-a-mole, sending the ball off to the side like it had been cursed by some ancient amphibian deity.

Bob just stared. Looked at the ball. Looked at the hole. Looked at me.
And I, barely keeping a straight face, just shrugged and said, “We’re working on getting him a caddie license.”

The toad didn’t care. He had chosen that hole as his home, and nothing—nothing—was going to change his mind.

 Eventually, players learned to peek in before putting. One even started referring to the hole as “the green goblin’s lair.”

There’s something magical about how golf courses blur the line between sport and nature documentary. You think you’re showing up for a relaxing round of golf, but instead you’re in an ongoing turf war with birds, snakes, swans—and now toads.

The best part? While the golfers struggled, the toad thrived. No predators. Fresh water nearby. Shade from the flagstick. Daily entertainment. It was the five-star toad resort he never knew he needed.

Eventually, as all legends do, he moved on. Maybe he found a more secluded bunker to haunt. Maybe he went off to start a family of equally disruptive toadlets. But his legacy lives on.

To this day, players still double-check the cup before celebrating a clean putt. Some whisper tales of “the toad with eyes like judgment and legs like springs.” And me? Well, I’ve added another line to my unofficial greenkeeper resume:
Toad Eviction Specialist.

So next time your ball mysteriously lips out of the hole, don’t be too quick to blame your technique. Peer into the cup. Look carefully. You never know who—or what—might be staring back.

Because some holes are haunted.
And some are just claimed.