Ghosts of the Southern Swamps

Low sun crept over the Louisiana straight, to paint the sky with tones of blood orange and faint violet. Clara threaded her way through infinitesimal streams, examining this minute pirogue, the wooden boat squeaking under her weight.

The air was thick with tenacity and a heavy weight, like the marsh holding its breath, holding. "You shouldn't associate with her out into the night," old Mother Lou had warned her in town.

"Them swamps got a memory, young person. Likewise, they remember."

And yet Clara wasn't one to frighten easy. She'd lived in this swamp as long as she could remember and knew every turn of the creeks. But tonight she was hunting for something or someone.

Two nights running, her brother Sam hadn't shown up, the last he had been spotted fishings near Blackwater Sound. Some said he'd been taken by the gators; others whispered worse things.

The trees surrounded her as the boat rode without a wave across the pale water. Skeleton hands associated with getting her, coming to from the tree appendages. Spanish plant life hung low and brushed against her shoulders.

And somewhere far off, a bullfrog croaked once, then fell still as its call echoed unpleasantly in the stillness.

Then she heard it—a low, despairing yell that sent a shiver hustling down her spine. Clara froze, her paddle gripped white-knuckled in her hands. It wasn't human, yet it wasn't actually unnatural at the same time.

It seemed to come from everywhere and no spot, skirting off the water like a creepy song.

"Samantha?" Clara called out in a shaking voice.

It stopped wailing. The lowland shifted its quiet over it, a major and extreme front of it. And from the periphery of her eye, she saw it, a fuzzy, wavering light between the trees.

Clara's heart was working as she steered the boat in the direction of the glint. The light moved, drawing her deeper into the bog; the water darkened, and the air began to cool.

And she did not realize, until the living sounds of low country-the chirping of crickets, the rustle of leaves-ended and gave over to an oppressive silence.

At last she came out into a small clearing where the light trembled, pretty much about the water's surface: a fretful candle in the wind, with its long shadows turning and writhing.

Clara leaned forward, squinting into the despairing.

"Sam?" she mumbled again.

Light shot splendidly to clear the bog. Besides, that is where she saw them. Several creepy figures rose out of the water, a definite construction focusing in the pale light; their faces cut in trouble and discharged eyes.

These were the lost spirits of the marsh-the people who had vanished, eaten up by the significant waters all through the long haul.

Among them was Sam.

"Clara," he said, his voice scarcely a murmur. "You shouldn't have come."

Tears welled in her eyes as she contacted him, her hand going through his spooky structure. "I came to track you down," she said. "I can bring you back."

Sam shook his head. "It's past the point of no return for me. In any case, you... you actually get an opportunity. Leave now, before the bog claims you as well."

Different spirits started to draw nearer, their spooky hands going after her. The air developed frosty, and Clara felt a draw, as though the actual marsh was attempting to drag her under.

"No!" she cried, rowing quickly away. The spirits followed, their distressed howls reverberating in her ears. The pale blue light darkened, and the shadows of the trees appeared to surround her.

With a last explosion of solidarity, Clara broke free from the clearing and rowed back the manner in which she came. The spooky howls blurred, and the living hints of the marsh returned—crickets tweeting, frogs croaking, the delicate stir of leaves.

At the point when she at last arrived at the town, depleted and shuddering, Mom Lou was hanging tight for her.

"You saw them, didn't you?" the elderly person said, her voice weighty with bitterness.

Clara gestured, destroying her face. "Sam… he's no more."

Mom Lou put a hand on her shoulder. "The bog doesn't simply take bodies, kid. It takes recollections, as well. Try not to return, or you'll lose yourself as he did."

Clara always avoided the marsh. In any case, on calm evenings, when the breeze blew perfectly, she swore she may as yet hear the sad cries of the apparitions of the Southern bogs, calling out to her.