The Bog

I can barely see more than a few feet ahead, the thick fog and tangled branches conspiring to keep the night's horrors hidden. What a sight I must be to the creatures lurking in the dark, an intruder fumbling through their domain. Their chorus is anything but welcoming--the guttural croaks of unseen frogs, the restless flutter of disturbed birds, the distant rustling of something I cannot name. The marsh water clings to me, rising past my waist, each sluggish step a battle against the sucking mire.


By God, what madness drove me to leap from a moving car at that speed? My body protests with every breath, ribs aching, shallow cuts burning where the cold water seeps in. Yet none of that matters now.

I push forward through the waist-high water, its chill seeping into my bones. Every step is a struggle, the mud beneath the surface sucking at my legs, thick weeds coiling around my ankles like grasping fingers. I curse under my breath--what madness drove me to leap from that speeding car? I should be dead, yet I've only earned a few shallow cuts and, judging by the sharp ache in my side, maybe a bruised rib. A foolish kind of luck.


Then, a sound. A splash--close. Too close. I freeze, heart hammering against my ribs. The water stirs, sending slow ripples lapping against me. Something is in here with me. A gator, maybe. Or something worse. My breath comes in short, careful gasps as I scan the black water, searching for movement, for the glint of eyes reflecting in the dark. Nothing. But I know better than to wait.I force my battered body to move, pushing through the moss-choked bog with renewed urgency, my every nerve screaming to be free of this wretched place. Then--finally--moonlight breaks through the skeletal branches overhead, pale and feeble but enough to reveal salvation. Dry land.


I stumble onto the shore, boots sinking into the mud as I haul myself out of the water, my legs trembling with exhaustion. Before me, crouched at the edge of the trees, stands a rotting shed, its walls sagging, its door yawning open like a toothless mouth. The air around it feels heavier somehow, thick with something unseen, something watching. But standing here, soaked and breathless, with whatever lurks beneath the water at my back, I have no choice.


I take a step forward.


"At last," I gasp, collapsing onto the splintered floor, my limbs trembling from exhaustion. The weight of my soaked clothes lessens as murky water pools beneath me, seeping into the warped wooden planks. My chest rises and falls in ragged breaths, but relief is fleeting.


A sharp gust rattles the shack, its frail walls groaning, the rusted nails shrieking in protest. The wind worms its way through the cracks, cold and biting, stirring the thick scent of mold and decay. Above me, pale moonlight spills through holes in the sagging roof, casting fractured beams across the filth-streaked floor. Shadows shift and twist in the dim glow, never quite still, never quite right.


Then, my gaze catches on something--shattered glass, just an arm's length away. A broken mirror. My reflection stares back in jagged fragments, each piece slightly out of sync, as though mocking me. My face is there, but wrong. Warped. Splintered.


My thoughts drift, unwillingly, to the camp. To my brother. To the promises of their so-called "High Father" and his grand designs. Lies. Madness dressed as salvation. I see them again, the followers with their empty eyes, their whispered devotions, and then--those things. Those horrid, impossible things.


And it.


I cannot comprehend what I saw. My mind refuses to wrap itself around the nightmare that chased me through that house. Even now, if I shut my eyes, I see flashes of it--its movements, its hunger, its twisted form slipping through the walls as though they were water.


But the sounds. Oh, God, the sounds it made.


I squeeze my eyes shut. My body stiffens. I focus--not on the memories, not on the nightmare clawing at the edges of my mind.


Something else.


Something real.


The distant rumble of an engine.


My breath catches. The world narrows.


Something is coming.


I rise slowly, every movement setting off a protest of groaning wood beneath my feet. My breath is shallow, my pulse hammering in my ears. The shack feels smaller, tighter. My eyes dart to each window, scanning the blackened swamp beyond. Tall, lifeless silhouettes stand half-submerged in the water, unmoving, watching. Just trees--I tell myself. Just trees.


But the sound--it hasn't stopped.


A distant roar, low and guttural, growing nearer. The vibration hums against my ribs as I reach for my belt, fingers curling around my knife.


Then--silence.


Too sudden. Too complete.


It's as if the car had been swallowed by the night. The air itself holds its breath. I inch toward the adjoining wall, angling for a better look outside.


Then--


The engine explodes back to life, deafening, blinding.


The shack erupts in a storm of splintering wood and shattering glass. I throw myself sideways as the vehicle plows through the wall, tearing through the fragile structure like paper. Dust and debris choke the air, blinding me. My knife--gone, lost somewhere in the wreckage.


I stagger to my feet, raising an arm against the glaring headlights. The engine revs, growling like some hungry thing, its heat searing the air between us. The driver sits behind the wheel, motionless, watching. He could end this now. He could run me down like a dog in the road.


But that's not what he wants.


He wants to see me suffer.


At last, the door creaks open, and a pair of heavy boots strike the earth with a dull, deliberate thud. The very ground beneath him seems to recoil, splintering under his weight.


He steps forward, and I feel myself shrink beneath his shadow.


Towering, massive--his form blocks out what little moonlight filters through the broken walls. The engine's dying rattle fades, but the silence feels worse.


He's here.


Clad in grime-streaked denim overalls, his frame bulges with unnatural mass. His breath hisses through flared nostrils, thick and slow. But it's his smile--that twisted, jagged thing--that chills me to my marrow.


In his hand, a baseball bat, slick with blood.


Not fresh.


Not old, either.


He grips it loosely, as if he has all the time in the world.


As if he knows how this ends.


"Fancy of you... jumping out of my car like that. Should've tied you up," he drawls, circling me like a predator sizing up a wounded animal. The way he moves--slow, deliberate--sends a deep, primal warning through my body.


I shift, mirroring his steps, my muscles coiling beneath my skin. I need a plan. A way to get out of this without having my ribs turned to dust.


He grins, exposing a mouth full of jagged, yellowed teeth, his breath thick with rot. "You know, I knew I was gonna be the one to kill you the moment I laid eyes on you." His voice is low, almost admiring. He rubs a hand over his patchy, stubbled scalp before turning his gaze back to me, something dark and twisted swimming in his eyes.


"And when you're dead?" His lips curl into something between a sneer and a smirk. "I'm gonna have myself a real good time with your brother."


He grabs his groin, laughing under his breath. "They call me Big John for a reason."


Something in me snaps.


A heat rises from the pit of my stomach, boiling over into my limbs. My fingers clench into a tight fist. I am exhausted. I am broken. But I know what I have to do to survive.


I lunge--low and fast.


My arms wrap around his legs, driving forward with everything I have, slamming his massive frame into the grill of the car. The metal groans under the impact, and I barely dodge the wild arc of his bat.


But he is dense. His body is thick with years of brute labor, his muscles knotted like tree roots. Before I can react, his elbow crashes into my back, sending a sharp, paralyzing pain through my spine.


I hit the ground hard.


The world lurches, my breath coming in shallow gasps as I lift my head just in time to see his boot hurtling toward my face.


I barely manage to throw my arms up, absorbing the brunt of the blow, but the impact rattles through me, my skull bouncing against the wooden planks. Once. Twice. Three times.


Then--the kicks.


Brutal. Unrelenting.


Each one buries deeper into my gut, curling me inward, my body instinctively folding into itself. Pain floods me, raw and all-consuming.


Big John steps back, exhaling through his nose like a bull. He strokes the bat with slow, deliberate motions, grinning. Enjoying himself.


I suck in a breath, forcing myself up, leaning against the car for balance. My ribs scream in protest, my limbs sluggish, but I cannot stay down.


Big John's eyes flicker with amusement. He rushes forward, bat raised high.


I react--instinct taking over.


I yank my hand away just as the bat slams into the hood, denting the metal with a deafening clang. Now.


I launch forward, putting all my weight into a wild, desperate strike--my fist connecting clean with his jaw.


He stumbles.


Not far. Not enough.


Pain blazes through my knuckles, like I just punched a slab of solid concrete. He barely flinched.


Big John rolls his shoulders, cracking his neck. He grins.


Then, with a guttural roar, he swings again--a force of raw destruction.


I duck, barely avoiding the arc of the bat, my heart slamming against my ribs. In that split second, I throw another punch--this time into his gut.


It does nothing.


My knuckles bounce clean off his stomach, like striking iron.


This man is a monster.


But I don't stop.


I follow up with an uppercut, then a quick sidestep jab, my body moving on pure adrenaline.


Big John barely reacts. He just breathes deep, licking the blood from his teeth.


And then he swings again.
I can't win this fight as long as he's holding that bat.


Big John rears back, winding up for another swing. I try to shift away, but the bat connects--slamming into my ribs with a sickening crunch. A sharp, tearing pain blooms through my side. I grit my teeth, swallowing a scream.


I push forward despite the agony, closing the distance between us before he can wind up again. I seize his wrist, locking it in a vice grip. His muscles tense beneath my fingers, solid as stone, but I crank his arm at a brutal angle, wrenching it toward me.


Then, I drive the top of my skull straight into his jaw.


The impact sends a shudder through my bones. Blood sprays from his mouth, dark and glistening in the moonlight. His head snaps back as his body stumbles--then crashes through the wall of the shack. The rotten wood explodes outward, sending splinters into the night.


The bat.


I throw it as far as I can into the swamp, its metallic rattle disappearing into the darkness. But before I can catch my breath--


Big John is back.


He moves too fast for a man his size, bursting through the wreckage with terrifying speed. Before I can react, his massive arms clamp around me like a steel trap.


Then, he lifts me.


And slams me into the ground.


A white-hot explosion of pain floods my spine. The breath is torn from my lungs as the impact rattles through me. The ground feels like it's swallowing me whole.


Then comes the fists.


Heavy. Merciless. Brutal.


His knuckles hammer into me, my world turning into a blur of blood and shadow. I can't see straight. I curl inward, hands shielding my head as his fists rain down, each blow vibrating in my skull.


I need to fight back.


Through the chaos, I twist--and swing.


My fist connects with his nose, and I feel it give under my knuckles with a sickening crunch.


Big John recoils, rolling onto his side. I don't hesitate.


I pounce.


I drive my fists into his face--again and again--each strike sending a pulse of satisfaction through me. I watch his skin darken, his breath hitch.


For the first time, I feel like I'm winning.


Then--


A different pain. Sharper. Colder.


My breath catches. A hot, searing agony burrows into my side.


My hand reaches down. Warm, wet.


A knife.


My knife.


Big John grins through bloodied teeth, gripping the handle still buried in my flesh.


Before I can react, he yanks me forward, slamming his forehead into mine.


Everything fractures. My vision tunnels, my body suddenly weightless. The darkness around me hums.


And then--I begin to fall.


I could feel my body being lifted, my limbs limp, dragging uselessly through the dirt. My boots scraped against the ground, kicking up wet earth, but I was too weak to fight. Too beaten. Too tired.


My left eye was nearly useless now--hazy, swollen, slick with blood. My right ear rang with a piercing whine, drowning out everything but the pounding of my own heart. Somewhere in the distance, Big John was talking. His deep, guttural voice reached me in fragments, but the words melted into the pulsing agony in my skull.


Then, the world flipped.


I hit the ground face-first. Mushy, wet earth swallowed my mouth, my nose--bog water seeping in. The stench of decay filled my lungs as I sputtered, choking.


A rough hand gripped my shirt, yanking me onto my back. My vision swam as Big John loomed over me, his face bathed in shadow--except for his teeth, yellow and jagged, grinning through the blood. Something primal flickered in his eyes, something twisted. Enjoying this.


He wiped the dirt from my face with the fabric of my own ruined shirt, then leaned in.


"I want you to see me when I take your life."


Before I could react, his massive hands wrapped around my throat.


And then--pressure.


I sank.


The marsh swallowed me inch by inch, cold mud slithering beneath my clothes, creeping up my arms, my back. The weight of him bore down, pushing me deeper. My body arched, twisted as I fought, but the ground beneath me was giving way, pulling me under.


I kicked. It didn't matter. His knees pinned me.


I clawed at him. My hands flailed wildly, finding nothing but air, damp fabric, rough skin.


I don't want to die.


Not here. Not like this.


The world darkened. His grip tightened--unyielding, suffocating. My lungs screamed for air.


In a last, desperate act, my fingers found something soft.


His eye.


I didn't hesitate.


I plunged my thumb in, deep.


Big John's scream ripped through the swamp. His entire body shuddered above me, but instead of letting go, his grip tightened.


I could feel the pressure in my skull--black dots exploding behind my eyes.


But I kept pushing.


His howl turned to a raw, guttural roar.


I don't know if I can hold on much longer.


I can't hold on much longer. The numbness spreads, creeping into my limbs like a slow death. The cold swamp beckons, a silent grave waiting to swallow me whole. This is it.


I'll never see Momma again.


Never see Henry.


Henry.


A spark ignites in my chest. He's still out there. Still in danger. He needs me.


I can't die here. Not yet.


With the last dregs of my strength, I force my fingers to move, digging blindly through the mud, searching. Anything. A rock, a branch--something. My lungs burn. My vision flickers. My fingers brush against something solid, half-buried in the muck.


I grip it tight.


And with one final, desperate surge, I drive it forward--hard.


A wet, sickening crunch.


Big John's hands convulse around my throat--then go slack. His entire body seizes. The weight of him is unbearable, crushing me as he collapses on top of me, his breath a ragged gurgle against my ear.


For a moment, I don't move. Don't breathe.


Then, with a raw, trembling effort, I shove his heavy corpse aside. He lands with a dull, lifeless thud in the mud, face twisted in frozen shock--a knife buried deep in his skull.


I sit up, coughing, sucking in air like a drowning man. The taste of iron and dirt coats my tongue. My ribs scream in protest as I drag a shaking hand across my face, wiping away the filth.


Big John's lifeless form begins to sink into the bog, his bulk slowly vanishing beneath the sludgy ground. A fitting grave.


A breath escapes me--then a chuckle.


Then a laugh.


A deep, broken sound that bubbles up from my chest, spilling into the night. Hysterical. Ugly. Painful.


Then silence.


Everything hurts. My side pulses where the blade had found me, my ribs ached with every breath. I shouldn't be laughing.


I force myself up, hobbling toward Big John's car, my body barely holding together. The stench hits me first-- sweat, old beer, and something worse. The smell of rot.


Sliding into the driver's seat, I take a moment to catch my breath. To steady my hands. My fingers fumble through the car, searching--until my eyes land on a bag in the backseat.


A rifle.


I pull it open, checking the chamber--loaded. A few extra boxes of ammunition sit in the glove box.


Good.


Turning the key still in the ignition, the engine rumbles to life. I shift into gear and haul ass down the dirt road, my bloody, battered face nearly pressed to the windshield just to see through the night.


Then--a fork in the road.


I slam on the brakes, the tires skidding in the loose dirt. The car rumbles, idling beneath the moonlight.


To the right--civilization. Safety. The cavalry.


To the left--Henry.


And the horrors waiting in the dark.


A grin splits my face, my lips cracked and bloodied. No hesitation.


I yank the wheel left.


And I drive straight toward the nightmare.