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There are dozens of trails along the lake, and for all intents and purposes, you could have easily chosen a popular one. Instead, you just had to select the oldest trail in the entire park with only a thin strip of dirt signifying the path. You found it by accident, looking over a decades-old map in the park’s museum, quickly deciding to give it a try. After all, you know the other trails well enough to walk them blindfolded, might as well give something new a go. The sun is high in the sky as you find the entrance, tucked in between cypress trees, utterly invisible to anyone who wouldn’t know to look for it. The humidity is a little extra thick today, though since it’s still early spring, it doesn’t come with the smothering heat that chokes your throat with every breath.
You are slathered in a shiny layer of bug spray and armed with a walking stick to test out any suspicious looking ground. This may be a large tourist location with plenty of good walking trails, but it still is a wetland and needs not to be underestimated. The sounds of cicadas roar dully in your ears as you begin to walk down the sliver of dirt, the vegetation steadily growing thicker the deeper you wander. Though the dirt path is several paces away from the water, you keep a sharp eye out for any gators who might want to make you their midmorning snack. The unmistakable smell of the swamp fills your lungs, a scent of mud and green and sickly sweet rot.
It must have only been twenty minutes into the walk when you hear it. It’s a melody that halts your body like a spell, a voice so inhumanely flawless it brings tears to your eyes, coming from the water. Fear and adrenaline fail to develop, and so you feel nothing but calm as you turn to face the source of the song. The words are ancient, their power resonating into your very bones, tangled with desperation and promise. A man, half inside the water, back and head covered in the green moss that clings against the rocks and trees holds out his hand to you, mouth quirked into a lusty half smile. His eyes shimmer different colors like opals, shifting from green to blue to violet by the slightest twist of your neck.
A soft hum whines in your ear, but you ignore it. The only thing you can think about is him, the strong and slender hand he offers, the way the water covers everything just below the small of his back, his lips, how you would-
Your neck burns up with a sudden sting. On instinct, you slap the area as hard as you can, hissing with pain. Just like that, your perception of serenity shatters like thin glass against wood. It’s the teeth, sharp and needle-like, that get your attention first. Then the hunger, the unadulterated starvation in his voice hits you harder than a sucker punch to the stomach. You spin on your heel and run, the edges of bushes and unkempt grass scratching at your legs. Something dribbles down the skin, a flash of crimson the only confirmation you have of a wound.
The fear in your heart isn’t nearly as bad as the wailing that replaces the song.
You stumble out of the brush, gasping and choking, tears in your eyes from the overwhelming sense of panic. The screaming is the only sign you have that you haven’t been followed since you don’t hear it gaining any ground. Body shaking like the last leaf in a blizzard, you manage to get yourself back to the park’s welcome center, where a concerned ranger with chestnut curls shuffles you over to the first aid station. The cut isn’t long, but it’s deep, a sharp twig stabbing into your shin as you fled. The ranger doesn’t think it looks infected as she swabs the rubbing alcohol over the seeping wound, but she warns you to keep an eye on it and makes you promise to visit the doctor if it starts swelling and turns red.
Then you leave, taking yourself back home to lay down for a few hours, the cries of whatever that thing was echoing on and on in your head. As much as you fear it, you think you also pity it, the miserable creature. The rawness of its voice, the reckless need it radiated when you approached. Laying in the mud, alone, waiting for something, anything, anyone, wanting with no relief.
Because of this, you find yourself awkwardly staring at the meat section in the grocery store. Goosebumps raise on your flesh, your body probably only a few minutes from shivering since you didn’t think to bring sweatshirt or jacket. Still, you stare like an alien seeing packaged red meat for the first time. Your hand hovers over a ribeye steak, balking at the price, before moving over to a cut of chuck, then shifting over to the ground beef, before noticing a separate freezer for meat on sale. Satisfied with a thawing slab of chuck, you spontaneously grab a pack of beer bottles because, why not, maybe it just wants to crack open a cold one with the boys.
A bubble of hysteria fizzles in your throat as you push your cart to the self-checkout for minimum human interaction. Then you go back. Back to the lake, back to swamp, back to the cypress trees and a dirt path barely wide enough to walk on. Why are you doing this, what makes you think this is a good idea, god knows what that thing wants, there is no good outcome to stem from this, stop walking and turn around, goddamnit turn AROUND-
The melody. The song. It’s almost softer this time, as though it is a whisper to not startle you. Beautiful. Haunting. It washes over you like a sunset, and already you can feel the pull, the sound is dragging your feet forward.
“Stop that.” Your voice is surprisingly firm, despite the fact you are about to throw up.
The reaction is instantaneous. The singing cuts off, a muted splash following the silence. You stare down to where he was before, though there is nothing but reeds, mud, and stones. Then the surface of the water bubbles, his head raising just enough to look at you, those opalescent eyes almost…. ashamed as their gaze meets yours. Before you can lose your nerve, you pull the meat out of your grocery bag, struggling to puncture the plastic wrap with shaking fingers. Slowly, stiffly, you edge towards the muddy bank of the swamp, holding the styrofoam square as far from you as possible, ready to drop it and run the moment he even twitches in a manner you don’t like.
Sensing your terror, the creature moves as gradually as a snail, reaching out with one arm to pull the meat away, carefully inspecting it. After it smells, looks, and gives the chuck a single lick, it turns its back on you and devours the slab of meat, tearing into it in such a frenzy that you fearfully back away. The sounds coming from its teeth as it shreds apart the muscle and flesh are ungodly, every wet, bloody rip like a piece of your own arm coming off. When it finishes, the creature innocently turns back to you, mouth crimson and wet with blood.
Tucking the styrofoam back into the bag, you pull out one of the beer bottles and slide it down to the water, where the creature catches it with blood-stained and muddy hands. After a few minutes of it struggling to get the bottle open, you sigh, holding your hand out to take it back. The creature’s eyes narrow slightly as it gives the glass up, clearly suspicious you might keep it. Instead, you sit, legs dangling terribly close to the creature’s biting range, patting around your sides for a stone with a thin edge. Finding one that looks about the right shape, you hit the tip of the cap with the jagged side of the rock, the metal flying off and foam fizzling over the spout.
You hand the bottle back, the creature licking at the foam before tipping to bottle into its mouth for a sip. Unlike the meat, the creature savors the beer, only taking small sips, letting the bubbles rest in its mouth before swallowing. After a few minutes, the creature holds out the bottle to you, shaking its contents, as though inviting you to taste.
“I’m good.” You shake your head, remembering suddenly how close your legs are to that thing’s teeth. Shrinking away, tucking your knees under your chin, you reaffirm your previous statement, “I’m not thirsty.”
It cocks its head at you, as though deciphering your words, before slowly, as though giving you a chance to change your mind, lowering the beer back to its level and taking another drink. Birds chirp in the distance, the echoes of grasshopper calls resonating against the water. You realize suddenly that there are no sounds of animals, no rustling of leaves, no swishing of a gator submerging in the immediate area. Every noise you hear is a good couple of paces away at the very least, all living things somehow knowing to stay away from what is clearly some kind of predator.
“What are you?” You wonder quietly as the creature finishes the beer.
It chucks the bottle into the middle of the lake, and without thinking, you yelp in dismay. “Dude! You can’t just litter in a national park!”
Turning back, it looks you up and down in confusion, before ducking back down in the water. You stand on the last bit of land that hasn’t softened into mud, glaring at the rippling spot in dismay. Goddamnit, what are you supposed to do now? Sorry, Mama Earth,you think to the ground as you pick up your bag and head back down the trail. By the time you return to civilization, any exposed skin is covered in bright red mosquito bites.
It’s a week before you attempt to go back again.
You pick out another piece of meat that expires today for the price cut, then head out with a beer hidden in an exercise backpack. Apparently, after a brief scolding from a ranger, you aren’t supposed to have alcohol out in broad daylight, even more so without a permit, of which they only give out to people renting the on-site pavilions for parties. All of those rules can probably be blamed on college boys from a neighboring town causing a ruckus whenever they can.
The walk through the trail is eerily silent, the sky overcast in a thick layer of clouds. The air smells heavy, the humidity almost creating an ocean in the atmosphere. You feel like you have to basically swim your way to the creature’s spot. Nothing tries to hypnotize you into the water, the only humming you hear is the sickly whine of mosquitos that don’t seem to be affected by the humidity as everything else. There is no creature, though there are marks in the mud that suggest something human-shaped slunk back into the water recently.
A breeze chills your skin, the hair on your arms standing on end. You sit in the spot, smacking the beer lid once again against a rock in the hopes that the creature might hear, and begin to work on the packaging of the meat. As soon as the meat is free, you hear water bubbling. You look up to find the creature surfacing, its eyes wide with… relief? You may be reading too much into its facial expression, but it’s almost as though you can feel ecstasy radiating from its body, towards you. Then it raises an arm, in its hand, a bottle. The same bottle it threw into the water, and it is giving it back to you.
“Oh, thanks,” you say scooting forward slightly to retrieve it. With your other hand, you make a tradeoff with the meat, watching the creature tear into the food with the same ferocity as before.
Once it was done with the beef, you hand the creature the beer bottle. Its hands are cleaner today, you realize, it probably was out in the lake doing… you couldn’t begin to guess what. You can see little blue freckles that dot its light brown skin, almost like a layer of sneaky camouflage. No one would be able to notice the strangely colored patches at first glance, anyone who looks at this creature would, like you, at first think that it’s human.
As the creature takes a couple of sips from the beer bottle, his hand snakes across the mud and fiddles with your shoe, pulling the laces free, touching the rubber sole, running his fingertip across the material. You let him, watching his every move with a wary eye, soon relaxing when it appears that the creature is only familiarizing himself with the material as though he’s never seen anything like it before. Not, as you initially thought, trying to take a bite out of your leg. His hand begins to wander higher to the skin of your shin, stopping at the unbandaged wound from the first meeting. The creature makes eye contact then, rubbing the red skin around the cut with his thumb, as though testing the injury for pain.
“It’s nothing,” you shrug, wincing involuntarily at the creature’s prodding.
Clearly not believing you, the creature pulls away, burying both hands in the lake, coming back up with fistfuls of mud. He holds it up, gently shaking the water away until a thick layer of good ol’ swamp silt remains. Then, using his index finger, he swipes a glob of it onto your wounds, smearing it on and around the inflamed skin. Satisfied, he continues drinking his beer.
“…Thanks,” you say after a pause. If the cut wasn’t infected already, it sure is now. A large droplet falls from the sky and hits your knee, signaling that it’s time for you to leave. Before you go, the creature is sure to toss the empty beer bottle up in your direction to take away.
Later, once you got home, you wash your leg clean. With an old rag that is really more holes than fabric, you get it hot and soapy and begin to rub the mud off. A weird green stain is left, ok, you’ll try rubbing alcohol later, but… where is your cut? You scrub the skin harder, as though an illusion of skin would wear away, and the wound would appear once again. It doesn’t. Panicking, you check your other leg in case you just imagined the injury being where the mud was. Nothing there, either. You sit on your bed, staring ahead at your wall for a minute, focusing on your breathing.
Instead of waiting a few days like you originally intended, you return the next evening after breezing through the supermarket for some half-priced chuck. He is ready for you, in the reeds, only his eyes peeking up from the water like a gator watching for prey. Immediately perking up once seeing you, he stands… and oh, yeah, he’s completely naked. His nudity was always on the back of your mind, sure, but now that you’re actually, well, seeing it? Different story.
You hold a hand out in front of your face, trying desperately to cover his crotch area, “can you please,” you gesture with your other hand, “not?”
Sensing your discomfort, though clearly confused as to why, he slinks back down into the muddy water. He rests his chin on his hands, watching you open the packaged meat, then graciously accepts it with leisurely movements. Three visits and he no longer acts like a starving animal, you notice, sitting down against the grass and watching him eat the slab of meat like a sandwich. You have the beer ready for him once he’s finished, dipping his hands into the water to wash off.
Deciding to get to the point of your visit, you stick out your previously injured leg and point to the fading green stain. “What’s this? What did you do? ”
The creature reaches his out and strokes the area where your wound was, as though looking for any imperfection left on your flesh. And then, once he’s convinced you are fully healed, the creature purs.There is no other word for it. Like a growl, originating from deep inside his chest, all the while looking incredibly pleased. His lips are in a slight smile, hands pulling your leg just a bit closer for a better look. You realize suddenly that, even though your leg is in perfect range to those pearly needles in his mouth, you don’t feel the slightest bit threatened.
He lets go of your foot, and you place back firmly on the ground. Taking a quick sip of beer, he then lays down his head right by your ankles, facing the sunny blue sky. The two of you stay that way, in silence, until you have to leave. Before you go, he hands you the empty beer bottle, then slinks back into the lake, disappearing under the water.
You continue your visits, not precisely what you would call scheduled since you didn’t exactly have infinite, regular time to give, but you try to visit at least twice a week. Sometimes you can do more than that, but no matter what, the creature always seems to be absolutely thrilled to see you. You manage to convince yourself that it’s probably just because you come with pre-hunted meat and beer. Anyone would love it if someone showed up with free food for them to eat and then fucked off as soon as it was gone.
At first, it felt strange talking to someone utterly silent, but as soon as you start, you don’t stop. You tell the creature about work, about people you meet, and all about that one asshole who somehow picks at all your nerves. He is always silent, sometimes poking at your shoe soles, sometimes tracing something into the mud. But he is still listening, you can tell by the way his face expression changes if you say something particularly outrageous, or if you can barely keep it together from the roughness that life deals to you. If tears are involved, he reassuringly pats your leg, his hand never going higher than your knee.
After a particularly exhausting day, the kind with little sleep the night before and an ungodly wake-up time, you fall asleep, pitching forward. You wake up only a second later, your face perfectly safe from the swamp water, your body laying on its side. The creature must have caught you, then shifted your body so you could sleep without worrying about rolling into the mud. There is a wet handprint on your shirt from where he got a hold of you, and he sits only an arm’s stretch away as though being your lookout. When he sees your eyes are open, he reaches over and places a hand on your head, petting your hair. The creature starts humming a soft melody, almost to quiet for you to hear at first.
The ground is only a little damp where you lay, and the sun balances it out with its radiant heat. You allow yourself to melt under his touches, and rest. The voice of an angel cradles you into sleep, though he never speaks a single word out loud. He wakes you about an hour later with a gentle shake, as if he knows you wouldn’t like to spend the entire night being eaten alive by the bugs. Before you leave, as always, he hands you an empty beer bottle.
You stop shying away from him. Not that he’s all over you, no, you just no longer brace to flee at every little thing he does. In fact, you suddenly realize one lonely afternoon that all you want to do is return to the swamp trails and see him again. Like a snap. Not, oh shit, I forgot to feed him, but I need to see him, I want to be near him. And so you leave, packing a sandwich for yourself and stopping at a meat shop for a little something for him.
The sun is almost entirely set by the time you get to the park, the sky setting fire to the lake. In your haste to leave, you aren’t exactly wearing something that would be classified as half decent hiking wear, but you don’t let that deter you. As you shoulder your backpack, you notice the steady pounding of a DJ’s loudspeakers drumming through the trees, some kind of wild party happening just beyond the welcome center. Gross. You start heading over to the trail when you hear a disgusting and sickly familiar whistle.
“Hey there, gorgeous? Where are you off to?”
You turn to make a threat assessment and are dismayed to see there are three clearly drunk men, their suits already half off from partying. Though one of them is barely able to stand from how hammered he is, the other two seem perfectly fine. Quickly, you spin around and continue walking, hoping they wouldn’t follow if they see you heading off into, for all they know, unmarked wilderness.
No such luck. Fuck. You can hear their shuffling, twigs snapping under their heavy stumbling, alcohol-induced laughter that sounds more like snorting. “I think the little punk’s afraid of us.”
Goddamn right you are. Without thinking further, you break into a full sprint. Having an intimate knowledge of the path gives you an upper hand, swerving to avoid a stone sticking out of the ground and effortlessly leaping over that muddy puddle you’ve fallen victim to once before. At the sound of angry swearing, you know that they have met the raised tree root of an ancient cypress growing on the edge of the swamp.
Somehow, your creature must have heard your panting breath and pounding feet, because he’s standing, waist deep in the lake, staring at you with evident concern. You can’t speak, you can only stutter an incoherent string of syllables, pointing with shaking hands in the direction you know they are coming from. As the sun breathes its last rays of light, he holds his arms out to you, a bastion in the coming darkness.
You don’t even hesitate.
Tossing your backpack into the reeds in the hopes that your phone will at least survive even if you don’t, you take a step into the muddy banks. Then another, dirt and water hitting against your knees.
“I saw something move over here!” You hear, close, too close, too close, oh god, and you force your back leg to unstick itself from the thick mud and move forward. Again. Again. Again. The water is up to the lower bit of your chest if you stand tall, but you can’t, you don’t, you only walk further.
He has you. You fall into his arms and let out a choking sob, shouts echoing through the forest. Your creature pulls you further, deeper into the lake, his hold firm. The water isn't freezing, but also can't be called warm. tThe algae feels slimy against your skin, your body beginning to shiver with both cold and fear. In the distance, something cries out. A bird, you think dully, letting your creature pull you until only your head is above water. Two hands cup your face, his forehead pressing up against yours, a soft and reassuring sh, sh, sh, coming from his mouth.
There is no way they can see you, not in this darkness, not this far out from the shore. Your breathing evens out, and you manage to inhale without a shuddering gasp, focus only on matching the cadence of your creature’s own breath. In. Out. In. Out. You are fine.As soon as the thought crossed your mind, he pulls you under the surface, tugging you into the depths as quickly as a lightning strike.
You are too surprised to even struggle. His hands still brace your face, holding too tightly for you to break free. The water is green, dirt stinging your eyes as you look at him in fear, the pressure in your lungs building. His face is a perfect mask of calm, no malice, no joy, his grip staying firm. The pain in your chest causes you to tremble, and you let the bubbles escape your lips, watching them rise to the surface. A bright LED swipes over the surface, pausing as the last bit of your air escapes, then continues on like a spotlight.
Before you can even process that, your creature seals his mouth against yours, and air passes through his lips like a breathing aperture. The pressure in your chest is alleviated slightly, and with the flow of oxygen, you calm down somewhat. Though the lake is calm, the water roars in your ears along with your heartbeat. Now fearful to be separated, you hold onto his arms with an iron grip, sure your nails are digging painfully into his flesh. Just when you think you can’t take another second of this, he kicks against the lake floor, and the two of you shoot upwards, breaking the surface.
You splutter, trying to keep your gasping to a quiet minimum as your creature puts a single finger on your mouth, whispering, “shh.”
Night greets you with its gentle embrace, a warm breeze already drying your face. There are no drunken voices anymore, no threatening whistles, no sickening laughter, just crickets chirping and cicadas humming, the dull bass of the party faint enough to be ignored. Only you and your creature remain in the world, your reflexions sharp against the still water.
Your arms are still wrapped around his neck, clinging to him like he’s a life preserver and you’re in the middle of the Atlantic, a storm on the near horizon. His skin is warm against yours, his breathing calm and smooth. With one hand, you touch your lips, then his, as though trying to mimic the feeling of… whatever that was, under the surface. Those eyes gaze at you with a kind of softness you are barely familiar with, hands placed on your hips, holding you in place to keep your head above water.
Without really thinking about it, you lean forward and kiss him, the bitter taste of lake making its way in your mouth. His lips are welcoming, his razor teeth grazing against your skin in an impossibly gentle manner. One of his hands leaves your hips to cup your face, thumb running back and forth against your jaw. When you pull away, a quiet sigh escapes his lungs, before he leans over and kisses half your mouth, your cheekbone, and both your fluttering eyelids in quick succession, before tilting his forehead against yours.
“You,” he says, as though answering an unspoken question. Like his singing, his speaking voice is ethereal, godlike, the kind of voice that could convince someone to do anything. If he asked you to cut out your own heart for him at that exact moment, you think you would. Then he’s kissing you again, deeper, sweeter, like a layer of desperation he had buried deep inside him is finally allowed to rear its head.
“You,” you whisper back.
The man is overweight and balding, the buttons to the front of his shirt threatening to snap free from the thread. His pale face is slowly turning a bright pink with every passing minute, a lovingly embroidered handkerchief clutched in his hand to continuously mop the waterfall of sweat dripping from his forehead. The briefcase he’s holding is worn at the corners, the leather in dire need of some oil and care. You can see your reflection in his shoes, miraculously shining despite the amount of mud layered in the front lawn of the house the two of you stand in front of.
‘House’ is an awfully strong word for the little structure. To call it a cabin would also be a little generous, but the little two-bedroom strip is in decent enough condition, and the price is the best offered in the entire county. You pretend to be interested in what the man shows you, even though you have already surveyed the property in the dead of night. A bathroom! You ooh and awe at the finished floor. A bedroom! You comment on how beautiful the view from the windows must be in the morning. A kitchen! The… uh… stove looks like it works! After to tour is over, the man offers the price again, lowering by a hundred just because you seem like a ‘polite young person.’
“God knows the economy’s already screwed enough for you,” he laments in a thick southern drawl, wiping his forehead down.
“Thank you,” you say, then cock your head in a show of confusion. “Why so cheap, though? Isn’t this prime real estate for retirees?”
His face shifts from pink to white. “Oh, nothing significant. Just a shift in interest, you know, most of them would prefer living out in golf courses. But,” the agent coughs briefly into his handkerchief, then hesitantly continues, “there has been a slew of accidents. None fatal, of course! Just some odd happenstances. I sincerely doubt that you have to worry about it.”
You agree with him there, you really don’t have to worry about it. You look back at the house, then switch your gaze over a little man-made beach, of which is only a couple of paces from the back porch. In the reeds, blending in so effortlessly with his surroundings that only someone who would know what to look for can see, is a creature, eyes shimmering like emeralds from where you stand. There is no need to continue the facade, you decide, turning back to the real estate agent. The decision was already made long ago.
“This is the house,” you say firmly.