05 Feb Dead Man’s Tides

PART I

Every year, on the same night, Sam Guidry cast his line into the bayou where his grandfather drowned.

He never expected to catch anything. That wasn’t the point.

The point was remembrance.

Fifty-odd years ago, his grandfather, Beau Guidry, had walked out onto this very dock, just like Sam was doing now, and never come back. The official story was drowning, an accident—the kind of thing people in Lacombe whispered about but didn’t question. The bayou took what it wanted. Sometimes, it gave back bloated bodies tangled in reeds. Other times, it swallowed men whole and never let go.

Beau was one of the ones it kept.

Sam planted his boots on the warped planks, the wood soft and spongy beneath him from decades of waterlogged summers and humid winters. His old Coleman lantern flickered at his feet, casting a sickly glow over the dark water.

Somewhere out there, the cypress trees stood guard, their gnarled roots stretching deep into the muck like hands grasping at something unseen. The frogs were quieter than usual tonight. The cicadas hummed in half-hearted waves, a pulse of sound that faded too quickly, leaving silence behind.

Sam rolled his shoulders and cast his line. The lure arced through the thick, humid air and plunked into the water, sending out small, sluggish ripples.

There. Ritual complete.

He settled onto his overturned bucket, adjusting the lantern’s wick. The bayou’s surface stretched ahead, black and still. He could just make out the rotting remnants of the old fishing shack his grandfather had built decades ago. The years had hollowed it out, left it leaning like a drunk against the water’s edge.

They’d told Sam, back when he was a boy, that his grandfather had been drunk the night he died. That he’d stumbled too close to the edge, slipped, and hit his head before the water swallowed him. That was the official version.

The unofficial version—the one Sam had pieced together in bits and pieces over the years—was murkier.

“Boy, your granddaddy was taken,” Old Jolette had told him once, when he was still too young to understand. “He knew somethin’ he wasn’t supposed to. And the bayou don’t like that.”

Sam had never asked what his grandfather had known.

Didn’t seem like the kind of thing a man was meant to know in the first place.

He exhaled, leaning forward on his knees. His father had let the family’s fishing business rot when Beau died, and Sam hadn’t cared enough to revive it. He still went out on the water every now and then, but only for himself. The commercial boys now had their fancy trawlers, GPS, and depth finders. Fishing wasn’t what it used to be.

A gust of warm wind rolled across the dock, carrying the thick scent of waterlogged wood and rotting vegetation. Sam adjusted his grip on the rod, rolling his calloused thumb over the reel.

Beau had been a legend back in the day, the kind of fisherman other men envied. Some swore he could feel the fish moving below the surface before his line even hit the water.

“You ain’t a fisherman if you don’t listen,” Beau had told Sam once, when he was barely six years old, crouched beside him on this very dock. “Water don’t speak with words, boy, but it does speak.”

Sam hadn’t understood then. But now, all these years later, he knew exactly what his grandfather had meant. And tonight, the bayou was quiet—too quiet.

Sam frowned and rubbed his forearm. The air felt wrong in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He checked his watch. Quarter to midnight. He usually stayed until then, reeled in his empty line, and headed home.

He shifted his weight on the bucket. He considered getting up but thought better of it.

Just then, the line jerked—hard—nearly wrenching the rod from his hands. His boots scraped against the dock as he dug his heels in, his fingers going white-knuckled around the reel.

“Goddamn—”

The pull was relentless, like a gator had clamped down on the lure and decided it was taking the whole damn rig with it. He braced himself, adjusting his stance. The pole bent under the strain. The line whined as it stretched, tension burning through Sam’s palms.

Jesus, it was strong. Stronger than anything he’d ever hooked before.

The thought sent a wave of unease coursing through him. What the hell was down there? A big catfish? A gar? A gator that mistook the lure for something real?

His fingers worked the reel, slow and steady. The rod trembled in his grip. The lantern flickered at his feet, throwing shadows across the dock. The thing on the other end yanked.

Sam grunted, planting his boots harder. The muscles in his arms burned, but he kept pulling and working the reel, inch by inch.

Then, finally—finally—something broke the surface. It wasn’t a fish or a gator. It was a hand, bloated, pale, and undeniably human—and it was still gripping the line.

Sam didn’t move. He couldn’t.

Water streamed from the waxy skin, sluicing off in slow, sluggish rivulets. The fingers were curled around the line, locked in a grip so tight Sam could see the knuckles bulging beneath the swollen flesh.

Sam’s stomach lurched. The wind had died, the frogs had stopped croaking, and the cicadas had gone still.

Then, slowly—so, so slowly—the fingers tightened. Sam felt pressure on the line, then on his wrists, as if something had wrapped around him, too.

A voice bubbled up from the water. Not a splash or a ripple—a voice, deep, wet, and familiar.

It spoke a name. His grandfather’s name.

“Beau.”

The line snapped, and the hand slipped back beneath the surface, swallowed by the dark.

Sam stumbled backward, nearly tripping over the bucket. He stared at the water, but nothing moved. Nothing rose. Nothing reached for him. But his wrist ached.

And when he looked down, there were bruises in the shape of fingers wrapped around his skin.

PART II

Sam stood on the dock, sweat cold against the back of his neck.

The bayou had swallowed the hand. The water had gone still, black as tar.

For a long time, he didn’t move.

Not even a breeze stirred the moss hanging from the cypress trees. The lantern at his feet flickered, casting jittering shadows across the dock’s worn planks.

The only sound was the distant lap of water against wood.

Sam looked down at his wrist. The bruises were stark, the shape of fingers burned into his skin. Too distinct to be from the fishing line.

His stomach clenched. That thing—whatever it was—had touched him, held onto him. And it had spoken. Not words, not really—just a single name.

“Beau.”

His grandfather’s name.

Sam had to get out of here.

He bent to snatch up his lantern, gripping it tight in his good hand, his other arm burning from the fight with the line. His rod still lay across the dock, the snapped end of the fishing line hanging limp over the edge, trailing into the dark.

He left it.

He didn’t want to touch it. Didn’t want his hands anywhere near that thing again.

Steeling himself, he stepped off the dock, boots thudding against damp earth.  He hurried toward his truck, parked a few yards up the dirt road. The bayou loomed behind him, dark and quiet. He fought the urge to turn around, to check if something was following.

No. He wasn’t looking back.

The door creaked as he wrenched it open and climbed inside. The truck’s cab smelled like sunbaked leather and stale coffee, a comfort in the thick unease pressing against his shoulders. His fingers trembled as he jammed the key into the ignition. The old Ford coughed, sputtered, and then, finally, roared to life.

He gripped the wheel hard and pulled onto the road, gravel crunching beneath the tires. As the trees swallowed the rearview mirror, he finally let out a shaky breath. He wasn’t sure why, but he knew—he’d done something wrong tonight.

The drive home felt longer than usual. The bayou stretched on forever, winding roads flanked by shadowed cypress groves, Spanish moss swaying in the breeze that had finally returned.

His wrist ached. Sam flexed his fingers, watching how the bruises darkened under the passing glow of the streetlights. He’d pulled plenty of things from the water over the years. Rusted metal, lost crab traps, once even a waterlogged wallet with a half-rotted ID still inside. But never a hand. And never anything that fought to stay.

His stomach twisted. What if he went back to the dock tomorrow and the hand was still there? What if it had crawled up on its own?

He tightened his grip on the wheel. The thought made his skin crawl.

It wasn’t possible. And yet…

He took a turn onto the long dirt drive leading to his house, an old shotgun-style place nestled between the trees. It was small, but it was his. He’d lived alone since Lorraine passed, and his son had long since left for Houston.

The house was dark. Quiet.

He parked the truck and stepped out, boots sinking into the damp ground. Crickets chirped from the brush, their sound a small relief after the unnatural silence of the bayou. He climbed the steps onto the porch, the key already in hand. Then he stopped.

His door was open. A crack, just wide enough to show the yawning dark inside.

Sam knew he hadn’t left it open; he always locked up.

He reached for the handle, pausing only for a second before pushing the door inward. The hinges creaked. He stepped inside, his skin prickling, and immediately noticed the house smelled damp. The scent of stagnant water and rotting wood clung to the air. His boots left faint prints on the floorboards—muddy, wet footprints. Not his.

The air shifted, and the silence deepened.

And then— Drip.

A sound from the kitchen.

Drip, drip. Like water sliding off something—or someone.

Sam swallowed hard, his throat dry as bone. The lantern in his grip burned low, the flame trembling behind the glass. He stepped forward, the floor groaning beneath his weight. The kitchen loomed ahead, a shadowed entryway opening into deeper darkness.

Sam edged closer. The smell was worse here—thick with decay. Something was wrong.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

He took another step, the floor squishing beneath his boot, and froze.

His stomach turned over. The wood—his damn floorboards—felt like wet earth. Like the bottom of the bayou.

The lantern light trembled over the walls, over the table, over the empty chairs. Then, slowly, creaking—the fridge door swung open.  The dim glow of the inside light spilled into the kitchen, casting pale illumination onto the figure standing beside it.

Sam’s lungs seized. The thing in the kitchen wasn’t human—not anymore. It was bloated and waterlogged, its skin pale and swollen, hanging loose over blackened veins.

It turned toward him. Sam knew that face—the face of a man lost to the bayou decades ago. His grandfather. His lips were peeled back, revealing black gums and teeth slick with something thick and wet. And then, in that deep, garbled voice that wasn’t quite right, the thing spoke.

“Beau.”

Sam stumbled backward. The lantern slipped from his grip and shattered on the floor, and darkness swallowed the room.

And then the thing moved.

PART III

Sam stumbled backward, his boots sliding across the wet floor. He fumbled for the counter, gripping slick wood as his grandfather’s bloated corpse stepped forward.

He couldn’t see it—couldn’t see him—but he felt it. Felt the slow, wet shuffle of feet across the warped planks. Felt the presence, suffocating, deep as the bayou’s waters.

Then, he heard it—a low, garbled whisper. It was distant, and yet it sounded like it was coming from right next to his ear.

“Beau.”

Sam threw himself sideways, slamming into the kitchen table, knocking a chair over in his scramble to get away. His boot caught on something—something soft and wet—and he tripped.

He hit the floor hard, the wind punched from his lungs.

The air shifted, and the thing moved closer.

His mind screamed, but his body locked up—every instinct begging him not to move.

Then the fridge light flickered. A dim, sickly glow filled the kitchen, throwing Beau’s shape into sharp relief.

The thing stood near the counter, its swollen, waterlogged body hunched forward, as if it had been crawling before it rose to stand.

Its head lolled to the side, wet strands of hair clinging to its skull. Its eyes were wrong—pale and glassy, unfocused, but still seeing him. The lips curled back in something that might have been a smile once. And the skin was loose, sagging like it had been underwater too long, like the bones underneath had shrunk.

It took another step toward him. The smell of swamp rot and old, wet earth filled Sam’s lungs.

“Boy…”

The whisper crawled into his ears, a sound not quite human. Not quite his grandfather.

Sam’s stomach turned. This wasn’t Beau—not anymore. This was something else, wearing his grandfather’s face like a discarded skin. And it knew his name.

His hands shot out, scrambling for something—anything—his fingers closing around the heavy cast-iron pan on the stove.

The thing lurched forward. Sam swung hard, the pan connecting with the side of its head with a sickening, wet CRACK. The impact sent black water spraying from its mouth. The thing staggered, its limbs twitching unnaturally.

Sam didn’t wait to see if it would fall. He pushed himself up, bolted for the door.

The moment he hit the threshold, the house lurched. The walls shook, the floorboards groaned, and suddenly, water poured in from every direction—seeping through the cracks in the walls, dripping from the ceiling, rising from beneath the floor.

The bayou was coming inside.

Sam stumbled forward, nearly slipping as his boots splashed into the rising flood. He threw himself out the door, nearly falling off the porch in his desperation, and ran.

The truck was too far.

He didn’t stop, didn’t look back.

Behind him, something moved, producing a wet, shuffling sound, dragging across the flooded wood.

The door slammed open.

Sam knew if he turned around—if he so much as glanced over his shoulder—he’d see it. See Beau, or the thing that was pretending to be him. See its mouth opening too wide. See its arms reaching.

So he didn’t look, didn’t slow. Didn’t stop until he reached the old shed near the treeline, wrenching open the rusted door and slamming it shut behind him.

His back hit the wood, his chest heaving. And for one long, terrible moment, all he could hear was his own ragged breathing.

Then, something splashed in the water outside. A slow, purposeful step. Then another, and another—coming toward the shed.

Sam clenched his jaw, curling his hands into tight fists. He could still hear it, even through the door. The sound of water dripping. Of footsteps. And that voice—

“Boy…”

The steps stopped. There was a pause—a long, long pause. Then the cicadas started again, the frogs picked up their song, and the bayou went silent. The presence was gone.

Sam waited longer than he should have. Then, with shaking hands, he cracked the shed door.

His house stood dark and silent, the water from before gone. The front door was closed, and there were no footprints in the dirt, no sign of anything.

Sam shuddered. But when he looked down, he noticed that his boots were still wet. And his wrist still ached.

Dark, finger-shaped bruises curled around his skin, pressing too deep into the bone, and Sam swallowed hard. He had to get answers—and he knew exactly where to start.

Old Jolette.

PART IV

The sun had barely begun to rise when Sam pulled up to Old Jolette’s house.

It sat at the edge of the bayou, a crooked shotgun shack half-swallowed by thick cypress roots, its paint long faded to the color of swamp water. A wooden porch sagged under the weight of old chairs and rusting wind chimes. Glass bottles hung from the eaves, catching the morning light in sickly green flashes.

Sam killed the engine and climbed out. His boots hit solid ground, but he still felt like he was standing in the water, like the bayou had soaked into his bones overnight.

His wrist ached, the bruises even darker than before.

He wasn’t leaving here without answers.

He made his way up the porch steps, avoiding a loose board he remembered from years back. He’d come here before. Not often, but enough. Old Jolette had been in Lacombe longer than anyone, watching generation after generation pass through like driftwood in a slow-moving current.

Sam rapped his knuckles against the door—no answer. He knocked again—still nothing. His gut tensed.

He didn’t want to go back home yet. Didn’t want to walk into his house and find it wet again, the air thick with the smell of something drowned and waiting.

So he knocked one last time. This time, he heard a shuffle from inside. Then—

“Go ‘way, Sam Guidry.”

“Not ‘til you talk to me!” he called back.

There was a long silence. Then, the lock clicked, and the door creaked open just wide enough for a pair of sharp, dark eyes to peer out at him.

Jolette looked the same as she always had—small but strong, wrapped in a faded house dress, her face lined with years of knowing too much. She looked Sam up and down. Her eyes landed on his wrist. Her lips pressed thin, and she pulled him inside without a word.

The shack smelled like spices, candle wax, and old books. Jolette’s kitchen table was cluttered with small charms, bones, and dried herbs, all piled between half-empty jars of swamp water.

She poured two cups of chicory coffee, the thick, bitter kind that stuck to your ribs. Sam took his, but didn’t drink.

Jolette sat across from him, her thin fingers curling around her own cup.

“So, you saw him,” she said.

Sam’s jaw tightened. He didn’t need to ask how she knew. The bayou had ways of speaking.

“I saw something,” he admitted. “It looked like him. Spoke his name.”

Jolette hissed through her teeth.

Sam set his cup down, leaning forward. “I need to know what happened to him. The truth. Not the nonsense they told me when I was a boy.”

Jolette stared at him for a long time, and then said, “You ever wonder why they never found the body?”

Sam stilled, his stomach twisting into knots. “They said the current took him,” he said.

“They lied,” Jolette replied. Sam’s fingers curled into a fist. Jolette nodded toward his wrist. “It marked you, Sam.”

“What the hell does that mean?” he asked.

“It means the bayou remembers,” Jolette said. “It means you pulled something up that ain’t supposed to leave the water.”

Sam swallowed. “What took him?”

Jolette’s lips pressed tight. She looked down at her cup, as if searching for words at the bottom. Finally, she said, “Your granddaddy was a fisherman, yeah?”

Sam nodded, and Jolette met his eyes. “He wasn’t the only one fishing.”

A chill curled through Sam’s gut. Jolette leaned forward, her voice dropping low. “There are things in the bayou older than the town, older than this whole damn country. Things that don’t live by the rules we do. And some men—” She hesitated. “—some men get too close to knowing their names. Your granddaddy—he wasn’t like other men. He listened to the water. Heard it talking back. And one day…”

“…one day, it answered,” Sam whispered.

Jolette nodded once.

Sam exhaled sharply, gripping the edge of the table. “The hell does that mean?”

Jolette studied him, then looked past him—out the small window, toward the swollen bayou beyond. “It means the water didn’t take him by accident.”

Sam’s fingers curled tighter around the wood. “Then what happened?”

Jolette’s next words chilled him to the marrow. “They let him drown.”

“They who?” Sam asked.

Jolette’s gaze flicked back to him. “The men in town.”

Sam shook his head. “That don’t make sense.”

“It makes plenty of sense.” Her voice was sharp. “They knew what he was messing with. What was coming for him.”

Sam’s skin crawled.

Jolette leaned forward again, her voice quieter now. “They figured if the bayou wanted him, they’d best not stand in the way.”

A cold pit opened in Sam’s chest. His hands shook. He thought of the old men from his childhood. The ones who had lowered their voices when talking about his grandfather. The ones who had looked at him with pity—the ones who had never gone searching.

Jesus.

Sam swallowed hard, his throat like sandpaper. “And now?” he asked, voice rough. “Why now? Why’s he coming back?”

Jolette studied him for a long time. Then she reached across the table and touched his wrist, fingers ghosting over the bruises. “Because you brought him back.”

He yanked his arm away. “No.”

“You fished him out,” she said.

Sam shook his head. “I—I didn’t—”

Jolette’s voice was firm. “You went casting, and something bit. Now you gotta fix this.”

Sam forced himself to focus. “How?”

Jolette sat back, considering. Then she said, “You gotta give the bayou back what it’s owed.”

Sam’s stomach sank. “I ain’t letting it take me.”

Jolette’s expression darkened. “Then you best find something else to give it.”

He knew what she meant. And he didn’t like it one damn bit.

PART V

Sam drove back toward town, Jolette’s words echoing in his mind. “You gotta give the bayou back what it’s owed.”

His fingers tightened around the wheel, his bruised wrist throbbing.

The sky had fully brightened now, morning light stretching long over the cypress trees, but it did nothing to calm his nerves.

He didn’t want to believe Jolette. Didn’t want to accept that the thing in his house had been his grandfather—or what was left of him. Didn’t want to think about the men in town who had let Beau drown, leaving him to the water like an offering. Didn’t want to accept that somehow, in casting his line last night, he had pulled something loose that wasn’t supposed to come back.

But the truth was heavy, and Sam knew when something had teeth in him and wouldn’t let go. He exhaled hard, taking the next turn toward Uncle Louis’s place.

If anyone still alive knew the truth, it was him.

* * * * * *

Louis Guidry lived on the outskirts of town, in the same battered house he’d been in for forty years. Sam pulled up the gravel drive, tires crunching over loose stones.

When Sam arrived, the old man was already outside, hunched over in a wooden rocker on the porch, a cigarette dangling from his fingers.

Louis didn’t look surprised to see him—and that set Sam’s teeth on edge.

“Boy!” Louis greeted, voice rough. His eyes flicked to Sam’s wrist. He exhaled smoke through his nose. “I reckon I know why you’re here.”

Sam clenched his jaw. “You know something about Granddad,” he said.

Louis didn’t answer, but he also didn’t deny it. Instead, he took another drag and exhaled slowly, measuring his words carefully.

“Lotta folks in town let that story die with the old men,” he said finally. “Figured it was best that way.”

“Best for who?” Sam snapped.

Louis’s eyes, pale and sharp like a gator’s, cut back to him. “For everybody.”

Sam clenched his fists. He stepped up onto the porch, looming over the old man. “Tell me the truth, Louis.”

Louis’s gaze flickered past him, toward the bayou in the distance. “Your granddaddy knew things,” he said finally.

Sam gritted his teeth. “Jolette told me that much.”

Louis gave him a sharp look. “Then she shoulda told you some things ain’t meant to be repeated.”

Sam slammed his hand down on the wooden railing, rattling the loose nails. “You let him die!” he hissed.

Louis’s expression didn’t change.

“You didn’t try to stop it!” Sam barked.

Louis’s cigarette smoldered between his fingers. “We tried plenty,” he muttered. “Didn’t matter.”

Sam stared at him, a cold pit opening in his stomach, and stepped back. “You’re saying you didn’t—”

Louis’s eyes darkened. “You can’t stop the tide, boy.”

Sam turned his wrist over, showing the deep bruises wrapped around his skin like a grip that never let go. Louis stared at them. Then he said, low and flat, “You reeled him in, didn’t you?”

Sam swallowed. His throat felt like sandpaper. “What happens now?”

Louis crushed his cigarette into the rusted tin beside his chair. “Now?” he muttered. “You find a way to put him back.”

The words sent a cold pulse through Sam’s veins. “That’s what Jolette said,” he admitted.

Louis exhaled slowly. “Then you best listen.”

Sam shook his head. “I ain’t sacrificing nobody.”

Louis’s eyes flickered. Then, quietly, he said, “Ain’t gotta be nobody.”

Sam stilled, and his stomach turned cold. “…What do you mean?”

Louis sat forward. “What the hell you think’s been keeping it still all these years?”

Sam didn’t answer. He didn’t want to.

Louis’s gaze was heavy. “Something’s been holding it down,” he said. “Keeping it from crawling back up.”

The blood drained from Sam’s face. “And you just ripped it loose.” Sam’s fingers curled into a fist against his thigh. “What do I do?” he asked finally, voice tight.

“You gotta give it something,” Louis said. “Something heavy enough to hold it down again.”

Sam knew what that meant. Knew what he’d have to do.

And deep down, he already knew where to find it.

PART VI

Sam’s mind was heavy as he drove back toward the bayou, the words from his uncle echoing in his head. “You gotta give it something heavy enough to hold it down again.”

He understood—that wasn’t the problem. The issue was that he had nothing left to offer—nothing of value. No people, no money, no worldly possessions that mattered. There was only one thing left, and it was the hardest thing to give.

Sam swallowed hard, gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles ached.

He parked near the old dock, the place where his grandfather had vanished. The air was heavy with the scent of the swamp, the mud and decay that had lived here for generations. The bayou stretched out in front of him, as dark and silent as the night he’d first cast his line.

There were no birds. No insects. Nothing. Just the low hum of the water moving against the shore, lapping gently at the rotting planks.

Sam stepped out of the truck and walked toward the dock, his boots sinking slightly into the damp earth with each step. His wrist was still sore, the bruises deep and purple, as if something was pulling at him from the inside.

The shadows stretched across the water, reaching toward him like the fingers of a dead man.

He stopped at the edge of the dock, looking out at the bayou. He remembered the hand—the grip that had nearly pulled him under.

He exhaled sharply, pulling off his jacket and tossing it aside. The bayou was still. Too still. The water barely rippled.

He felt a sharp pull in his chest, like something was tugging at his soul, urging him to step closer to the edge. He couldn’t fight it anymore. Sam stepped forward, feeling the water lap at his boots, and then he the whisper.

“Beau.”

He froze. The voice was soft, almost tender. His grandfather.

Sam closed his eyes, swallowing hard. He knew the price. He had to give something—something worth the bayou’s hunger.

The water churned. Then, without warning, he stepped into the bayou, the cold water rising quickly around his legs, seeping into his boots. He waded deeper, ignoring the chill creeping up his spine.

The voice came again.

“Beau.”

This time, it was stronger. Louder. The words seemed to cut through the air, wrapping themselves around Sam. He was close now.

He had no choice—it had been made for him. His hand went to his chest, fingers brushing the cold steel of the medallion—his grandfather’s, the one he had kept all these years. The one that had never left his neck. This was the only thing he had left to give—the last piece of Beau that Sam had ever kept. The bayou demanded a sacrifice, and this would be it.

He yanked the medallion from his neck.

The bayou waited.

Sam threw it into the water. It landed with a soft splash, sinking quickly beneath the surface and disappearing into the depths.

For a long time, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the water began to churn. The air thickened with something unnatural, and a low rumble echoed from below. The ground beneath Sam’s feet shifted.

And then the thing rose from the depths.

It wasn’t his grandfather anymore. It was something older and far darker.

The shape that broke the surface was monstrous, its form bloated and unnatural, like a thing from the deep waters of the bayou that had never been meant to walk in the world of the living. Its eyes were wide and unblinking, reflecting no light, as if they had never seen daylight in centuries.

Sam stood firm, fighting back the instinct to run.

And then it spoke.

“You dare give me nothing but this?”

The voice was deep, garbled with a sound resembling the breaking of bones. It wasn’t Beau anymore—this was something else entirely.

Sam’s raised his chin, meeting the gaze of the creature. “I give you nothing but what you took.”

The thing screeched, a sound like the tearing of flesh. Sam’s skin crawled, but he didn’t flinch, and he stood his ground.

Then, just as suddenly as it had risen, the thing dropped back into the water, sinking into the depths, pulling its foul presence with it.

For a moment, the bayou was silent again.

Sam stood there in the water, his wrist throbbing. But at least the pressure had lifted—the thing was gone.

Once the water had settled down, Sam waded back to shore. He felt drained, as if a part of him had been left behind—but he also felt relieved. A tremendous burden was no longer his to bear.

* * * * * *

The drive back to his house was quiet, the world outside seemingly untouched by the horrors he had just faced. But when he reached the porch, he paused, just for a moment, reflecting on the meaning of it all.

His comfort was short-lived. When Sam eventually walked inside, he felt the darkness, intrusive and ever-present—coming not from the bayou, but from within.

Whatever he had given to the water, it had left its mark. He felt it in his very bones, just beneath his skin.

But for the moment, he was still here—still standing.

And that was good enough for now.