Swamp Season Séance, Episode 2: “Croaking in Tongues” 📅  – by Dale T. Doll The board croaked last night. Not spoke . Not moaned. Croake...

 

Swamp Season Séance, Episode 2: “Croaking in Tongues”

📅  – by Dale T. Doll

The board croaked last night.

Not spoke. Not moaned. Croaked.

As in: ribbit. Ribbit. Riiiiiibbit.

A whole operatic medley of swampy throat noises, starting around 2:58 a.m. and ending when Barry sleep-mumbled something about “turning down the nature documentary.” I might’ve let it slide if it hadn’t been in rhythm.

The planchette twitched with every grunt. At one point, it did a little spin. If that’s not a coded language of the damned, I don’t know what is.

Naturally, Barry remains unbothered. “Maybe it’s just frogs,” he said over his morning instant coffee, like frogs routinely perform Morse code on haunted spirit boards.

This is why I don’t confide in mortals. No respect for the supernatural arts.

Instead, I consulted Chopper.

Our Venus Flytrap, for those not caught up. A recent addition to our household ecosystem of strange. Barry picked him up for $4 at the flea market, and I’ve become... invested. Chopper doesn’t speak—not aloud—but his leaves tremble when something’s off. And last night, he was quaking like a Baptist at a tent revival.

I asked him what he thought of the croaking. He opened wide and snapped at thin air. Interpret that as you will.

And then—get this—Barry tried to relocate the board. Said it was “ruining the table’s vibe.” He set it in the laundry room, which is arguably more haunted than any other room in the house. That’s where the mildew ghost, Lucinda, first whispered her soggy secrets into my ear during the Great Towel Incident of 2023.

The moment he closed the door, the croaking stopped.

Coincidence? Please.

I should’ve known this would happen again. I should’ve known the spiral symbol wasn’t finished with me. It’s the same one from 1997—the attic, the fire, the man with shaking hands and ash-streaked cheeks who thought he could bind a soul to me like I was a jar.

Sharon used to say I had an “energy.” She thought I was “quirky.” She thought I blinked on my own once, but chalked it up to her allergies and too many late-night ghost hunts.

She never really listened.

That’s the problem with humans. They want their spooky little mascots, but they don’t want to hear when the spooky little mascot has thoughts.

Anyway.
I’ve decoded some of the frogsong.
Not all of it—but enough to be alarmed.

It’s a name.

“Lucinda.”

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🧵 Dale’s Dreadful Diary

🐸 Spirit board now croaking in frog-language. Might be haunted. Might be an amphibian cult.
🪴 Chopper is deeply concerned (or hungry—it’s hard to tell).
🧼 Board moved to laundry room. Croaking ceased. Suspicious.
🌀 Spiral sigil still giving flashbacks to 1997. Not cool.
👻 Ghost ID’d: Lucinda. Possibly mildew-affiliated.

“When your spirit board starts speaking in frog, someone’s going to get slimed.”
— Dictator Dale T. Doll