Swamp Season Séance, Ep. 6: “The Moon Drinks First” As told by Dale T. Doll If you've ever seen a full moon rise over the swamp, yo...
Swamp Season Séance, Ep. 6: “The Moon Drinks First” As told by Dale T. Doll
If you've ever seen a full moon rise over the swamp, you know it’s not just a pretty sight. It’s a presence. A force. You can feel the air thicken. You can almost hear the whispers in the trees. Even the alligators seem wary—like they sense something older stirring beneath the mud.
The moon was watching me that night.
Not that I had a choice in the matter. As the clock struck midnight (because, of course, it did), the air in the house thickened—not just still, but heavy, suffocating. The walls hummed, deep and rhythmic, like the breath of something slumbering beneath the foundation. And that’s when the door—the one with my initial carved into it—shuddered.
At first, just a murmur. A vibration. But then, deeper, like something was pressing against it from the other side. And in the distance, that same crack—but this time, wet. Like sinew tearing. Like something waking up.
Lucinda’s promises were coming due.
I was just about to call Barry when the lights flickered—again. The TV snapped on. Not static. Not her face.
Something worse.
The screen pulsed with white light, blinding yet soft. Not light. Something else. The weight of it pressed against my skin, my bones, my mind. It was looking at me.
And then—a voice, but not Lucinda’s.
Deep. Ancient. Not words, but something below speech. Something felt rather than heard.
Then Lucinda’s whisper cut through it. Her voice curled around the edges of the sound, almost like she was translating it:
“Master D… it’s time. The moon drinks first. And then it takes. We are part of its offering.”
Something shifted beneath the floorboards. A ripple, like something moving through the walls, stretching and flexing as if testing their strength.
And then—the door bulged outward.
Not like it was opening. Like something on the other side was pushing against it. Not a hand. Not a body. Something fluid. Something wrong.
I stumbled back, my hand instinctively grabbing the tarnished locket. I knew, somehow, it was part of this. The key. The invitation. The debt owed.
And then—I swear—I saw it.
Not just a shadow.
A face.
Not Lucinda’s. Not mine. Something else. Something with too many eyes, peering through the cracks in the door, testing the space between wood and flesh.
It whispered, low and wet:
“You are the key. You have always been. The house remembers. The swamp does not forget.”
Lucinda’s voice tangled with it:
“Don’t fight it. We started this. We finish it. Open the door.”
I felt something curl around my ankles—not hands, tendrils.
I pulled back. Hard. Something inside me screamed not yet.
Barry came in just as the walls exhaled, the tendrils retreating. He asked me what I was doing.
I didn’t answer.
I don’t think he noticed that the shadows in the corners of the room were moving on their own now.
I don’t think he realized that the damp walls had begun to pulse, as if breathing.
The swamp had always been watching. But now, something inside the house had finally woken up.
And I think it remembers me.
Posts
COMMENTS