Swamp Season Séance, Ep. 10: “The End of the Line”

Swamp Season Séance, Ep. 10: “The End of the Line” as told by Dale T. Doll This is it. The last story. The last breath. The last chance to ...

as told by Dale T. Doll

This is it. The last story. The last breath. The last chance to tell you what happened before the house ate me whole.

I don’t even know how I ended up here—standing in the center of a house that feels like it’s made of bones. I guess this is what happens when you open a door you shouldn’t have. Or maybe it’s what happens when you ignore the warnings. Either way, I’m at the end of the line, and it’s a place I never thought I’d get to.

It’s been days since the last whisper. I think it’s been days. The house doesn’t let you keep track of time anymore. The walls keep moving, the air keeps thickening. And the hunger from below… it’s only getting worse.

Lucinda’s voice is gone now, swallowed up by whatever it is. At first, I thought I could hear her still—whispering through the cracks, pleading for me to come. But now? It’s like she was never here. It’s only the hunger that calls to me.

It calls in the night, in the deep silence that fills the house when the wind stops. It scratches at the walls and claws at the floor. It’s waiting.

I’ve been down to the cellar again. Don’t ask me why. Maybe it’s because I know what’s down there now. I know what’s in the house.

But this time, when I went down, the door didn’t even creak open the way it used to. It was like the house was welcoming me. Not trying to keep me out.

The floor was worse. Buckled. Swollen. It looked like the whole house was breathing with a slow, wet pulse, like the lungs of something huge and ancient.

And the hole. The hole in the floor—the one I thought I’d sealed—was bigger. Wider. It called to me. And when I looked down, I didn’t just see the blackness. No, I saw something in it. Something moving.

A face. A twisted, skeletal face, half-wrapped in dark, damp tendrils. Eyes wide and hollow, staring up at me like it was begging for something—begging for me.

That’s when I realized it. It wasn’t just beneath the house. The thing was inside it, feeding on it, feeding on me.

I turned, ready to bolt, but that’s when the walls squeezed in on me. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. And from behind me, a voice—not Lucinda’s voice, but something much deeper, much older—slithered through the dark.

“It’s not just the house that hungers, Master D.

It is you who has fed it.

You opened the door, and now we are bound together.

There is no escape.”

I could feel the walls pressing in, the floor pulling at my feet, and for a second—just a second—I thought I might actually be swallowed whole. But something inside me snapped. I fought. I reached for the locket—Lucinda’s locket—the one I thought was just some piece of sentimental junk.

The locket was cold. But not like before. This time, it felt alive. It pulsed in my hand like a heart. And that’s when I knew.

This wasn’t just her curse.

It was mine now too.

I hurled the locket into the hole. Into the darkness.

And in that moment, everything went silent. The scratching stopped. The breathing of the house stopped. For just a second, the house was still.

And then—then came the scream.

It wasn’t human. It wasn’t even alive.

It was the house. It was the thing below it. It was everything.

I didn’t see it, but I felt it. It filled the cellar, clawed at the walls, pulled at my skin like a thousand hands. And then, like a flood, it rushed up, through the walls, through the floors, filling the house with a sound so terrible, so deafening, I couldn’t hear my own thoughts anymore.

The lights went out. Everything went black. And when I woke up, I was back in my bed. The house was quiet. Too quiet.

But it was over. Right?

No. No, it wasn’t.

I can still feel it. The hunger. The house is still hungry, and it’s not done with me yet. It wants more. I’ve given it everything I had, but it wants everything.

Lucinda is gone now. The whispers stopped. But the house? The house will never stop.

The End of Season 1

But not the end of the house.

The hunger is far from finished.