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damn

On a clear evening in deep south of Florida a man sat upon his porch, creaking back and forth in a weathered and decrepit rocking chair. A warm buzzing rose from the swamps and from years of life here he knew that the mosquitos were rising in swarms, prepared for the summer months.

In waves they would wash over the squelching shores of mud that encased the swamp. Bubbling water colored puke green and umber brown was the birthplace of the swarms that devoured the land each summer. In the eyes of the man it would be a harsh summer. Temperature records had already been broken and it was only the onset of the summer months. Pale blue eyes, set deep in creases of tanned skin, scanned the horizon waiting for the buzzing to cease. It did not. Previous seasons had brought mild mosquito seasons; this summer was different. Deep inside he knew that despite the many years he had lived in the swamp this would be his last. Buzzing droned in his ears and consumed his consciousness. They were coming for him.

The man rose unsteadily from his rocker, a wrinkled hand grasping the feeble arm of the chair in a firm grip. Pale blue eyes flicked back and forth, observing the dark crevices of the swamp that lay before him. Was it possible that the droning was increasing in volume? For a moment he realized his foolishness and slowly descended back into the rocker. There was no need to leave, the buzzing would remain in the swamp, he would remain on the porch. So he wished.

Rays of sunlight filtered through the dense foliage above the man. Evenings in Florida were quick; the final light of the afternoon plummeted quickly into depths of the night. Rocking quicker the man’s old eyes studied the ever darkening swamp that lay before him. His heart rate was increasing steadily. The man chuckled to himself and finally stood. Sitting was a waste of time, instead of causing himself unnecessary trepidation he figured that he would leave the porch and walk among the palmettos lining the walk to his house.

A single lamp was lit, hanging on the front post of his porch. Dull light emanated from the lantern barely illuminating the surrounding area, but it was enough. Hobbling down his walkway, a shadow of the man that had once lived here, he extended an aged, creased hand to softly rustle the branches of the palms. A murmur rose once more from the swamp. Hastily the man’s eyes flashed up, he peered unseeingly into the darkness, searching for what he knew caused the sounds.

Gloom canvassed the landscape as stars appeared in the sky. With the onset of night came the sounds of the nocturnals. Hissing noises could be heard from the gators that inhabited the putrid waters of the swamp. The elderly man found himself wandering off the path of his home and into the swamp. His eyes were weak and fumbled over the surrounding, searching for a recognizable landmark. Buzzing purred on. He reeled around searching for the source of the troublesome, grating sound. In the dark he could only make out a shadow. The gnarled voice barked out a low greeting, assuming the shadow belonged to a fellow wanderer. No reply was offered. Stumbling over twisted roots of cypress trees the man found that his shoes were wet. Looking down he realized the filthy water had dampened the cuffs of his jeans and risen to his ankles. Frantically he sloshed backwards, eager to free himself from the mucky grasp of the swamp water.

As he thrashed the night grew still. All sounds ceased and from the darkness a set of glowing eyes had locked upon him in his struggle. No longer was the buzzing rising from behind trees out of the water. On his arm he noticed one of the pesky noisemakers, desperately trying to suck enough lifeblood to sustain itself. Slowly the old man squashed the bug against his arm, ending its attempt to steal his precious life. Against his leg he felt a cold scaly limp, rubbing like sandpaper on his skin. In his fright, his blood ran cold and shivers shook the decaying body of the man. Yellow eyes were fixated on him. They were much closer than they had been a minute prior. It was dark. Painfully dark. No light was available to create sight for the old man. All that glowed in the dark were the eyes watching him. Struggling against the swamp but also fixated, the man watched the eyes. They bobbed, up and down, the water level would cover them then once more the glowing beams were gazing right upon him. Occasionally an eye would close, relieving the unwavering gaze. It was only ever one eye that closed.

The scent of fear permeated the already reeking swamp air. The eyes disappeared beneath the surface of the water. The man gave out a shriek. The man disappeared beneath the water along with the eyes. Bubbles rose to the surface of the swamp where the man had gone. The droning of mosquitos returned and a new smell joined the melting pot of scent already present in the swamp. A metallic, cold, eerie smell was now present in the swamp. Only one substance could create such a smell. Large quantities of blood.