A sulfurous odor lingered in the air, thick and heavy like invisible smoke. The stench of rotting vegetation clung to every breath, seeping from the pockets of stagnant water. It was a foul, earthy smell — the kind that made the stomach twist but reminded one of how alive the swamp was beneath the decay.
A breeze swept through, cutting the scent for a brief moment. But as soon as it passed, the miasma of rot and damp mud returned twice as strong.
A thin blanket of mist glided across the marshland, crawling low over the blackened pools. Then came a sudden uprising of sounds — croaks, squeals, chirps — as if the entire swamp had awakened.
The chorus of frogs and insects grew so loud it drowned out everything else. Even their own footsteps seemed to disappear beneath the noise.
Everyone stiffened. The hairs on their necks prickled. They could feel eyes — hundreds of unseen eyes — watching them from every direction.
Something was out there.
They knew it.
But they couldn't see it.
