It Who Stalks the Bog
By Isah Ettrue
The child wandered from home, beyond their mother's voice. To the bog they ventured, deaf to previous warnings of the danger within.
Yet it is not the creatures on the banks of the swamp above that they need fear. It is what lurks within.
Beware, beware, of what awaits below the fog.
Beware, beware, of It Who Stalks the Bog.
A name long forgotten, or perhaps never known. A fairy tale, surely. A bad dream. A fantasy to scare them into behaving. Of this, the child was sure. Yet such a mistake could never be rectified, never be learned from.
The child laughed as they danced between trees, chasing fireflies and singing, yet beneath the waters of the swamps it stirs, gaze forever fixed watching those above.
Beware, beware, of what awaits below the fog.
Beware, beware, of It Who Stalks the Bog.
It watches, waits, and rises. From the muck and bile it snakes forth. The child bent over as the black of the water gave shape, and then form. Their eyes went wide as they stumbled backwards, tiny ankles catching an exposed root.
The child's hands splayed out against peat as they stared in horror, their face pale as their very blood attempted to flee. Their jaw fell, and a piercing scream escaped their throat.
It rises, gripping the bramble as if a creeping fog on the banks, consuming all thoughts and senses as the world falls away.
Beware, beware, of what awaits below the fog.
Beware, beware, of It Who Stalks the Bog.
The child scrambled to their feet, tears streaming down their face like flowing water as they ran. The world blurred around them, the horrific sight still burned into their mind. They jumped across a bank, splashing in shallow water, and clawed their way to shore.
They continued to scream, desperate for anyone who might save them. Yet it shrieks through the very air toward the life it craves with an all-consuming hunger, and all sound drowns in the black of its ravenous maw.
Beware, beware, of what awaits below the fog.
Beware, beware, of It Who Stalks the Bog.
The child's features warped as they were dragged beneath to the murky deep. They writhed and thrashed, inhaling brackish water as they continued to scream.
Their pupils went wide as the black overtook them, and their outstretched hands went limp as they sank ever downward beneath the swamp.
From then they existed forevermore as but only a name whispered from the lips of their loved ones. All the rest, all that they were, were swallowed up.
Beware, beware, of what awaits below the fog.
Beware, beware, of It Who Stalks the Bog.
It feasts, and it recedes to where even light cannot reach. There it watches and waits, always eager to partake of life.
Beware the darkest places of the swamp, child. It is not what you can see that you need fear, for all is but a mercy compared to what awaits below the fog.
Hearken to your elders, child, else you incur the attention of It Who Stalks the Bog.
