07/30/2025
NEW ATTRACTION ALERT!
At the edge of the bayou, just before the road turns to mud and the pine trees strangle the sky, is Greg’s Bait & Tackle, worn down and half swallowed by moss, standing like a last warning. The old man behind the counter doesn’t bother with pleasantries. He just eyes your bait bucket, gives a slow shake of his head, and mutters something low, like he’s already said it too many times to folks who never listened.
They say something ancient sleeps beneath the bayou. A curse whispered into the water by a voodoo cult long since vanished from maps, but not from the swamp. Their rituals still echo here, soaked deep into the muck and roots, bleeding into the water like rot from an old wound. Locals won’t talk about it, but they all know to avoid the deep reaches, where the sun can’t break through the trees and the air tastes like blood and wet earth.
The catfish are the first sign. Bloated and twitching. They come up… wrong. Murky eyes, teeth where none should be, still writhing after the blade’s gone clean through. Some whisper when they hit the dock. Others just stare. And it’s not just the fish…
The deeper you go, the worse it gets. The air gets heavier out there, thickening with something unnamed and watching, listening. You’ll hear them if you stay too long. The voices speak in a tone your brain won’t comprehend. The whispers will crawl underneath your skin. The kind of sounds that make your teeth ached and your mind go numb.
If you’re foolish enough to follow, you won’t find the cult
They’ll find you.
And when they do, you’ll pray that the water takes you first