The Black That Walked the Marsh

The summer of 1968 was the hottest on record in the small town of Millbrook, and for twins Jamie and Claire, it was a season of endless boredom. Their grandmother’s cottage sat at the edge of a vast, reedy marsh, a place the locals called the ‘Long Damp.’ Beyond the marsh, a narrow, muddy path wound through the dark woods and eventually ended at the old Hillcrest Cemetery, a plot so ancient that most of the headstones were unreadable. The twins had been warned to stay away from the marsh, but the heat made them restless, and the allure of the forbidden was too strong.

One afternoon, with the sun beating down and the air thick with the buzz of insects, Jamie and Claire snuck out. They followed the path through the tall, whispering reeds, their bare feet squelching in the warm mud. The marsh seemed to swallow all sound except for the occasional croak of a bullfrog. When they reached the river that cut through the marsh—a slow, black ribbon of water—they stopped to skip stones. Claire, always the braver one, looked across to the far bank, where the trees grew thick and low. There, standing between two gnarled willows, was a figure.

It was completely black, as if it were made of the darkest shadow, but it was solid. It stood at least seven feet tall, its shape vaguely human but with proportions that were all wrong—long, thin limbs and no discernible face. The sun behind it seemed to dim, as if the figure was eating the light. Claire grabbed Jamie’s arm, her voice a sharp whisper, ‘Look!’ Jamie turned, and his blood went cold. The figure began to move, stepping toward the riverbank with a fluid motion that was both slow and impossibly fast. Without a word, they turned and ran.

They tore along the path, their lungs burning, and their feet slipping on the mud. The figure did not run but glided, crossing the water as if it were solid ground. It gained on them relentlessly. Ahead, the path split, one fork leading to the cemetery, the other back to the cottage, but the cemetery was closer. They veered toward it, the old iron gate appearing through the trees. Jamie reached it first and scrambled over the low, rusted fence, snagging his shirt on a barbed wire strand that had been wrapped around the posts. He dropped to the other side and looked back. Claire was just starting to climb, her hands trembling, her eyes wide with terror.

‘Claire, hurry!’ Jamie yelled, but he could see the figure was now only a few yards away, its own shadow stretching out like a finger to touch her. Claire screamed, begging Jamie to help her, but Jamie froze. A primal fear seized him, and he did the only thing his instinct told him: he ran. He ran through the maze of headstones, his feet slipping on mossy stones, until he reached the far side of the cemetery and collapsed against an old, stone angel. He looked back, expecting to see Claire behind him, but she was not there.

For a moment, there was silence. Then he heard Claire’s voice, not a scream, but a low, guttural whisper that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere: ‘Jamie, it’s not what it looks like.’ He peered through the twilight. Claire was standing at the gate, and the figure was standing behind her, its long, dark arms wrapped around her shoulders, its head tilted to one side as if it were listening to something. Claire’s face was pale, but she was not struggling. Her eyes were fixed on Jamie, and they were full of an ancient, unblinking sorrow. The figure slowly turned its head toward Jamie, and even though it had no face, Jamie felt it smile. Then it began to change, its black form billowing and twisting, and it merged with Claire, disappearing into her skin.

Jamie did not stay to see more. He ran all the way home, his mind a blur of fear and guilt. He told his grandmother that Claire had fallen into the marsh, and he never went back to the cemetery. But that night, and every night since, he has heard Claire’s voice in the wind, whispering through the reeds, asking him why he left her. And sometimes, when he looks into a mirror, he sees, for just a split second, a black figure behind his own reflection, its long arms reaching out for him, and he knows that the thing that took Claire has been with him all along, waiting for the moment when he finally turns to face it.