The Mud of February

I never thought I’d have an experience in Polderbrook. It’s a damp, out-of-the-way farming village I visit whenever I can. My aunt and her family live there, along with my grandfather on my father’s side. My father’s youngest sister used to live next door, but she moved to Canada six years ago. Her house has stood empty since, its windows like cloudy eyes staring at the lane.”

“I’m a city person, born and raised in Milltown, but Polderbrook has always been my escape. The vast, flat fields, the wind bending the reeds, the gray sky pressing down like a lid. I’ve been going there my whole life, and until two years ago, I’d never seen, felt, or heard anything supernatural. I’d heard my aunt’s tales of strange lights over the marsh, and my grandfather’s mutterings about the old dike, but I dismissed them as rural superstition.”

“Then came my February trip, February 8th to 11th, 2015. I arrived on a Friday evening. The air was thick with the smell of wet earth and salt. My aunt’s house is a two-story affair: upstairs is the living quarters with a veranda overlooking the canal that runs alongside the property. Downstairs is my grandfather’s room, a single large space, and beside it, my father’s old room, which I use, with a small kitchenette and a dining area. The bathroom and toilet are outside, a small lean-to attached to the side of the house, right next to the outdoor stairs.”

“That first night was uneventful. I sat on the veranda, listening to the frogs and the distant moan of foghorns from the river. My aunt served a hearty stew, and we talked about family. My grandfather, who is mostly deaf, nodded off in his chair. I went to bed early, exhausted from the drive.”

“The next morning, I woke to a strange silence. The usual birdsong was absent. The air felt heavy, as if a storm was brewing, but the sky was a pale, sickly yellow. My aunt said the weather had been odd all week, that the canal had risen and fallen inexplicably. I shrugged it off and decided to take a walk along the dike.”

“As I walked, I noticed something disturbing: the mud along the dike was covered in footprints. Not human footprints, but something with long, thin digits, like a bird’s, but far too large. The prints led from the water’s edge, up the dike, and toward the direction of the empty house next door. My curiosity piqued, I followed them.”

“The empty house had always creeped me out a little. Its windows were now covered in grime, and the garden had become a tangled wilderness. The footprints led to the back door, which was slightly ajar. I knew I shouldn’t go in, but something pulled at me. I pushed the door open, and a gust of stale, damp air hit me. The inside was dark, with shadows pooling in corners. The floorboards creaked under my weight. I saw a trail of mud leading from the door to the staircase, and up. Against my better judgment, I climbed.”

“Upstairs, in what used to be the living room, the mud trail ended at a large, old-fashioned fireplace. The fireplace was filled with something I couldn’t identify at first. It looked like a mass of black, gelatinous sludge, oozing slightly. It had a faint, sweet, rotting smell. I felt a sudden, irrational terror, and I fled the house.”

“Back at my aunt’s, I tried to tell her what I’d seen, but she just shook her head and said, ‘You mustn’t go in there, child. Your aunt’s things are best left alone.’ I felt a chill. She has never had a sister.”

“That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about the sludge in the fireplace. Around midnight, I heard a sound outside my window: a wet, squelching noise, like something heavy being dragged through mud. I peered out, but the moon was hidden behind clouds, and I could only see darkness. The sound moved around the house, then stopped right outside my window. I stood frozen, my breath held. After a long minute, it moved away, toward the canal. I heard a soft splash, and then silence.”

“The next day, I decided to investigate the canal. The water was unusually murky, and the reeds were thick. I noticed a patch of disturbed mud at the water’s edge, and something glinting in the sunlight. I waded in a little and picked it up: a locket, rusted and caked with mud. I pried it open. Inside was a faded photograph of a woman I didn’t recognize, but she had my aunt’s eyes. I put the locket in my pocket, feeling an odd sense of dread.”

“That evening, as I sat on the veranda, I felt a presence. I turned, and for a split second, I saw a figure standing at the edge of the property, by the empty house. It was tall, emaciated, covered in black mud, with long, thin limbs. Its face was featureless, just a smooth, wet surface. Then it was gone.”

“I confronted my aunt. ‘There’s something in that house. I saw it.’ She finally confessed: ‘Years ago, before your aunt moved, she had a stillborn child. She buried it in the garden, in a wooden box. But the marsh flooded, and the box was never found. Sometimes, on the full moon, she said she saw it rise from the canal, covered in mud, searching for its mother.’ I felt sick. That night, the thing came to my window again. This time, it pressed its face against the glass, and I saw that its face was not featureless, but covered in countless tiny, wriggling worms.”

“I couldn’t stay. I packed my bags and drove back to the city that night. I never returned to Polderbrook. I still have the locket. Sometimes, at night, I hear a wet squelching outside my apartment window. And the locket, which I keep in a drawer, grows warm. I don’t open it anymore, but I know that the photograph has changed. The woman in it is now covered in mud, and her eyes are hollow. And sometimes, I think I hear a child’s cry, coming from the canal, calling out for its mother. But I’m in the city, miles away. So why can I still hear it?