The Pale Drifter

The engine cut, and the boat glided against the wooden dock with a soft thud. I stepped out onto the slick planks, my boots squelching in the dampness. Behind me, the others followed—Marissa, Dave, and my cousin, Leo. We were in the middle of the Atchafalaya Basin, Louisiana, at a hunting camp that belonged to Leo’s uncle. There was no road here, only water and the endless, tangled green of the swamp. The cabin itself was a squat, weathered structure on stilts, its paint peeling like sunburned skin. Inside, it smelled of stale coffee and old dust. We dumped our bags, cracked open a few beers, and settled onto the porch, watching the water turn to the color of rust as the sun bled into the horizon.

We talked about nothing important—work, movies, the odd gator we’d seen on the ride in. The air was thick, heavy with humidity and the constant chorus of frogs and insects. As the last light faded, a single sound cut through the noise: a splash, clean and deliberate, like something heavy slipping into the water. We all paused, but no one said much. ‘Probably a gar,’ Leo offered, and we went back to our stories. My attention kept drifting to the water, though. Out of the murk, something was moving—a log, I thought at first, but then it turned, and I saw it.

It was a pale, elongated shape, bobbing just at the surface, maybe fifty yards out. It didn’t look like a log. It looked like a face, flat and featureless, with no eyes, no mouth, just smooth, milky skin. Long, black strands, like hair, spread out around it in the water. I pointed, my voice a little too sharp. ‘What is that?’ Leo squinted, then laughed. ‘Just a piece of plastic or something.’ Marissa shrugged. ‘Probably a water snake.’ But I couldn’t shake it. The thing didn’t drift with the current; it seemed to hold its place, watching us. I rubbed my eyes and looked again, but it was gone.

We went inside, the screen door slamming behind us. The cabin had a single room with bunks, a small kitchen, and a wood stove that added a suffocating layer of warmth. We played cards, drank more beer, and tried to ignore the growing unease that had settled over me alone. Everyone else seemed fine, laughing and joking. But I kept glancing at the window, at the black square of night, expecting to see that pale oval again. At one point, I excused myself to use the outhouse, which was a short, rickety boardwalk away. As I stepped outside, the swamp’s night sounds enveloped me. I hurried, the wood creaking under my feet. On my way back, I paused. There was a sound—a low, wet cough, like a respirator pushing out phlegm. It came from the water’s edge, maybe ten feet away.

I froze, my blood turning to ice. There was nothing there, only the dark water. But then, right at the surface, a ripple, and something just below it. I caught a glimpse of white, of those strands of hair, and then it was gone. I made it back inside, my heart hammering. I told the others, my voice shaking. ‘There’s something out there.’ Dave rolled his eyes. ‘It’s just the swamp, man. Relax.’ But Leo, for the first time, looked skeptical. He went to the window, peering out. ‘I don’t see anything.’ Still, he didn’t mock me.

Later, after we’d all turned in, I had to use the outhouse again. I didn’t want to go alone, but everyone was asleep. I made the walk, the flashlight beam cutting a weak path through the darkness. The boardwalk ended, and I stepped onto the muddy bank. The outhouse was a few paces away, a black silhouette. I finished quickly, but as I was heading back, I heard the splash again, closer this time. Then I heard something else: a soft, wet sound, like bare feet on damp wood. I spun around, the light sweeping across the water. And there it was.

It was standing at the edge of the dock, just beyond the circle of my light. I couldn’t see its face clearly, but I could make out the shape: tall, thin, completely white, with long black hair hanging down to its waist. It didn’t move. I let out a gasp, stumbled backward, and ran for the cabin. I burst inside, slamming the door, and shook Leo awake. ‘There’s something out there—a person, all white.’ Leo sat up, rubbing his eyes. ‘What are you talking about?’ He got his flashlight and went to the door. I opened it a crack for him. He stepped out, shining the light in every direction. The dock was empty. The water was still. ‘Nothing there,’ he said. ‘You’re probably just spooked by all the gator stories.’ But he didn’t go back to sleep. He sat on the edge of the bunk, and I saw him looking out the window.

We left at dawn, packing in a hurry. As the boat pulled away, I looked back at the cabin, and there, at the waterline, I saw it again—that pale, featureless face, bobbing gently, black hair fanning out in the current. It was staring at the cabin, maybe at me. I didn’t look away this time. I just watched until we rounded a bend and the cabin disappeared. No one else saw it. But I knew it was still there, waiting. And I knew, somehow, that it had been waiting a long time. As we sped across the water, I couldn’t shake the thought that I had left something behind, or that it had left something in me. I have not gone back to that swamp, and I never will. But sometimes, when I close my eyes, I still see that pale face, and I wonder if it’s still watching, patient, for the next boat to arrive.