Pastor Ezekiel Beaumont paused at the edge of a muddy trail, sweat glistening on his brow as he clutched his battered Bible to his chest. The weight of the swamp seemed to press in from all sides, making each breath taste of earth and decay. Behind him, Lamar Johnson adjusted his grip on the rusted machete, its blade reflecting a sliver of dying light, while DeShawn Johnson lingered, his eyes sharp, scanning the dark spaces between the trees.
"I don't like how quiet it's gotten," Lamar murmured, his voice hushed but betraying a tremor of unease. DeShawn matched his father's stance, jaw set, knuckles white around the handle of his own makeshift blade. Pastor Beaumont glanced skyward, muttering silent prayers as the oppressive silence was broken only by the croak of distant frogs.
"We must be cautious. Evil takes many shapes," Pastor Beaumont whispered, voice trembling with conviction. "Dad, you see that?" DeShawn pointed to a strange sigil carved into the cross's base, its lines fresh and glistening as if drawn in something darker than mud. The air seemed to pulse, a low vibration that stilled even the insects.
"Whatever did this is still close," Lamar said, stepping forward, machete raised defensively. Pastor Beaumont pressed his Bible tighter, reciting verses under his breath as the shapes crept closer, their movements jerky and unnatural. DeShawn gritted his teeth, refusing to back down, even as the air grew colder and the darkness pressed in.
"By the power of the Lord, I command you to leave this place!" Pastor Beaumont declared, his voice echoing through the clearing. The shadows recoiled, swirling around the mossy cross, as Lamar swung his machete through one of the figures, the blade passing through with a hiss. "We need to get out of here, now!" DeShawn shouted, panic flickering in his voice as the ground seemed to shift beneath their feet.
Lamar pulled DeShawn close, machete still raised, while Pastor Beaumont led the way, his prayers blending with the night sounds. As they break free of the trees, the oppressive air lifts slightly, the sounds of normal life returning in distant croaks and chirps. Together, battered but intact, they make their way back to the safety of the church, shadows of the bayou lingering in their minds as a grim reminder of what dwells in forgotten places.
Three nude males
