The air in the swamp isn’t just thick—it’s alive. It presses in from all sides, wet and pulsing, like the lungs of something ancient exhaling around me. The rain doesn’t just fall here—it seeps, sliding from the sky like something half-dead, mixing with the swamp’s own fevered breath. It clings to my skin like fingers, damp and whispering, murmuring stories of things that watch but never show themselves.

I stand on the warped steps of Madam Hazra’s cabin, and let the swamp take me in. The cabin looks grown, not built—its walls born from gnarled cypress and its roof sagging under the tangled limbs of a weeping willow so old it might remember when the swamp was still young. The air reeks of rot, wet earth, and secrets that were buried but didn’t stay down.

Just as I lift my hand to knock, the door yawns open with a slow, reluctant groan, as though it’s been roused from a long, uneasy sleep. Thunder splits the sky—loud and close, like the swamp itself is crying out. A voice curls out like smoke: “Come in, child.”

I breathe in deep, letting the swamp’s breath become my own. Fate brought me here—but I know once I step inside, it cannot be undone. 

I push the door, and step inside. 

The cabin breathes with the same damp heaviness as the swamp outside, but there’s a sharp, unfamiliar tang beneath it- something I cannot place. It’s not the earth I know.  My curiosity stalls as my eyes adjust to the dim light, and I absorb the sight before me.

Hundreds of bottles sway gently at uneven heights from the ceiling by a wind that doesn’t touch my skin. Each hums faintly and holds strange substances—some shimmer with colors that don’t belong to this world, others swirl with shadows that seem to flicker like restless spirits.

I take a cautious step forward–the ground uneven but soft. The only true light source comes from a faint fire burning at the far end; its flames an unnatural emerald green. The flickering reflections dance across the walls like twisted, ghostly shapes. 

Then–without warning– a sharp, cold wind hurls past me.  The door behind me slams with such force the bottles rattle in their strings, their strange contents swirling as though startled awake. 

The fire flares. Its green flames twist and turn to gold. The awakened light spills over every surface, crawling over the hanging bottles, over the crowded tables, over me—sharp, revealing, and impossible to hide from.

My heart hammers as my eyes frantically dart over the room—walls stretching farther than they should. All around me, tables of every shape and size crowd the space—heaped with strange trinkets, relics and glass orbs– forming a labyrinth with only a single, narrow path. 

Yet one light draws my gaze. About two tables away, an orb glimmers brighter and hums louder than the rest. The sound crawls down my spine, begging me to come closer. The air lightens, and inside the orb something foreign, yet achingly familiar, is speaking. I take a tentative step forward—then a sudden, chilling laughter shatters through the room.

I whirl around, and there I see her.

At the path’s end, before the roaring fire, sits a small, frail woman perched in a chair woven from bones. Her skin is the rich brown of dark mocha, and her eyes burn in a fierce gold that mirrors the fire’s flames–unyielding and holding me in place.

She slowly clicks her long, curled crimson nails against the armrest. Her gaze is sharp, predatory–like a cat sizing up its prey. 

Tilting her head, she slightly curls her lips. “Ain’t been no one come lookin’ for me in a mighty long while, child. The last fool that did… well, he didn’t much care for how his story closed.” She chuckles low, like wind through dead branches. “What brings you out to my doorstep… and more important, how you come to know the way?”

I swallow the knot tightening in my throat. I’ve dreamed of this moment, spun it over in my mind ever since Meemaw whispered those old legends—but nothing could brace me for how ancient and hungry her voice sounds, like the swamp itself exhaling through her words. It echoes throughout my bones, setting the mark on my spine to a low, simmering heat. But I swallow the fear and ignore the pain to steady my voice. I came here for a reason. I deserve to be heard.

“I’m born and raised in Mississippi,” I say, voice steady though my hands tremble. “As a child, I heard stories—whispers that somewhere deep in the Louisiana swamps, where the great Mississippi’s water flows, there’s…” I hesitate, the weight of truth thick as the humid air. Her eyes, predatory and unblinking, hold me captive. I force the words out: “A swamp witch. One who hears the desperate and grants wishes to those who find her.”

My voice begins to quiver, “I’m broken, Madam Hazra. Lost. I escaped down to the great river, told her my story and shed my tears into her currents. She sent me a breeze that I’ve followed here, to you, for help.”

Silence falls within the cabin. When Madam Hazra speaks, the thunder outside begins to create a low, steady murmur that sounds like a growl in the midst of a deep sleep. 

“Mmm… many have come to me with wishes wide as the sky. They want what they ain’t got. They want them that hurt ’em to bleed. Or they want to forget—wipe the slate clean like the past ain’t got no teeth,” She leans forward, her stare burning as bright as the fire behind her. “Always hunger, always grief. That’s the fuel folk bring me. But you… You got the wind spirit of Dixie whisperin’ yo’ name, child. That ole wind don’t blow just anywhere. If she sent you here, then there’s somethin’ on you—a mark, a weight, or a destiny I ain’t seen yet.”

A sudden stillness wraps around my heart, squeezing tight. She eases back, bones creaking like ancient branches under the weight of centuries. “So tell me true… what’s it you come to ask?”

Here it is. The truth–my truth–burdened and raw. The mark on my spine begins blazing hotter, sharp and relentless, as though a ghostly hand scorches me from within. I start to flinch, but my resolve hardens. I will speak. 

And so I do. 

I tell Madam Hazra everything. I tell her of my small town; Meemaw’s tales; and the swallowed grief of my mother’s death. My pulse drums low and hard with the thunder as I begin to speak of Preacher. 

Madam Hazra’s stare on me never moves. No flicker of pity or surprise. Cold.

When I finish, the world holds its breath. The burning in my mark dulls to a quiet throb. Even the thunder’s distant growl hushes, awaiting her verdict. 

“What you askin’ me for, child? You want a redo—turnin’ back time? You want power from the shadows? Speak plain now.”

Her words rattle me. I’ve been so lost in my grief and fear that I never considered what I wanted to help fix it. Fix me. I thought she’d have the answer…

She sees my hesitation and lets out a slow, knowing grin.

“I do,” she says, her voice low, dark, and steady. “I got the answer you ain’t yet found yo’self, child. That’s why that ole spirit done led you here.” A low chuckle slips free, and the pain in my mark flares anew. “She knows I can weave the wills of fate–but maybe she reckons the ole spirit gon’ be callin’ yo’ name someday.” Her fingers flick the air with a careless grace, uncertainty ghosting her words. 

The gold in her eyes and the flames deepens, swirling into molten copper. Rain drums harder now, hammering the roof like an untamed heartbeat, choking the air with the scent of damp earth, mold–and that scent I still cannot place: something ancient, something rotten. The heat presses close, thick and suffocating, as if the very air conspires to trap me here.

I force down the tight tangle of unease twisting in my gut and mask the tremble in my hands with a brittle calm. 

Madam Hazra continues, “Listen close, child. Ain’t no easy fix for what you need—it’s a whole new self. I’ll twist and turn everythin’ ‘bout you, set you walkin’ a road so different, you won’t remember the one you left behind. That ole small town? It won’t haunt yo’ mind no more. For one whole year, you’ll live that new way. But mark my words—if the last tick o’ the year pass, and you ain’t found yo’ happiness–then you gon’ owe me a price… and I don’t take kindly to debts left unpaid.” Her grin spreads wider, teeth dark and cracked like rotten wood.

The thunder is swelling now, rattling the walls. The heat claws deeper, squeezing harder, stealing the air from my lungs. I’m running out of time. 

Meemaw’s warning pounds in my mind—a swamp witch keeps her truths close, but she only offers a wish once.

Her offer sounds tempting—almost safe—but every instinct screams there’s a ghost curled behind it…

Clarity—how do I grab it? Think. Think now. But thought is slippery when every breath feels stolen, when the heat and the storm press in from all sides.

One chance. It’s sliding through my fingers.

The words tumble out before I can shape them: “Who is this person I become? Where would she live? How can you promise that Preacher—or anyone from my town—will never find or drag me back? And what’s your cost?”

Her smile fades slowly as her eyebrows lift. Then–she rises. The floor shivers beneath us as the storm lashes out–winds screaming with wild fury, thunder bellowing like an ancient beast, rain pounding in savage waves. 

The burn in my mark explodes—like a brutal surge of searing needles digging deep, setting my skin aflame from within. I lock my knees, determined to hide the fear and pain clawing beneath my skin, as she slips into motion.

Not walking—gliding, with a creeping rhythm that’s part crawl, part drift. She weaves through the labyrinth of orbs and objects, ignoring the clear path. Like she’s on a hunt. Yet her eyes never break from mine—copper and cutting. 

When she speaks, her voice is low and chilled. “Time an’ place? Child… they ain’t nothin’ but a lie folk tell. Both easy to bend. Easier to break.” She puts a bite on the final word as she shatters a glass orb on a table near her with her hand. Shards scatter like splinters of ice as the sharp crack of breaking glass echoes like a gunshot. She shakes away the small fragments with a clenched fist, her eyes never flicker as she slips forward like a dark tide.

“Ain’t no findin’ you, child… ‘cause you won’t belong no more. Not to this time, nor this place. I’ll put you in a land o’ strangers, where no voice you know gon’ ever reach you. Where not even yo’ shadow knows the way back. Lost.”

A white-hot spike drives deep into my mark, and my breath catches. My confusion must show, because her grin returns—jagged and too many teeth. The chuckle she makes rattles the orbs until they sing, the hanging bottles swing harder with her laughter.

“I’m a generous witch,” she continues, voice like honey over rusted nails. “I’ll peel away yo’ misery, clean as dawn. By the year’s end, you’ll taste joy… and the scorchin’ fire of them o’ restless ghosts won’t touch on yo’ soul no more…”

“But—at what price?” The words rip from me before I can stop them.

Pain erupts in my mark as if hell itself reached inside. I scream, doubled over, clutching my back.

And then—nothing. The world stops. No sway. No sound. No breath of the swamp’s heavy scent.

Madam Hazra’s eyes fill with anger.

Panic claws its way up my throat, twisting my face beyond my control. Every fear, every pain is there–laid bare in her gaze.

For a breathless moment, we stand frozen. 

Then, ever so slowly, her eyes narrow, and a sharp nod cuts through the thick silence. “You left out the part ‘bout being the marked child of Evadine, didn’t you, child?”

As if summoned– the orb that first caught my eye stirs again. Its murmur rising, desperate and raw. The ache in my mark pounds in echo with its cry. But this time, I stifle the pain, straighten and stare back. Never again will anyone–not even a swamp witch–call me a liar. 

“When my Meemaw was dying, she told me—just barely—that our family carries a curse. That it skips a generation—only the women. She said it would be mine someday. But that’s all I ever got. I was never told what the curse truly means. And I’ve never heard the name—Evadine—before.” 

Madam Hazra’s smile vanishes. She glides closer until a single footstep separates us. Her presence presses down on me like the heavy storm, thick and suffocating. She smells ancient as the swamp’s dark mud, mingled with decay. My heartbeat slips from my chest, slowing, twisting—locking into the same rhythm as hers. Our hearts thrum together now, a slow, pulsing echo of the swamp’s dark, endless water.

“One drop o’ blood, fresh and pure, from yo’ finger—that’s the toll today.” As she speaks, her hand unfolds, revealing a large, jagged shard from the shattered orb. “You’ll take a new life, traded for the one you got now—that one soaked deep in pain and sorrow. That’s the price I’m claimin’. You give me that piece o’ yo’ soul, and I keep it locked up tight right here. But hear me good—if by the last tick o’ yo’ year runs out, and you ain’t found no happiness, the rest o’ yo’ soul’ll come crawlin’ back and bound to me. Indebt.”

Her final word cracks sharp—like a bone snapped in two. The breeze that led me here howls alive, whipping the hanging bottles into a mad frenzy. Thunder roars loud and angry. Lightning rips the sky open with bone-shattering strikes. The fire twists to a venomous orange–reflecting now in Madam Hazra’s eyes. 

She lifts the glass shard to eye level, the movement slow and deliberate. Its jagged edge shimmers, the tip a flickering diamond which catches every color within the cabin.

I can’t tear my eyes away. My heart pounds—hammering out a frantic beat that fights the rising howl around us.

What was once a dark, silent magic now twists into chaos. The wind screams louder, whipping through the bottles, rattling them like mad spirits. It grabs at my hair, twisting it, matching the wild panic raking at my chest. Orbs shudder and shriek, trying to be heard over the thunder’s savage roar.

“Time’s short, child!” Yells Madam Hazra over the chaos.  “One drop o’ blood–Any finger’ll do.” 

The point pulls at me, a silent hook in the center of my mind. Light dances off its edges, spilling colors I’ve never seen, each flicker tugging me closer. I can feel it reaching—not with hands, but with something older, deeper—drawing my vision until the rest of the room blurs. The chaos around me fades to a distant hum, as if the shard has swallowed sound and taken light, leaving only its shimmer and the unshakable pull.

It hums—soft at first, then louder—words without sound slipping straight into my mind. All your troubles, gone… All your sorrow, crushed… Just a prick, just a drop… The promise coils around my thoughts, squeezing out the doubt. My mark burns deeper, but the voice is sweeter than relief, urging: Come closer, child…let me drink, and you’ll be free. 

I begin to lift my hand. The diamond tip slips an invisible hook into my ring finger, slowly reeling it in. With every inch, my mark sears hotter, the fire biting further, until I can no longer tell if the pain is trying to stop me… or drive me forward.

My breath catches. The world shrinks to silver and fire. I draw one sharp breath—

—and plunge my finger into the tip.

A drumbeat rises from beneath the earth—slow at first, then pounding, furious, shaking the cabin’s bones. The wind screams like a beast unchained, tearing through the hanging bottles that clash but do not break. Thunder cracks overhead like the sky’s spine snapping. Lightning flares so close I can taste the metal in the air. The fire roars to its highest height yet. The orange flames transform into bright crimson, writhing like a serpent ready to strike. The walls strain against the storm’s howl, shadows tearing and twisting across Madam Hazra’s face until she’s a flickering visage of something older than time and darker than death. The storm roars, the floor heaves and the drum pounds in my chest, in my skull, until I can’t tell if it’s the earth or my own heart tearing itself apart.

And then—

Nothing.

No drum. No wind. No fire. Even the shadows freeze. Madam Hazra does not move—her bright crimson eyes are the only living thing, and they are fixed on me. 

Blood wells from my finger, cold and urgent, while inferno rages beneath my mark. The glass shard in her hand drinks my blood, twisting and splitting down its center. The edges curl outward, swelling like a dark bulb. Then it stretches, narrowing where my finger touched it, while the bottom swells heavy and round.

I yank my finger back, heart hammering, eyes locked on her.

Now she holds a bottle filled with something strange. My blood is gone. Inside it looks something like strands of golden hair, thin and glowing faintly—like trapped light.

Slowly, she lifts the bottle toward the ceiling. A brittle twig snaps free, spiraling down like a serpent’s tongue, wrapping tight around the bottle’s neck. It lingers there—claimed, added to her collection.

She seizes my bloodied hand. A golden light flickers to life between us—thin and fragile like vines—until the light swells, engulfing our hands in a radiant glow. Her voice emerges as ancient—thick and dark, like the swamp’s deepest roots rumbling from another world:

“Time don’t run just straight nor true—

It bends ‘round pain, it slips on through.

She’ll wake in years not her own,

With age grown tall, but roots o’ stone.

One year to bloom, to laugh, to stay—

Else joy will rot and fade away.

“Z’âme li cassée, yon ti mòso,

Nan boutey clair, ki rété chè mo.

Li va grandi chak jou ki filé,

Pendant li-menm ap soufré, efacé.

Ou va oubli Mississippi, sol natal,

Pa ka touché, ni respire l’oral.

Lanmè, larivyè—pa pou ou non,

Dlo va brisé ou, kou kouto fon.

Kan chant Sud profond ka souflé,

Lanmou va piqué, l’kè va pléré.

“This spell gon’ hold ‘til moon runs red,

With mem’ry gone like words ain’t said.

The mark she bear still hums inside—

A curse gone soft, but not yet died.

An si on kè, pli fò ki mwen,

Speak truth unspoilt—then break the line.”

The light snaps into a thousand pieces like bursting stars. I’m blasted backward, the ground shaking beneath me. Madam Hazra’s laugh cuts through the air—triumphant, wild, alive—the final echo before the world fades and I’m swallowed by the twisting earth.

Earth, wind, water and fire collide in a violent tornado, a roaring beast swirling around me. The sound’s a monstrous, grinding screech—like a train’s hellish wail—battering my eardrums, growing louder, unbearable. I gasp for breath, but there’s nothing. Only thick, choking air, like the world itself has been sucked dry. 

Darkness churns with the frantic noise–mixing with panic and terror. No scent, no sight—just a roaring, tearing void that devours me whole. I scream, but my voice is swallowed silent.

The blazing pain in my spine’s mark fades, moving directly to my finger, which now burns with a fierce golden light. My body convulses—bones stretching, aging fast—skin twisting and curling. My soul spills out, bleeding into the wild chaos around me.

I slam my eyes shut, desperate—praying, begging—wishing for this nightmare to end.

Then, it does.