New Orleans was everything Scott thought it would be. The jazz was loud, the food was amazing, and Bourbon Street was a never-ending party. But as fun as it was, it wasn't really what hr and his friends were looking for. They wanted something more authentic, something that would give them a real taste of the bayou.
So, on the last day of their trip, they rented a boat and set off into the swamp. The water was murky and slow-moving, the air thick with humidity. Cypress trees towered above the group, their branches dripping with Spanish moss. It was beautiful, but there was something unsettling about the place, something that made the back of Scott's neck tingle.
As the three friends made their way deeper into the bayou, they started to notice signs of life. A shack here, a boat there. They were getting close. Yhen, about 3 miles deep in the swamps, They saw it. A small, weathered shack, half-hidden in the trees. It looked abandoned, but there was something about it that drew them in.
Sherri tied up the boat and approached the shack cautiously behind the others. The windows were boarded up, the door hanging crookedly on its hinges. But as the group moved closer, they could see that it wasn't as abandoned as it seemed. Dante found some tracks in the dirt, leading in and out of the shack. Someone, or something, had been here recently.
The three exchanged nervous glances, but never say anything. Instead, they excitedly moved forward, their hearts pounding in their chests. Scott pushed the creaking door open and stepped inside. The air was thick and musty, filled with the scent of rot and decay. As they looked around, they could see that the shack wasn't empty. There was a table in the center of the room, surrounded by chairs. And on the table, there were oil lamps, their glasses dirty and covered in cobwebs.
The group moved forward, sherri’s cameras at the ready. She started snapping photos, the flashes illuminating the dark room. As they moved deeper into the shack, Sherri started to feel a strange sensation. It was as if she were being watched, as if unseen eyes were trained on her. But every time she turned around, there was no one there. Scott waved for her to come towards him.
They lit one of the lamps, the flame flickering and casting eerie shadows on the walls, But as Sherri raised her camera, they all heard it. A creaking, groaning sound, as if the very foundations of the shack were shifting. But as Scott turned towards the noise, he saw them. Figures, emerging from the shadows. They were tall and imposing, their bodies hidden behind tattered clothes. And on their heads, they wore masks, made of burlap sacks and painted with twisted, evil faces.
Scott and his friends froze, Sherris camera dropped to the floor. The figures moved closer, their eyes glowing with an eerie light. And as they raised their hands, Dante saw that they were holding hatchets and machetes, the blades glinting in the lamplight. Scott tried to run, but it was too late. One of the terrifying figures slammed a hatchet straight into his spine. Sherri screamed and Dante grabbed her by the wrist as he rushed past her. They took off out of the shack, the figures were on them, their blades flashing as they struck.
Sherri fell to the ground, Dante tried to left her but as he did, one of the figures caught up to him. He managed to wrestle the machete from the crazed swamp killer, but as he tried to swing it at him, the bigger masked figureswung his hatchet into the side of Dante’s neck. As Dante dropped to his knees, the behemoth yanked his hatchet from Dante’s neck and chopped his neck again. Dante’s lifeless body fell to the ground As the masked mad man continued chopping at his head like a log. Sherri was now about a football field away from the carnage. She turned to look back and when she did she was grabbed by an unknown third masked person. She tried to defend herself, but was no match for them. She felt a blinding pain, and then everything went black. When she came to, she was lying on the floor, her head throbbing. The shack was quiet, the only sound the creaking of the old wooden boards. She struggled to her feet, looking around frantically. The others were gone, but she could see the signs of what had happened. There was blood on the walls, on the floor. Looking out the doorway there was a trail of blood all the way down towards where Dante was killed. She tried her best not to scream.
She stumbled from the shack, heart racing. She had to get out of there, had to get back to civilization. She staggered to the boat, her vision blurring, but she did her best to keep a look out for the return of the strange swamp people. And as she pushed off from the shore, she heard it. A laugh, low and menacing. She turned to see one of the figures, standing in the doorway of the shack. He raised his hand, and she saw that he was holding a camera, its flash glinting in the sunlight, and another one of them was standing off to the side holding what appeared to be a severed head. They both cackled maniacally, in unison
As she looked at the camera, she realized that if she didn't move quick, she was next. She turned the boat around, and started the engine. She had to get out of there, had to get as far away from the shack as possible. But as she looked back, she could see the figures, standing on the shore. They were watching her, motionless, their eyes glowing with an evil light.
She knew then that, even if she escaped physically, She would never be able to escape completely. The shack, the figures, the murders, the laughs, they would haunt her forever. She had seen something that she was not supposed to see, something that would stay with her for the rest of her life. Sherri sped away from the shack, and she couldn't help but wonder if she would ever be able to find my way back.
The bayou was vast and thick, the waterways twisting and turning. She could navigate for hours, but might never find her way out. As the sun started to set, casting long, ominous shadows across the water, She realized that she might not survive the night. The figures could be anywhere, their boats moving silently through the water. And if they found her, I would be helpless, alone and unarmed in the middle of the bayou.
She kept moving, her heart pounding in her chest. Sherri had to find a way out, had to get back to heavily populated city. But as the darkness deepened, she started to lose hope. The bayou was endless, the water stretching out in every direction. And she was alone now, adrift in the middle of it unrecognizable terror.
Then Sherri saw it. A light, flickering in the distance. She turned the boat towards it, her heart pounding out of her chest. It could be anything, a house, a bar, a marina. But it was her only hope, her only chance at survival. Hopefully a blessing from God. She pushed the engine to its limit, the boat surging forward. And as she got closer, she could see that it was a town, a small collection of houses and shops. She had made it; she had found her way out of the bayou.
Sherri tied up the boat once again, stumbling onto dry land. She was shaking, her body covered in sweat. But she had made it, she had survived. She found a sheriff, told him what had happened. He listened, his face grave and twisted. And as he sent his men to the shack, Sherri couldn't help but wonder what they would find. Would the figures be there, waiting? Or would they have disappeared, vanished back into the bayou?
But as she sat there, waiting for news, she couldn't shake the feeling of unease. The figures had seemed supernatural, inhuman. And she couldn't help but wonder if the sheriff would be able to find them. Or if they would remain forever in the bayou, waiting for their next victim.
It wasn't until hours later that the sheriff returned. His face was grim, his eyes haunted. They had found the shack, but it was empty. There was no sign of the figures, no sign of the others. It was as if they had never been there at all. But as the sheriff looked at Sherri, she could see the doubt in his eyes. He didn't seem to believe her, didn't think that she had really seen what she said she had.
As she sat there, trying to convince him, she felt something. The back of her neck tingled. The same feeling of unease she had when the strange men appeared in the shack. The sheriff smiled in front of her. She turned just in time to catch a glimpse of one of the masked people before they hit her in the head and knocked her out. When she came to, she had to squint her eyes. The early morning sun was blinding. The smell of the swamp was stinging her nose, she looked down towards her feet, she was being dragged by one of the burlapped killers. She tried to turn her body to pull herself from his grip, but couldn't, she looked down and both of her arms were missing. She tried to scream but her mouth was taped shut. She looked over to see the third figure that kept knocking her out. He was dancing around with both of her arms as they marched towards the menacing shack of horrors.
The bayou had left its mark on Sherri, it had changed everything she knew. Everything she had planned, everything she was. As she was brought into the shack, and tossed into a tub, she knew it was probably her last day on earth. At least breathing. She cried, the tears covered her face. She must have cried for an hour before a figure walked in. It was the behemoth. As he walked in, he brandished his hatchet. Sherri’s eyes opened wide in horror as the maniac raised his blood-stained hatchet, and when he swung it down, everything went black, one last time