Unbeyond the Bayou

by Juan-Pablo Pina

Photo by Luke Hodde on Unsplash

Some folks say the blood-warm waters of the bayou and the freezing night air are the worst thing lurkin’ out here. Others reckon it’s the gators ‘n the bandits that'll get ya. But if ya listen to the old folks, they’ll tell ya ‘bout a place so cursed, neither angels nor the devil himself dare set foot there…

A sharp crackling noise split the silence, jerking old Luis Clay awake.

“Heh? Who—what the...?” he muttered, shifting in his creaky rocking chair. His bleary eyes flicked to the old clock—3:00 AM. Again. The white-haired man rubbed his face and listened. Nothing but the distant rumble of gators and the constant hum of insects.

He turned back to the TV, which flickered with static, whispering something in a language that sure as hell wasn’t human. Luis exhaled through his nose. 

Ugh, not again. 

Every damn night at 3 AM, that ancient hunk of junk switched on by itself, muttering like a restless ghost. He figured it had to be the new power grid being built a few miles away messing with the signal. But this was the twenty-seventh time it’d happened!

Then, clear as day, he heard it: a voice.

“You know, many of the Transcended Ones are indifferent to your existence. But not me. I find your little lives ever so…fascinating.”

Luis stiffened, his blood turning to ice.

WHAT. THE. HELL.

The static shifted. Something took shape on the screen—a vast, red abyss. Waves churned like an endless, scarlet sea, with bolts of black lightning splitting the horizon.

The voice slithered through the air, deep and reptilian.

“It takes great effort to project myself through this decrepit device…”

Luis grabbed his shotgun, knocking over an empty whiskey bottle. “What ‘n d’hell are you? ‘Nd what d’you want?”

The TV, or the thing in it, chuckled.

“This is not pity. Not kindness. Not even a farewell. This… is my game.”

Luis wasn’t one for fancy words—especially when things needed shootin’. His years in the bayou had taught him the world held horrors folks didn’t speak of, but this… this had a comprehension, a comprehension of what was going on, and what seemed like a horrible sense of humor.

“Oh, hell nah.” He cocked the gun and fired. The TV exploded, glass and sparks flying.

Silence.

Then, something started seeping from the broken screen. A thick, red liquid— glowing with an eerie, electric life. It poured like floodwaters, spreading across the floor, rising fast. Luis staggered back, cursing.

And then he saw them: shapes. Wriggling through the crimson tide—long, eel-like things, thick as anacondas, moving too smooth, too knowing. Their slick, pulsating bodies bristled with small, watching eyes.

Luis fired. 

Missed. 

The gun clicked empty.

“Oh, snap.”

The window—he scrambled for it, throwing his weight against the frame. It burst open, just as something heavy coiled around his leg.

Luis crashed onto the back porch, kicking wildly. A dozen slimy tendrils slithered from the doorway, wrapping tight around his arms and his throat. Hundreds of tiny, unblinking eyes watched from across their surface, each one locked onto him like a stalking dragon.

Dread like he’d never known crawled through his bones. He’d stared down hurricanes, wild boars, even men with murder in their eyes. But this was something ancient. 

Something that had been watching. 

Waiting.

Then, without warning, he was yanked back through the window.

Into the red tide.

The world flipped. The swamp, the cabin, the stars—all gone. Just endless, crushing water with no bottom and no surface.

Luis thrashed, but the tendrils pulled him deeper. The pressure built, his chest burning. The things tightening as they swarmed like a school of piranhas.

Then he saw it: far below—so deep it hurt to comprehend—something moved. A shape. A mouth, stretching wider than a river, lined with jagged, shifting teeth. Luis opened his mouth to scream before the abyss swallowed him whole. And then—...

3:01 AM. He was back in he cabin, the warm air of the summer night surrounding Luis while an empty whiskey bottle was cupped in his hand. His shotgun was still beside him, and in front of him was a static and crackling TV.

Luis caught himself, panting in sheer terror. Was it all a dream? Or maybe he had been hypnotized into dreaming? Whatever happened, it was over now.

But then the voice returned, a snarling a horrifically ecstatic whisper that filled every part of him:

“You were right to be afraid…”