Next in the Bog

A tremor under your foot. Small. Harmless. Then the ground

splits. A hand shoots up — cold, waxy, medieval wool dripping

red onto your boot. The corpse rises straight out of the peat, spine bending wrong,

steam curling from its open mouth. Something moves behind it. Ash-grey skin.

Mud-cracked. Black eyes reflecting only you. Hair in dripping ropes,

heavy as chains. The Bog Witch glides upward, half-submerged, dragged by the breathing

bog beneath her. The peat softens under your heel. Sinks. Grabs.

Cold wraps your ankle like a fist. Pressure climbs your leg. The witch leans