By J.L. Thurston

THE MAN TAKES LONG LOOK OUT ONTO THE BOG BEFORE BRINGING THE CIGARETTE TO HIS LIPS. The orange flash of light from his lighter brings the scruff of his face, the deep lines, and the sheen of sweat into bright relief.

He takes a long drag. Then he speaks.

“I’m going to tell you a story. It’s about a man and his land. A man is nothing without his land. Nothing. And this man, Carl, used to be a farmer. His land went right to the bog. He actually owned a stretch of that, too. He was the right man for that land, bog and all. And Carl appreciated his land. He appreciated the bog because he knew just how special it was. He knew why the bog was special. Not many bogs in the world are like the one on his land. It has this real rare type of moss floating in the watery parts. The moss does something to the bog. It makes the water acidic. It makes it so the bacteria from the mud can’t taint it. The moss purifies it. It purifies it so much that nothing can rot in it.

“In ancient times, people used to be put in there. Sacrifices, offerings, who knows what those cavemen were thinking. But they didn’t think the bog was special in the way that Carl does. They thought the bog was special because of the bog gasses. You see, the gasses rise up and mix with the fog and at night you can see the flashes of light that makes chemical reactions, or something like that. But those ancient people saw that and thought the bog was a portal to Fairy Land or what have you.”

The man snorts. “Morons, really. What proof did they have but flashing lights? They killed people for that? For that? For twinkling lights that wasn’t nothing more than gas from the mud. Morons.

“Carl was a better man. He knew the bog was special because it was just about the only pure thing in the whole world. And Carl was special, too, because he could hear the voices in the bog. He could understand the languages of all the ancient bodies in there. They’ve been in the bog for thousands of years, talking to each other, sharing stories, but after a thousand years a person runs out of stories. They need more. They beg for more stories. For new companions.”

He takes a drag. The cigarette has almost gone out. He’s nearly forgotten it is in his hand. He blows the smoke out into the frigid air.

“Carl gets them some more company. Carl makes a plan. One that will be talked about for decades if authorities ever catch up. It’s easy for Carl. He figures, in order to get people to do what he needs them to do, he’s just got to drug them. Carl tells the doctor that he hurts. Pain all over, he says. Doctors don’t treat the problem, they just treat the symptoms. Instead of wondering why Carl complained of pain, they just gave him pain killers. And muscle relaxers. And sleeping pills. Carl gets his medications and makes them up into a lovely little cocktail. He gets his victims, makes them take the cocktail, and then they get real sleepy. Relaxes them. They feel good. It just takes the fight right out of them. They’ll do just about anything Carl asks. They even follow him out to his bog.

“At night, just like this night, the fog settles in, the flashing lights twinkle in the distance. There’s a special stillness. The water and the mud make the air so heavy, so peaceful. Times like right now, I can imagine why the ancient people thought this place was a portal to another world. There’s just enough magic in the air to believe it.”

He gives an appreciative look around.

“The voices are silent tonight. They’re listening. Waiting for a new voice. I’ve given them about two dozen in the last thirty years. New voices. Adding stories to their world.”

He shudders, dropping his cigarette.

“If I don’t, then I start to see them. The bog bodies. They all have red hair and leathery skin. Even their eyeballs are like that. Perfectly preserved in the pure water. Clean. But there’s something about the way they look… I don’t like to see them. They… they don’t look like they mean well. I sometimes dream about what they’d do if they ever touched me..”

The breeze makes the fog swirl.

“Well, I bet you’re wondering how a man like Carl can get his victims to come out to the bog. Even on a magical night, even with all those drugs in their system. Well, it’s easy. He just takes them out there and tells them that if they can find their way out of the bog, they’ll be able to go free. That’s it. That’s all he says and they follow. Every time. Just goes to show you humanity hasn’t gotten any smarter since the ancient times.”

The man looks down to the younger man standing waist-deep in a pool of bog water. Moss is floating around him. His bound hands are hovering just over the pure, pure water, mixing with his tears.

“Please,” the younger man breathes, huge eyes looking up at the storyteller. “Please let me go home.”

Carl’s lips curl with disgust. “That’s what they all say.”

The next flash of light in the bog is from the knife in Carl’s hand as it slides across the younger man’s throat. Carl watches him choke and scramble weakly to climb out. Slowly, he loses enough blood to give up the fight. The new body sinks below the water. Carl waits for the moss to float around, filling the spot where the body had gone down.

Carl follows his well-worn trail out of the bog. He walks the two miles back to his home, making sure to leave his boots on the porch so as not to track in all that mud.

The bog bodies will leave him alone for a while now. He can rest easy, knowing they’ll stay in their bog, listening to their new companion whisper into the mud and the moss.