Witch's Marsh You don't believe in God; I don't believe in luck

Mature Content Warning

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The participants have indicated the following reason(s) for this warning: Kinda gross

She blinked, and found herself in horror.

The sour stench of rot struck first, eye-watering, acid rising in the back of her throat. She stared straight ahead while her stomach clenched and flipped. She did not look down. She could not. She would not. Her skin felt alive, crawling with the heavy droning of flies she could see rising in a thick cloud. Mae started to sob.

Finally she looked down.

Down into the swell of bloating rot and sunken eyes crawling with maggots and jaw hanging slack, the swarm of black descending again, the sickly wet sound of rot and murk beneath her paws. Moss. Her tears fell freely. Mae sank shakily into the muck, her eyes fixed helplessly on the hollow face of death.

Moss, She said shakily. Moss. A command in her voice, this time.

The flies scattered — and then she saw it. She saw it. The slackened jaw twitched ever so faintly.

"Yes?"

Mae breathed her relief.

I knew you would come back.