It wasn’t until the Federal Marshals found the ramshackle collection of huts,
when searching for a missing person, that the true history of Backwater Swamp began to unravel.
The authorities decided to drain the waters around the village to find out what had happened here.
Soon they realized that the poor souls that had drifted on the currents or gotten lost wandering in the swamp
had found their way to this place of unspeakable torment.
Backwater Swamp, a large wetland area, had always been a place that the people in the village had avoided at all costs, for the risk
to become trapped in the dark waters and lost in the thickets of dense reeds and bulrushes that seem to choke the rest of the vegetation.
The currents gouging through the mud had created an eerie maze in the wetlands where three great rivers crossed path.
The drainage of the village revealed thirty-seven sets of human remains weighted down in the rotten swamp waters.
Bodies that showed traced of being cut in, tormented and their bones carefully scraped free of flesh.
It took the pathologists months to piece together what they could find of the remains to identify the victims.
As for the family that hunted in these waters, nothing was ever found of them.
The buildings where they once lived were burnt and scorched, everything covered in black ashes.
No one knows what happened to them, but the rumor is that they burnt it to cover up their deeds,
before fleeing into the darkest reaches of the swamp, to one day begin their foul hunt again.
The entity keeps rearranging the world around me,
I can sense it through the unbearable mist that clouds my mind and tears my soul apart.
In front of me a dark swamp opened up, decaying and rotting, and a maze of walls of mud confused me in my path.
In the midst of it, I found burned and scorched wooden buildings.
As I walked through them, through the ashes and debris, it was as if a wave of endless torment weighed me down.
I do not know what devilish deeds that took place here, but fire has not cleansed the ground from the horror.
The Pale Rose, an ancient paddle steamer in the middle of the swamp, held captive of the stagnant mud.
It has been here long before the residents began their hunt, a barely visible silhouette from the nearby village.
There are signs of inhabitation, particularly in the upper states room where strange, ritualistic markings in dried blood and dirt cover the floor.
From the scale of the bloodletting, something horrid has taken place here.
One shack stood apart from the rest of the village.
Once the water was drained and the area beneath the base was revealed, the true horror of the swamp's cage was discovered.
It was here that the prisoners, if that's what we should call them, were brought.
Held in the water, their bodies bloating horrendously, they were plucked, one by one for the family's needs.
The stilts that kept the building upright acted as the only bars that awful jail needed.