Sinkhole

Detective Jeff Winegard glared at the aerial footage displayed on his laptop. A yawning blankness, ringed by dense swathes of swampy forest, broken only by a few two-lane roads.

"An entire neighborhood disappeared into the mud?"

"Swallowed by a giant sinkhole," Sargeant Doug said. "The insurance company demands an explanation."

"What kind of explanation can we give them? Isn't it an Act of God? He can do whatever He wants."

"Hundreds of millions of dollars, nearly a thousand lives lost. Insurance won't cover without a thorough investigation."

"We're no archaeologists. Call in the Army Corps of Engineers or something."

The sargeant shrugged.

"Their inspector thinks corruption is involved. That's where we come in."

"Might as well."

"Good. There's one survivor—somehow. Let's interview them."

***

Marge unfolded the morning paper and settled in for a cup of coffee. She pulled out the funnies page, handing the rest over to her husband Kevin.

"Say, new developments in Blackwood are now selling," he drawled, snapping away the wrinkles. "I've been thinking. Got all the amenities we want. Even airboat rides to see the gators!"

"Are you kidding?" Marge lowered her glasses with a stern glare. "I'm not interested in moving to that noxious swamp. The Cottages is a joke, if you ask me."

"It's a self-contained retirement town, hon. Everything within a golf cart ride from your front door."

"It's a hundred miles from the nearest hospital with a trauma center. You can't tell me that's a practical choice."

"People have been moving there for decades. The new Blackwood subdivision is the greatest they've made yet. Get a load of this writeup!"

Marge rolled her eyes. She leaned in to read the sales talk on the back page spread.

"Surrounded by miles of beautiful nature preserves, Blackwood is retirement living at its best. Appreciate bountiful wildlife from your back porch! Take your golf cart to enjoy live music on the square! Homes starting at three quarters of a million dollars… who would pay to live in a swamp?"

"It isn't really a swamp. They're using state of the art technology to build on solid ground. It's researched—safer than living in a trailer!" Kevin waved at the flimsy walls of their mobile home. "I'ma look into buying a house there, Marge. That'll be the life, huh?"

"Indeed, it will. Imagine the mosquitoes!"

"That's what professional pest control is for."

"Homeowners fees…"

"Cheaper than skyrocketing lot rent! You'll be happier in The Cottages, hon—I promise."

***

Tony smacked the map on his desk.

"We need more land," he growled. "I want The Cottages to be the biggest retirement village in the country. Who owns that property just south of us?"

Business partner Vinny looked up the records and snickered.

"Some old Native American guy called Eagle Wings. Should be easy to take it off his hands."

"Offer him a couple million. He'll love it."

***

"This land is not for sale." Eagle Wings stood at his gate, arms folded. "My ancestors have lived here for millenia. I am protecting our sacred burial ground."

Vinny glanced around at towering live oaks draped with rags of Spanish moss. Grackles squabbled from branches stretching gnarled arms towards the two men.

"You're serious about that?"

"Most definitely. No amount of money could convince me to leave. If this land were developed, it would anger the spirits of my ancestors. Their rest would be disturbed."

Vinny threw his head back and guffawed.

"Aw man, that's a good one. You really believe that nonsense?"

"This is serious. Don't you realize my land is part of a wilderness sanctuary, with a river running through it? How can you build roads, homes, businesses on soft ground? You will create instabilities in a sensitive ecosystem."

"We know what we're doing. It's not unheard of."

"Forever and again, no. Go find someone else's property to buy. This belongs to my people."

***

Perhaps a month later, a shadow slipped between the looming live oaks on Eagle Wings's property. Thick fog wrapped the land in a blackish shroud. The shadow moved with intention to the porch, paused, opened the door and disappeared inside.

Within a few seconds, a crack echoed across the murky waters of the Black River. The shadow slithered out the way it came, soon melding into the fog without a trace. Wind howled, tearing at slimy clumps of moss dangling from thrashing trees. Inside, a red stain spread slowly across the living room carpet.

***

"After the unsolved murder of old Eagle Wings, his land passed to a distant cousin in Michigan." Detective Jeff summarized the newspaper articles he'd found. "Within weeks they sold it to The Cottages developers, who broke ground for Blackwood immediately."

"Highly suspect." Sargeant Doug leaned over to read Jeff's notes. "Ancient native artifacts were reportedly found."

"One article claimed skeletons were exhumed. But I couldn't find any primary confirmation."

"If it really was a burial ground, there should have been a professional research team, working with representatives of the tribe to ensure respectful treatment of the dead."

"Yet nothing of the sort happened. Quite the opposite."

***

Marge drummed her fingers on the windowsill of the SUV Kevin was driving, or rather idling, caught in a tangle of traffic at the intersection of a toll highway and the two-lane state route leading into Blackwood. A car wash was under construction on the passenger side, and on Kevin's side two gas stations and a storage unit were going up.

"This area lacks basic infrastructure. We can't live where the main road is perpetually jammed. They should've widened it."

"We won't have to go out often. The house I found is a solid bargain."

"I don't know how solid it is…"

Past the congested intersection, the road was bordered on either side by marshes. Bald cypresses sat with their trunks in the water, knobby knees poking up for air. Construction crews worked with hoses, sump pumps and specialized tanker trucks, vacuuming up the muddy water, to be replaced with countless dump truck loads of dirt and gravel. Utilitarian cement retaining walls were given a decorative air, stamped with images of aquatic wildlife.

Marge shook her head.

"I've never seen anything like this. Who would build on wetlands? Only otters and alligators can live here!"

"Relax! This is the safest retirement community in the world. You'll love it."

***

Marge stood in the bedroom, staring at cracks spreading across the walls. A painting crashed down from a dislodged hook. The house creaked, groaned, shuddered as if in pain. The floor separated and collapsed beneath her feet; she pitched forward, grabbing at whatever she could find as everything began slipping away into a yawning cavity.

"Kevin! We're sinking! Run!"

She thrashed and screamed and found herself in bed, tangled in blankets. Kevin sighed, wrapping an arm around her.

"It's just a bad dream, hon."

"But—the cracks in the wall…"

Kevin turned on the bedside lamp. Marge reached out to touch the smooth walls, her hand shaking.

"We have to get out of here," she whispered.

"There's nothing to be afraid of. We only moved in a week ago—the house is brand new!"

"No. We need to leave right now."

Of course Kevin didn't believe her. Their home was worth almost a million dollars, in the newest neighborhood of The Cottages. What could possibly go wrong?

Her nightmares grew worse. She lost her appetite, spending hours wandering around the house, examining the walls and floors. She would stand at the edge of their backyard, where the golf cart trail meandered through the swamp. Elderly joggers, bikers and dog walkers would pass by and wave. All Marge could do was stare, shake her head and murmur,

"None of us should be here."

"Aw, hon, we're supposed to be having fun in our old age. Would you like to attend the square dance?"

Even away from the dreadful house, Marge was a mere ghost of her former self. Blackwood exerted a stifling pall upon her; the humid, fungus-laden air weighed heavily upon her soul.

One night, a passing dump truck rattled the ceiling fan, swaying the bronze pineapple chain pull. The next morning, a distinct crack ran through from the fan mount to the wall.

"I'll get it inspected immediately," Kevin assured her.

Outside, a rotten, sulphuric odor tainted the pea-soup fog. Kevin almost tripped over a sunken split in the driveway as he bent to pick up the newspaper. As he straightened, it seemed as though the house was slightly lopsided in his shifting frame of reference. He frowned, turned his head from side to side, and shrugged it off, making a mental note about a broken sewer pump.

A mourning dove wailed from a scrub palm. Marge leaned on the doorframe waiting for him to get back.

"Can we go into town? I must leave—I need groceries."

"My back hurts too much to drive. We'll order them."

Marge rubbed her hollow eyes. Kevin led her to the bedroom as torrential rain began sluicing down the roof.

"Let's try to rest. We were up all night with your bad dreams."

Kevin awakened from an uneasy nap to find it was still raining and Marge was gone. He went to look out the back door. Her frail figure balanced on the edge of the swamp. Grabbing an umbrella, he ran into the storm.

"What the—?!"

Marge cradled a human skull in her arms, sobbing.

"The earth brought forth one of the ancestors to tell me how the developers stole this land! We have to leave!"

"No! What are you saying?" Kevin grabbed the skull out of her hands. "You think that's talking to you?!"

"I dreamed it would be here, and it is!"

Kevin flung the skull as far as he could out into the murky thickets of bald cypress. A blinding flash of lightning lit up their faces as thunder shook the ground.

"You desecrated it!"

"Get back inside!"

Marge turned, stumbling towards the front yard. Her nightmares were coming true as branches splintered off the live oaks, plunging themselves into heaving ground fast dissolving to thick, entrapping mud. Chunks of driveway fractured into sharp, angular pieces like upturned icebergs.

Tearing, crashing, roaring noises pounded in her head. She turned back to their house, only to watch as it collapsed like a pile of matchsticks, sinking into the mud with a squidgy sucking like a clogged drain. A long, full-throated yell came from the backyard.

"Marge! Help!"

She fell to her aching knees, clinging to a broken slab of concrete that sliced her hands.

"It's too late, I can't," she whispered. "Forgive me, Kevin."

Marge commended herself to God's hands, expecting to be plunged into the swampy abyss any second. Instead, a firm, deep voice rang in her ear,

"Get up! Follow me. Hurry!"

A man in full Native American regalia stood before her, arms extended. He took her hand and pulled her to a slice of solid ground amidst the destruction; a portal. She murmured repeatedly,

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"You are not at fault. It is the balance of nature restoring itself."

"But… Kevin?"

"He had many chances. You will miss him, but actions have consequences."

Marge looked around at the roiling swamp reclaiming her neighborhood. She said the only other thing she could think of as they made their way across the land bridge,

"Thank you."

***

Detective Jeff shook his head at Marge's eyewitness testimony.

"You're saying a native spirit guide rescued you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well… we'll have quite a report for the insurance company."

"Unfortunately, we don't have evidence to convict Tony or Vinny of killing Eagle Wings."

Sargeant Doug picked up the phone.

"Oh. News." He turned to Jeff and Marge. "Tony and Vinny's office building caved in on them. No other casualties."

Silence hung heavy for a moment as they contemplated the cycle of life.

Words: 1971.
Written for "Horror Writing Contest" 
Prompt: skull and swamp image.
Banned items: swamp thing like creatures!