The swamp-folk say there's something lurking out there. Out past the ancient standing stones, in a place where it's forever twilight. Where the cypress roots seem to slither like eels in the black mud. Where the fireflies are dark, the bullfrogs are dead quiet, and the gators stay away because the life there tastes all wrong.

For years you denied it, built bulwarks against it. You clung to solid things-- your airboat, your machete, your shotgun. But they're not near enough, because the swamp-folk are right. There IS something lurking out there. It was always there, waiting. For you.

From the mire of the deepest blackwater river, it calls to you in your own voice.

You're going home.

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