Waterlogged Figures

The air hung thick and humid, a palpable blanket woven from the recent downpour and the breath of the ancient Ozark forest. Jennifer swiped a bead of sweat from her brow, the rough fabric of her shirt clinging uncomfortably to her skin. Even the midday sun, struggling to pierce the dense canopy, offered little respite. Beside her, Tara traced the bark of a towering oak, her fingers moving with a slow, deliberate grace that always both fascinated and unnerved Jennifer.

“They’re seeing them again,” Tara murmured, her voice barely disturbing the quiet. “The figures.”

Jennifer’s gaze swept the dense undergrowth, the tangled vines and moss-laden branches that hemmed them in. She’d heard the hushed whispers from the few locals brave enough to venture near the river’s edge since the water had begun its slow recede, revealing the spectral outline of the church. Tales of shadowy forms, gaunt and dripping, lurking just beyond the periphery of vision. Waterlogged figures. It sounded like something out of a penny dreadful, a ghost story spun to frighten children. Yet, the unease radiating from Tara, a subtle tremor in her usually steady aura, was anything but childish.