(From the Lost Records of the Sinners Society, Vol. II – 1836)
> "There are things in the swamps that do not breathe, yet hunger. The Choctaw call them Lusa Falaya—the Long Shadows. I have seen one rise."
— Field entry of Efa Chukma, Hatak Lusa
---
I. The Swamp Remembers
The Mississippi lowlands in 1836 were a kingdom of fog. Cypress trees towered like the ribs of drowned titans, and the air reeked of iron, peat, and slow decay. Those who fled the Choctaw removals whispered of a curse spreading with the waters—dead things walking under the veil of night.
Efa Chukma, the last of the Hatak Lusa, knew what they were. She had been trained to hunt them long before her people were scattered westward. Her weapons were simple: a rifle inscribed with holy marks, bullets of silver and cedar, and a knife forged from fallen star-iron.
For three nights, she followed the trail of the vanished trading post. The air grew colder the closer she drew to the old burial mound—the one the elders swore should never be broken. When she found it split open, bleeding mud and black water, she knew something had been unearthed that did not wish to be forgotten.
---
II. The Long Shadow Wakes
The swamp grew still as she approached. Even the frogs refused to sing. Then came a sound like whispering through teeth.
A figure rose from the cracked mound—tall, gray-skinned, eyes glowing like hot coals. It wore the ruined remains of a Spanish officer's coat, the cross on its chest melted into the shape of a fang.
"I remember your kind," it said in a voice both human and ancient. "You fed me earth and silence. Now you will feed me blood."
Efa's hands were steady. She whispered an old prayer and pulled the trigger. The rifle cracked like thunder. Smoke curled from the creature's chest, but it only smiled, lips split by too many teeth.
"You think faith burns hotter than hunger?"
It lunged—faster than thought, heavier than air. The skiff shattered beneath her as they plunged into the black water. Efa drew her knife, the iron glowing faintly under the blood moon. They fought between the roots, splashing mud and crimson light. The vampire's strength was terrible, but its pride was older still.
When it seized her wrist, she went limp—then drove the blade upward into its skull. The creature's scream tore through the swamp. Its flesh burned from within, turning to ash that glowed like dying fireflies.
---
III. The River Drinks
When dawn broke, Efa knelt among the cypress knees, breath ragged, eyes hollow. She watched as the ashes drifted downriver, darkening the water.
"You think you kill me," came the whisper from nowhere, "but you only set me free."
The blood in the river began to move—not sink, but flow, spreading toward the settlements along the banks.
Efa reloaded her rifle. Her reflection stared back, marked by mud and something older than fear. She understood now: the vampire was no single beast. It was a hunger born of every grave disturbed, every oath broken, every greed-fed shovel that had pierced sacred earth.
She pushed her skiff into the mist again, following the crimson current.
---
IV. The Final Note (Recovered 1872)
> Report by J. Calhoun, Sinners Society Archivist:
"This entry was found among the possessions of an exorcist in Natchez. No records of an Efa Chukma exist past 1836.
Local settlers still tell of a Choctaw woman who walks the rivers under the moon, bearing a silver rifle and a blade of stars. They say she hunts the blood that hunts men. They say she has never aged."
If true, then she still guards the Black Cypress Swamp. God help whatever she's hunting now.