Uselyss Eustace on the porch of his shack

The swamp was still that night — too still. No frogs, no insects, just the slow drip of water from the cypress knees. Uselyss Eustace sat on the porch of his shack, lantern guttering in the damp air, when he felt it: a low vibration through the wood beneath his boots.

It wasn’t the rumble of a gator or the churn of a boat motor. This was deeper, like the earth itself was humming.

@paulie The other swamp song: https://suno.com/s/9HqTqNjvsBWe7pWp ↗️