Chapter 1,
Savannah, Georgia — July 17, 1838
I know it sounds impossible:
A doctor from 1838 posting on Webnovel in 2025? I wish I could explain. But I need to tell this story, and maybe writing it here will make sense of something that happened long ago.
July 17, 1838. Something changed my life forever. I've told no one (not even the living) about it, and I'm terrified enough to write it down. If this is my confession, so be it.
My name is Doctor Ambrose Rowan. I was a young physician in Savannah. It was sweltering that July morning when I packed my bag and climbed into a carriage for a journey I already feared. My destination was a remote plantation deep in the Georgia swamps called the Crimson Cypress. The name was ominous, but I didn't yet know its horrors.
We left Savannah behind and crept along red-clay roads into the wilderness. By midday, the sun burned high and the air felt thick with humidity and decay. Something was wrong. The forest ahead—tall cypress trees draped in Spanish moss—was strangely silent. No birds sang. No cicadas droned. Only the carriage wheels and the occasional creak of a branch overhead.
It felt like the swamp itself was holding its breath. I gripped the sides of the carriage, heart pounding, expecting something to pounce from the shadows at any moment. The wheels crunched over dark soil, and I felt eyes on me: was that just my imagination? Probably. Yet a chill ran through the humid air, even though sweat was pouring down my neck. It was unnatural.
By late afternoon, we crossed a rickety wooden bridge over a sluggish bayou, water lilies floating beneath still cypress knees. The driver muttered about getting on faster before the wolves woke. Wolves? In Georgia? I didn't want to ask what he meant.
As twilight fell, we heard it: a low, rolling howling from somewhere in the mossy trees. It wasn't any dog I knew of, but long, mournful cries that echoed between the trunks. The horses snorted and fidgeted. My stomach clenched. A wind rose up, and the lantern's flame flickered dangerously.
I stared into the darkness and saw something flicker at the edge of vision. Probably a stray dog or coyote, I told myself. But the way those howls sliced through the air… I've never heard anything like it since.
When the carriage finally stopped, it was nearly midnight. We stood before the iron gates of the Crimson Cypress plantation. Tall stone pillars choked in vines, and beyond them I glimpsed a grand old mansion, its veranda wrapping around like skeletal arms. A single dim lantern burned on the porch.
I paid the driver and climbed out into the soft, muddy ground. The air smelled of swamp rot and woodsmoke. Each step toward the house was nearly silent, as if the earth welcomed me.
A woman appeared on the porch as if from the shadows. Her name was Julia, and she had been waiting. Even in the gloom I could tell she was beautiful in a haunting way—tall, with copper hair loosely pinned and wide gray eyes shining in the dim light. But her face was tense and hollow.
"Doctor Rowan?" she asked softly. Her voice cracked. I noticed her hands were pale and trembling.
"Yes," I said. "Doctor Ambrose Rowan. I'm here to help."
She didn't smile; relief washed over her face. "Thank God you're here. Please, quickly, before he wakes again."
She led me inside. The hallway was lit by flickering gas lamps, casting long shadows. Portraits of stern ancestors glared down at me from the walls. The air was thick with dust, cedar, and a metallic tang that turned my stomach.
"Samuel," Julia whispered, pushing open a door at the end of the hall. "Samuel's been ill, Doctor. So ill. The doctors said it was just a fever. But I know it's something more."
The candlelight revealed a tall young man lying on the bed. A thin sheet covered his chest, but it did little to hide what was wrong. Samuel's skin was ashen gray, his cheeks hollow. His dark hair was matted with sweat, and his left arm hung limp off the bed.
My medical instincts kicked in. "Julia, what are his symptoms? Does he have a fever? Any pain?"
She shook her head, tears glistening in her eyes. "No fever, doctor. He hasn't eaten in days. He won't drink. He barely sleeps. In the night, he hears things and screams, or sometimes laughs like a child. It's not normal. He's not the Samuel I knew."
It was unlike anything I'd ever seen. I approached carefully. The candlelight revealed his dark circles and gaunt face. I felt his wrist for a pulse. It throbbed, fluttering and irregular—as if a winged swamp creature had flown up into it.
"I… he's still alive?" I murmured. Julia just nodded, eyes wide. She pointed to a dark bruise at the base of his neck. When I moved a bit of his hair, I saw two small puncture wounds at its center.
"Doctor, what is it? Why is he like this?" Julia begged.
I had no comforting answer. I stepped back and took in the picture: the pale, almost cold skin, the strange sounds, those wounds. Outside, from somewhere in the swamp, a dog howled again—a sorrowful, terrible sound, as if it mourned what Sam had become.
"Doctor Rowan?" Julia pressed, face full of fear. "Is he… will he die?"
I swallowed. "I… I don't know," I stammered. "You said no fever. Let's see if there's any sign of infection or injury."
I ran my fingers gently along Sam's neck, feeling the welt around the punctures. Blood seeped from the wounds. My rational mind raced: could it be a rat bite? a venomous spider? The lesions looked old, though—older than tonight.
"He has bite marks," I said quietly. "But what kind of animal—" The words trailed off.
Julia shook her head frantically. "No animal could do this. This happened last night, doctor. He woke screaming, and there were… those howling sounds. He won't tell me what happened. He just mumbles a name, 'Marion' over and over."
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Who else was here last night? No one could have come this far. Only the two of you?"
She nodded. "Just me, and the servants—though none of them will cross the yard after dark. They say something terrible prowls here." She shuddered.
I studied her. She looked as frightened as I felt. I could have convinced myself Sam was dying of some strange fever, except for the teeth marks and his eyes. In the flickering candlelight, Sam's eyes had glinted a horrible shade of red for a moment. When he looked at me, it was like he no longer recognized me.
I knew I needed fresh air. "Miss Davenport, I need a moment outside to clear my head," I said.
She hesitated but stepped aside. I walked into the hallway and out onto the porch. The humid night air hit me in the face. I breathed deeply—tasting moss and woodsmoke. The howling had stopped, but every little rustle in the swamp made me jump.
Inside, the house was deathly quiet. I could hear a drip, a soft hiss—it was Sam's shallow breathing, I realized with a jolt.
My hands trembled. I forced myself to take a steadying breath. "There must be a rational cause," I muttered to the darkness. But a new howl answered somewhere beyond the gate, and I wasn't so sure anymore.
Julia's voice came from the doorway. "Doctor? Is everything all right?"
I turned to see her, candlelight outlining her worried face. I couldn't lie. "There is something very, very wrong," I whispered. "Something beyond my knowledge."
She looked relieved that I agreed—and fearful at the same time. "I know," she said quietly. "I felt it as soon as we left town. There's an evil here. I can feel it."
I wanted to tell her to run, to leave it all behind. But Sam needed help. I had a duty.
So I steeled myself. "We should rest for now. I'll examine Samuel again in the morning by daylight. Maybe fresh eyes—and some medicine—will help. It might just be a strange fever," I said, hoping I sounded convincing.
She nodded, hanging onto those words. "Thank you, Doctor," she whispered.
I showed Julia to a small guest room off the hall. The room was spare: a single iron bed, a wooden washstand. The wallpaper peeled at the corners, showing painted cypress trees with black trunks and red leaves so lifelike they seemed to move in the candlelight.
Julia reached into her bag and placed a dagger and two pistols on the bedside table. She gave me a look that said she wasn't taking any chances. I tried to smile. "I won't need those if I sleep well," I said, but even to myself it sounded hollow.
Later that night, long after Julia had left, I lay awake in that bed. The house was silent. All I could hear was the distant drip of water and the whisper of the swamp beyond the walls.
Then I heard it: a distant shriek, not of a wolf but of a human. It sounded like Sam's voice, distorted and torn. I bolted upright. There he was, at the window of his bedroom—a pale silhouette against the moonlight, chanting something unintelligible.
I bolted out of bed, throwing on my coat, and grabbed the oil lamp. "Julia! Samuel!" I shouted, running down the hall.
Two servants appeared, pale and shaking. They looked as drawn as Sam himself. They silently pointed toward Sam's door and backed away, too frightened to follow.
I pounded on the door. Julia flung it open and cried out. Sam was sitting up on the bed, head bowed, breathing ragged. On the mattress beside him lay scraps of torn linens as if bitten off.
He jolted upright suddenly, revealing his face under the lamp. It was like looking at a monster. His teeth had grown longer—sharp and pointed. A faint grin twisted on his lips. "Stay back," he rasped. His eyes burned a sickly burgundy.
Julia fell to her knees, pleading with him, but Sam ignored her.
I stepped forward, holding the lamp aloft. Sam turned slowly, and those eyes locked onto mine. They were not my friend's eyes.
A low, guttural moan escaped him—something hungry and feral. Julia screamed.
In that moment, lightning cracked outside. The lights went out. In the darkness I felt something brush my shoulder. I whirled—and there, just beyond my reach, was a tall shadowy figure. It stood in the doorway, long and gaunt, moving without a sound. I heard it whisper my name, or at least I think I did.
The air felt thick with copper and damp earth. The figure pointed at Samuel… or was it pointing at me? My head spun.
I felt frozen. Something about that presence made my skin crawl.
Then it spoke—or perhaps Sam's voice echoed through it: "You will stay."
I gasped and snapped back to reality. In the flash of lightning, the figure vanished. The lights came back. Julia was collapsed on the floor, crying. Sam slumped back onto the bed, eyes closed, unresponsive.
"Was I dreaming?" I muttered, but the hair on my neck still stood up. I had felt that hot breath.
Now the sun is rising on May 13, 2025—nearly two centuries later. I am an old man, but I remember that night as though it happened yesterday. I don't know why I am still alive to tell it, but I felt compelled to write this down. I can barely sleep, haunted by the memory.
It was only the beginning of the horror at Crimson Cypress. I hope you're not dismissing this as fiction. I swear it was real.
Even now, I feel something moving close by… as if it's only just begun.