She was running. that shouldn't seem strange, because this girl loved to run, but you normally wouldn't expect to find her running through a swamp, in the dark, in a party dress. The dress was red, very tight, and short. She was petite, yet in spite of her diminutive stature, her legs were very long, and these carried her swiftly through the undergrowth.

It had all started out as a blind date. To say that the man was the worst sort of creep was a real understatement. He thought date-rape was a great idea. they had gone out to dinner and a show, and then, instead of driving her home, he had taken her to this remote location, and tried having his way with her.

As soon as she had broken free, she headed strait into the woods. The ground fell steeply away from the road, rapidly becoming waterlogged. She had turned back towards the road, but every time she came near high ground, he was waiting for her.

He had called to her in his southern cracker accent (she had thought it cute during dinner), "There used to be a prison 'round civil war times. They built it back in the swamp 'cause escaped prisoners couldn't get away. The swamp would take 'em! Don't you wanna come back up out of there now li'le missy?"

She most certainly did not.

Running. He had been running. It seemed now he had been running for years. During the disastrous final days of the war, the confederate army routed in defeat, he had been running, retreating with his men, trying to find them some haven of safety. And then had come the surrender to Union soldiers. The insults. The beatings. the harassment. Some of his men had actually been raped! When he could take no more, when his men could take no more, he had lashed out, and the Union commander had nearly died. Who would have believed you could nearly kill a man with a punch? His right fist had connected solidly with the Union officer's jaw, and his neck had nearly broken! They tried and convicted him, and instead of executing him, sent him to this place: a prison within a prison.

On her latest trip back up to the road, he had seen her, and now he too had descended into the underbrush in pursuit of his quarry. the adrenaline surged through her body. Her pulse roared in her ears. The soft, muddy ground had long ago taken her red pumps, (seventy dollars those shoes had cost her!) and now the undergrowth was catching in her hair, tearing at her dress, and till she ran.

She was a good runner. She trained three times a week. At one time she had wanted to be a dancer, but other interests diverted her; she loved the fitness though, and she stayed in shape. A woman in inferior physical condition would have succumbed already to the heat and humidity. It was like running in a moist sauna, her every breath like trying to pull air through a moist, heated blanket. Yet still she ran.

She could hear him behind her, was he gaining? Impossible! Some kind of bush caught at her dress. She slowed for a moment to disengage herself, and his hand reached into the small thicket for her. She tore free and plunged on, his fingers brushing her bare shoulder, catching on the strap of her dress.

Her heart hammered in her chest, panic seized her, she poured on the speed, and left him cussing, tangled in the same vegetation that had halted her. the undergrowth seemed to thin before her, opening up into a long bare stretch of sandy ground. She poured on still more speed, racing out onto the sandy path.

Her feet disappeared immediately, plunging into the damp ground to her calves. Her shear momentum continued to carry her forward, her legs churning up the wet sand all around her. the ground seemed to undulate and quiver beneath her, and roll away from her in a long slow wave towards the vegetation along the edges of the sand. She came to a halt as her knees began to slide beneath the surface. She tried to pick up one foot and take a step back, but her other leg only sank deeper into the sand. She once again knew panic, but nothing like what she had felt before. Then she could at least flee from her captor. She began to fight, attempting to tear her legs free, the sand quivering around her, rising up and down in long, slow waves, the level of the sand rising to her thighs. She froze as the hem of her dress began to bunch up on the sand.

Running. He had been running. But now he would run no more. Sweat poured down his face. His breath came in ragged gasps. The sun beat down mercilessly upon his exposed upper body. His tormentors waited. The trees stood silent watch forming a ring shaped perimeter around the bowl of low ground that would ultimately be his grave. It looked like his body was half buried to the waist in moss and forest litter, but beneath the leaves and moss was sand. Moist slippery sand grain incapable of supporting weight. He would run no more.

Quicksand. She was sinking in quicksand. She couldn't pull her legs free, that would only make her sink faster. She could call for help, but her only possible rescuer was Bubba the rapist thrashing around somewhere back in the underbrush. She began to look for anything she might catch onto, anything that she might use to pull herself free. As she attempted to shift her position to look around, she shifted her weight, and she sank deeper. The sand now held her by the upper thighs. the very thing that had drawn her to this stretch of ground, the openness and absence of vegetation, now foiled and seemed to mock her attempts at escape. Her left hand found a branch or root, growing out past the edge of the sand. She caught hold of it, and began pulling herself around to reach it with her other hand as well. The motion caused her to sink still further, almost up to her hips. She got her right hand around the root, and began to pull.

Growing weary of the heat, the mosquitoes, and their vigil, his tormentors apparently decided to end it. Many of them carried long poles to test the ground, saving themselves from the trap that now held him. Lying somewhat at a backwards angle in the sand, almost reclining, he lay motionless, almost in the center of a bowl shaped depression of low ground; really a pool, a mass of sand supported by an up-welling column of water. His tormentors, the prison guards sent out to hunt and capture him, now performed instead the function of his executioners. they reached out with their long poles, and began to beat him. With the first blow, he involuntarily flinched, and the motion caused him to sink. As they beat him, still others reached out with their poles, pushing against his shoulders and chest, pushing him deeper into the sand.

Even as the sand reached up to her thighs, she began to have an odd sensation, as if she were being...touched. As if somehow, the sand was holding her, and stroking her legs and thighs. It felt...obscene. As if this were some kind of exercise in bondage and molestation more repulsive than the one she had just sought escape from.

She pulled on the branch, the force of the pull leaning her forward in the sand. At first she did not gain any ground, the quicksand seeming to actually hold onto her legs, reluctant to release its victim. She had been sweating before from her headlong flight through the swamp, and now she was sweating from the effort to pull herself free. There were flecks of sand on her face and shoulders. She was now breathing heavily with the effort.

The odd feeling of being touched and held increased. There was a definite sense that her legs were bound, and being caressed by something. She redoubled her efforts to free herself, pulling still harder on the branch. Her near uncontrollable panic at the thought of being trapped with her pursuer only yards away, fighting off the fatigue that already caused her arms to shake from the continuous exertion of pulling on the root. As she pulled herself towards firm ground, she continued to sink, like some one who has caught hold of a rope while falling continues to fall as the rope swings them forward.

The sand approached her hips. As it reached and dampened her crotch, something...touched her. A sensation like a shock passed through her body, painful in its intensity, yet somehow pleasurable. That was more than she could take. Her fear exploded into blind panic. She hauled on the branch for all she was worth, trying to kick her legs as if she were swimming, frantic to pull herself free.

The branch seemed to pull towards her, and with one final, frantic tug, pulled free from the firm ground she so desperately sought. She plunged backward into the quicksand, and began hopelessly to scream and thrash about, sinking, driving herself ever deeper into the voracious morass.

Water. Coolness. Relief. He was momentarily disoriented. A wetness on his face. Heat. A merciless weight around his ribs making it impossible to breath. A blow to his face. The voices of his tormentors. Laughter. He had passed out under the onslaught of multiple abuses by both man and nature. The sand was beginning to close in around his chest, to reach over his shoulders. In order to breath, to draw breath, he had to displace an equal volume of wet sand to the volume of air he needed to breath. the sand felt like a cool moist vice around his ribs. His tormentors need only abandon him here, and he would eventually die of exhaustion and anoxia. But they were not content with this, so when he lost consciousness, they threw water in his face from their canteens to revive him, so they could resume the beating with their staves, and he would know they were pushing him under.

She was now in up to her waist, the sand somehow pushing her dress up as she continued to sink. It felt like someone, a lover, was slowly sliding her dress up over her waist in order to gain better access to the sensitive skin beneath.

She felt light-headed, her pulse hammered, she was hyper-ventilating, near fainting. The impossible feeling of being touched and held seemed to pause, and she began to catch her breath. She looked around again for some avenue of escape. Only a slight movement, and yet she felt herself slip a little deeper into the sand's moist embrace.

There was nothing she could do, nothing she could reach, only the sand all around her. She looked at the mire surrounding her waist, and shuddered. The sand shuddered around her, and again, something stroked her legs.

She exploded into tears, sobbing convulsively, pawing at the quicksand around her. The touch, the...hands, resumed their exploration of her submerged flesh.

Up on the road, a state trooper was investigating an abandoned car. It was very odd. The car was unlocked, the keys still in the ignition, and the motor was still warm. The undergrowth was trampled by the side of the road, as if there had been a brief struggle, and then there were tracks heading down into the swamp.

All the trooper could think was, "Oh no, not again!" He had seen this before. Some kids out for a not night, make out in the car, and then decide it would be real racy to screw in the "haunted swamp", oblivious to the real danger. He returned to his car to call for backup; nobody in his right mind went into that place alone.

The sand coated her arms to the elbows, patches of sand clung to her face, her neck and shoulders. Her tears formed little paths in the muck on her face. The sand's reach extended to her ribcage. Each inch of flesh that descended into the quagmire received the attentions of the unseen hands. She cried out in fear and frustration, no longer caring if the rapist was her only rescue, a tortured shriek of rage and terror. Again, the quicksand's impossible touch seemed to pause. For a moment, terror gave way to curiosity.

"What is this? I must be loosing my mind!" Who was she talking to? The bog? This was crazy!

The hands responded by starting at her toes, and with a long, slow wave of gentle pressure, working their way up her legs to her hips, her pelvis, and finally her ribs. She could not escape the feeling she was being embraced. With a final teasing, sensuous flourish, the wave of contact swept over her crotch, an impossible, erotic, kiss. Again, with the stimulation to her vagina, there was the feeling of, a shock, a jolt of electric pleasure, as if something had made direct contact with her nervous system.

With a convulsive intake of breath, she shook at the final touch, and settled a little deeper still in the mire's embrace.

No matter where he turned, the vegetation seemed to combat his progress. She had been here! He had almost caught her, and now he couldn't seem to find a clear path through the vegetation. As soon as he had torn free of that damned bush, he had followed her out of the thicket only to find, another thicket. He felt like he was being torn to shreds by a jungle with a mind of its own, and yet she had made it through this, how?

Something was definitely touching her sexual organs now. Something stroked her clitoris, she was stimulated with an intensity no human hand could have matched. She shuddered, the panic driven from her consciousness by an impossible sensation of mind-numbing sexual pleasure. The sand's seduction complete, she shook with it, and sank still further.

She was lost in a dream, held fast by a lover she did not know, now stroking her thighs, now kissing her waist, now devoting his full attention to the richness of her vagina. She rapidly came to violent, shuddering climax, her body writhing in the grip of the sand. She sank to her chest, and then as the sand touched her breasts, new sensations took her. Little cries escaped her lips. She continued to experience multiple orgasms, so fierce and powerful that her uterus cramped, and still the sensations, the stimulation continued, building in power and intensity.

He had again lost consciousness, and had momentarily dreamt of his wife, now long dead. The union soldiers had raped and beaten her to death, while pregnant with their unborn child. With the resumption of consciousness, came the knowledge of his final moments. There was no longer enough of his body above the level of the sand to strike with their poles, but it was no longer necessary to beat him in order for him to move. his struggles for breath were enough to ensure he would sink. As the sand touched his lips, he opened his mouth to call out to his wife with his final breath. They pushed with their poles, groping for his shoulders and upper body now submerged beneath the quicksand, and the final sound they heard was a gurgling shriek as the sand closed in over his mouth. The last thing he saw in this world, was the tip of the pole between his eyes, helping to push him under. As the darkness closed in, he again saw his wife.

The sand now reached over her breasts, filling in around her cleavage, and beginning to cover her shoulders. Her breath came in fitful gasps and cries, the weight, the pressure of he sand, now pressing in on her rib cage, making it difficult for her to breath. She was unaware of this; knowing only the feeling of being held tighter, bound and ravished by the ultimate lover. As the sand touched the base of her neck, she began to feel that all around her shoulders, her breasts, and now her neck, she was being kissed and stroked, sucked and nibbled, and she had still more orgasms with still greater intensity.

The man who had originally driven her into the swamp burst from the surrounding vegetation onto the scene. He had finally managed to follow first her screams, and then her cries of delight to this place. What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks. The woman was in up to her neck, and the sand...moved. She rode up and down in it, her head thrown back in rapture, her hair caught in the sand. She cried out and shuddered again in the grip of the quicksand, and he could not escape the impression of sexual ecstasy; that she was riding up and down on her lover's cock, screaming with delight.

The man turned and fled. He knew the legends of this place; that after the civil war a convicted confederate officer escaped from the nearby prison, and tried to evade capture in this swamp. Like all the others, the swamp took him. But shortly after that, the stories started; of how the swamp itself forced the closure of the prison. The prison guards would set loose the dogs to track an escapee, and no one, not the guards, not even the dogs, would be heard from again. "The swamp took 'em." Eventually this place came to bear the name of the confederate officer who now seemed a part of the swamp. The would-be rapist knew all of this, and fled with the knowledge that he had let his pursuit of the woman lure him here.

Her face began to disappear beneath the surface of the sand. She was panting, her face bathed in sweat. The sand touched her lips, and she opened her mouth to cry out with one final wave of ecstasy. The sand began to flow into her mouth, and she received the kiss she had been longing for. As the sand covered her ears, she heard a voice, a man, whispering her name, telling of his loneliness, his loss, and reassuring her that all would be well.

The man crashed through the undergrowth, trying to stay on the path that he had followed in through the swamp. Branches seemed to catch at and tear his clothes. He stumbled and fell. The mud caught at his shoes, and he lost one pulling his feet free. Nothing looked familiar. He was lost. He tried to reckon direction by listening for the sound of the girl's cries, but she had fallen silent. In here, a misstep could kill him, as it had undoubtedly already killed his intended victim. He avoided any inviting looking stretches of bare ground, believing those sections to pose the greatest danger. The vegetation, and the going, became still thicker and more difficult; as if the swamp was already resisting his efforts to flee, to lead him somewhere he could never escape from. He came out from between some trees and thick underbrush. A tree root caught his remaining shoe, tripping him. and he fell onto an area of low ground ringed by trees. The ground was covered by leaves and moss, and the softness of this forest litter his fall, of so he thought.

The ground here was very damp. He had fallen face first, and the front his clothes were instantly soaked. He tried to get up on his hands and knees, but they disappeared beneath the moss. He felt wet sand around his hands. He shifted his weight back onto his knees, and pulled his hands free. His legs sank beneath the surface up to his thighs. He began to clear away the litter of moss and leaves with his hands, and found sand. He began looking around for anything to hold onto, and even this motion was enough to cause him to sink. As he descended into the quicksand, a peculiar sensation began in his legs, like he was being...touched.

Up on the road, As more troopers arrived to form a search party, their ears were smitten by a blood curdling shriek. They heard a man's voice screaming for help, and throwing caution to the wind, raced over the side of the road into the swamp. There were ten of them with ropes, flashlights, and bloodhounds. They had no trouble finding the victim. He was in the middle of a clearing ringed by trees, and the sand had him. He was already in up to his shoulders, and he seemed to be in pain.

"Just work one of your hands free, and we'll throw you a rope. Stop struggling and catch the rope!"

The man was thrashing about in the sand, screaming something about it biting him, about being eaten alive. Even as they threw him the rope, his shoulders sank beneath the surface. He threw his head back, and voicing the most tortured scream any of them had ever heard, vomited forth great torrents of blood, as if he were suffering the most intense internal trauma. His head fell back on the sand, and he was still.

"My god! I think he's dead!"

"How the hell could he be dead with his head still above the sand?"

"Well I don't know, but doesn't it look like it...crushed him?"

The first trooper on the scene had taken charge of the search party, and he left four men with instructions to try and recover the body. Someone needed to identify this man and notify next of kin. He then took the rest to search for at least one more potential victim. He was sure there were at least two of them in the swamp, and the dogs were acting agitated, as if they had caught another scent.

They found her in a clearing, her legs partly submerged in the sand. Most of her body was on firm ground. There was a lot of vegetation near the edge of the sand, and she looked like she was being pillowed, almost cradled by it. At first they thought she had stepped into the quicksand, and been fortunate enough to fall backwards onto firm ground. But her dress, her arms and legs, her whole body, even most of her face and hair, was caked with sand; as if she had been in, almost to her eyes, and somehow gotten out.

They pulled her the rest of the way from the sand. She was unconscious, really in a deep sleep, but seemed no worse for whatever had happened to her. She could easily have lost her life, but the only things she seemed to be missing were her shoes, and oddly enough, her underwear.

Her companion was not so fortunate. It had eventually taken the efforts of all ten men to extract him from the sand, and they never got all of him. He had indeed been bitten. Sections of his body were actually chewed off. His torso was crushed, as if the sand had attempted to bite him in half.

As the search party prepared to leave the scene, there was a stirring, a breeze, a breath of freshness in the still and humid air; as if the swamp itself were sighing with satisfaction.

After all, after being dead a hundred years or so, even a ghost needs to dine and get laid.