The Thing in the Marsh — Ray Cummings

THERE were five of us on the dim moonlit verandah.

“If the Thing in the marsh is going to show itself at all,” John Blaine said, “well, this is the time of night they claim they've been seeing it.”

I had not seen the marsh before, by moonlight. From the verandah at the old Raleigh homestead, the ground went down a slight declivity to a fetid, ghastly marsh. It certainly was weird to look at.

Pools of stagnant, scum-laden water were slimy green in the moonlight. Between them the swamp was almost solid -- islands of green-black caked mud. Drooping trees stood at the edge of the swamp. Out in its center there were patches of ooze, soft as quicksand -- ooze where rotting vegetation, far down, had opened nostrils breathing out a fetid breath...