An Urban Legend from the Louisiana Bayou

They say if you’re out on the water past midnight, when the moon is a pale smear behind the clouds and the mosquitoes grow quiet, you might hear her: Emeline.

In the 1800s, she was just a girl from a tiny river parish, barefoot and curious, always chasing dragonflies and trouble. One summer evening, she wandered too far into the swamp, chasing little blue lights that danced beyond the treeline. Will-o’-the-wisps, the old folks said. 

Her mama called and called, but all that answered was the rustle of reeds and a strange, high giggle that made the dogs howl and cower.

They searched for days, finding only one tiny shoe sunk into the mud like a swallowed breath. They never found the girl.

Now, old fishermen swear they’ve heard her laughter, high, sweet, and cold as well water. It comes from deep under the moss-draped cypress, bouncing across the still water like a skipping stone. 

Some say they’ve seen her, too: a pale shape standing on the roots of a drowned tree, dress soaked and clinging like kelp, her eyes glowing like foxfire. Smiling.

Boats that drift too close to her vanish. Folks find them days later, upside down, tangled in Spanish moss and lily roots, their lanterns smashed, bait untouched.

The men are never found. Just a trail of bubbles and that distant, terrible laughter echoing through the cypress.

They say Emeline doesn’t want to be alone anymore. So, if you’re fishing after dark and hear a little girl giggle from the trees, don’t look.

And for the love of God, don’t follow the lights.