The Mire

Bent, burdened trees choked the light filtering into the swamp; an uneasy foul mist hovered menacingly over the lagoons.  The stench was undeniable, released by sporadic bubbles on the surface of the viscous pools.  There was no path; only rabbit runs between the brush and hoof prints in the mud.  A shack occupied one small tract jutting into one of the foul pools, thick smoke issuing from the crooked chimney only intensifying the filth of the mire.  A soft song rose from the shack, haunting the environs with its raspy, intoxicating croon.  Nobody visited Grandmother Nass unless they had to.