I’ve seen enough madmen in my time to say this: the man who told me his tale was no lunatic.

Barefoot and dressed in filthy rags, a beggar was pleading for alms by the inn door, muttering nonsense under his breath. I asked the barmaid for a bottle of rum and two cups, filled one, and offered it to him. With trembling hands he tossed it back like water and asked for more. I poured again—and listened…

There were ten of them: those who dared hunt treasure among ancient graves in the Swamps. The rest were frightened by talk of a curse—and they were right to be. Nine stayed there forever.

They truly did find gold in the ruins. Rejoicing like children, they spent the day hauling gemstones from stone chests until sundown. They decided to camp in the Swamps for the night.

And in the night, the trees began to move.

From the mire rose a great mass of earth and knotted roots. Human limbs dangled from within it. With a single sweep of its wooden arm it crushed two at once; three more fled in terror straight into the bog. The remaining five ran for the shore and stopped only when the crashing behind them fell silent. At that very moment, hundreds of sharp wooden spikes burst from the ground and punched through their bodies.

Only one man tore his wounded arm free of that deadly grip. He ran and ran until he collapsed on the sand from exhaustion…

Tonight I’ll sleep under the roof of these ancient ruins. Let my things remain outside—safer in a chest beneath the tree marked with a red cloth.

I didn’t take the dead men’s treasure, so I dare hope the guardians of this place won’t touch me—assuming they aren’t merely the invention of a sick mind.

— from the diary of Alexandre Exquemelin, traveler