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R.L. Stine

THE WEREWOLF OF FEVER SWAMP

 

Goosebumps - 14

R.L. Stine

(An Undead Scan v1.5)


 

 

We moved to Florida during Christmas vacation. A week later, I heard the frightening howls in the swamp for the first time.

Night after night, the howls made me sit up in bed. I would hold my breath and wrap my arms around myself to keep from shivering.

I would stare out my bedroom window at the chalk-colored full moon. And I would listen.

What kind of creature makes such a cry? I would ask myself.

And how close is it? Why does it sound as if it’s right outside my window?

The wails rose and fell like police car sirens. They weren’t sad or mournful. They were menacing.

Angry.

They sounded to me like a warning. Stay out of the swamp. You do not belong here.

When my family first moved to Florida, to our new house at the edge of the swamp, I couldn’t wait to explore. I stood in the back yard with the binoculars my dad had given me for my twelfth birthday and gazed toward the swamp.

Trees with slender, white trunks tilted over each other. Their flat, broad leaves appeared to form a roof, covering the swamp floor in blue shadow.

Behind me, the deer paced uneasily in their wire-mesh pen. I could hear them pawing the soft, sandy ground, rubbing their antlers against the walls of their pen.

Lowering my binoculars, I turned to look at them. The deer were the reason we had moved to Florida.

You see, my dad, Michael F. Tucker, is a scientist. He works for the University of Vermont in Burlington, which, believe me, is a long way from the Florida swamps!

Dad got these six deer from some country in South America. They’re called swamp deer. They’re not like regular deer. I mean, they don’t look like Bambi. For one thing, their fur is very red, not brown. And their hooves are really big and kind of webbed. For walking on wet, swampy ground, I guess.

Dad wants to see if these South American swamp deer can survive in Florida. He plans to put little radio transmitters on them, and set them free in the swamp. Then he’ll study how they get along.

When he told us back in Burlington that we were moving to Florida because of the deer, we all totally freaked. We didn’t want to move.

My sister, Emily, cried for days. She’s sixteen, and she didn’t want to miss her senior year in high school. I didn’t want to leave my friends, either.

But Dad quickly got Mom on his side. Mom is a scientist, too. She and Dad work together on a lot of projects. So, of course, she agreed with him.

And the two of them tried to persuade Emily and me that this was the chance of a lifetime, that it was going to be really exciting. An adventure we’d never forget.

So here we were, living in a little white house in a neighborhood of four or five other little white houses. We had six weird-looking red deer penned up behind the house. The hot Florida sun was beaming down. And an endless swamp stretched beyond our flat, grassy back yard.

I turned away from the deer and raised the binoculars to my face. “Oh,” I cried out as two dark eyes seemed to be staring back at me.

I pulled the binoculars away and squinted toward the swamp. In the near distance I saw a large white bird on two long, spindly legs.

“It’s a crane,” Emily said. I hadn’t realized Emily had stepped up beside me. She was wearing a sleeveless white T-shirt and short red denim shorts. My sister is tall and thin and very blonde. She looks a lot like a crane.

The bird turned and began high-stepping toward the swamp.

“Let’s follow it,” I said.

Emily made her pouting face, an expression we’d all seen a lot of since moving down here. “No way. It’s too hot.”

“Aw, come on.” I tugged her skinny arm. “Let’s do some exploring, check out the swamp.”

She shook her head, her white-blonde ponytail swinging behind her. “I really don’t want to, Grady.” She adjusted her sunglasses on her nose. “I’m kind of waiting for the mail.”

Since we’re so far from the nearest post office, we only get mail two times a week. Emily had been spending most of her time waiting for the mail.

“Waiting for a love letter from Martin?” I asked with a grin. She hated when I teased her about Martin, her boyfriend back in Burlington. So I teased her as often as I could.

“Maybe,” she said. She reached out with both hands and messed up my hair. She knows I hate to have my hair messed up.

“Please?” I pleaded. “Come on, Emily. Just a short walk. Very short.”

“Emily, take a short walk with Grady,” Dad’s voice broke in. We turned to see him inside the deer pen. He had a clipboard in one hand and was going from deer to deer, taking notes. “Go ahead,” he urged my sister. “You’re not doing anything else.”

“But, Dad—” Emily could whine with the best of them when she wanted.

“Go ahead, Em,” Dad insisted. “It will be interesting. More interesting than standing around in the heat arguing with him.”

Emily pushed the sunglasses up again. They kept slipping down her nose. “Well…”

“Great!” I cried. I was really excited. I’d never been in a real swamp before. “Let’s go!” I grabbed my sister’s hand and pulled.

Emily reluctantly followed, a fretful expression on her face. “I have a bad feeling about this,” she muttered.

My shadow slanting behind me, I hurried toward the low, tilting trees. “Emily, what could go wrong?” I asked.


 

 

It was hot and wet under the trees. The air felt sticky against my face. The broad palm leaves were so low, I could almost reach up and touch them. They nearly blocked out the sun, but shafts of yellow light broke through, beaming down on the swamp floor like spotlights.

Scratchy weeds and fern leaves brushed against my bare legs. I wished I’d worn jeans instead of shorts. I kept close to my sister as we made our way along a narrow, winding trail. The binoculars, strapped around my neck, began to feel heavy against my chest. I should’ve left them at home, I realized.

“It’s so noisy here,” Emily complained, stepping over a decaying log.

She was right. The most surprising thing about the swamp was all the sounds.

A bird trilled from somewhere above. Another bird replied with a shrill whistle. Insects chittered loudly all around us. I heard a steady tap-tap-tap, like someone hammering on wood. A woodpecker? Palm leaves crackled as they swayed. Slender tree trunks creaked. My sandals made thup thup sounds, sinking into the marshy ground as I walked.

“Hey, look,” Emily said, pointing. She pulled off her dark glasses to see better.

We had come to a small, oval-shaped pond. The water was dark green, half-hidden in shade. Floating on top were white water lilies, bending gracefully over flat, green lily pads.

“Pretty,” Emily said, brushing a bug off her shoulder. “I’m going to come back here with my camera and take pictures of this pond. Look at the great light.”

I followed her gaze. The near end of the pond was darkened by long shadows. But light slanted down through the trees at the other end, forming what looked like a bright curtain that spilled into the still pond water.

“It is kind of cool,” I admitted. I wasn’t really into ponds. I was more interested in wildlife.

I let Emily admire the pond and the water lilies a little longer. Then I headed around the pond and deeper into the swamp.

My sandals slapped over the wet ground. Up ahead, a swarm of tiny gnats, thousands of them, danced silently in a shaft of sunlight.

“Yuck,” Emily muttered. “I hate gnats. It makes me itchy just to look at them.” She scratched her arms.

We turned away—and both saw something scamper behind a fallen, moss-covered log.

“Hey—what was that?” Emily cried, grabbing my elbow.

“An alligator!” I shouted. “A hungry alligator!”

She uttered a short, frightened cry.

I laughed. “What’s your problem, Em? It was just some kind of lizard.”

She squeezed my arm hard, trying to make me flinch. “You’re a creep, Grady,” she muttered. She scratched her arms some more. “It’s too itchy in this swamp,” she complained. “Let’s head back.”

“Just a little bit farther,” I pleaded.

“No. Come on. I really want to get back.” She tried to pull me, but I backed out of her grasp. “Grady—”

I turned and started walking away from her, deeper into the swamp. I heard the tap-tap-tap again, directly overhead. The low palm leaves scraped against each other, shifting in a soft, wet breeze. The shrill cluttering of the insects grew louder.

“I’m going home and leaving you here,” Emily threatened.

I ignored her and kept walking. I knew she was bluffing.

My sandals crackled over dried, brown palm leaves. Without turning around, I could hear Emily a few steps behind me.

Another little lizard scampered across the path, just in front of my sandals. It looked like a dark arrow, shooting into the underbrush.

The ground suddenly sloped upward. We found ourselves climbing a low hill into bright sunlight. A clearing of some sort.

Beads of sweat ran down my cheeks. The air was so wet, I felt as if I were swimming.

At the top of the hill, we stopped to look around. “Hey—another pond!” I cried, running over fat, yellow swamp grass, hurrying up to the water’s edge.

But this pond looked different.

The dark green water wasn’t flat and smooth. Leaning over it, I could see that it was murky and thick, like split-pea soup. It made disgusting gurgling and plopping sounds as it churned.

I leaned down closer to get a better look.

“It’s quicksand!” I heard Emily cry in horror.

And then two hands shoved me hard from behind.


 

 

As I started to fall into the bubbling green stew, the same hands grabbed my waist and pulled me back.

Emily giggled. “Gotcha!” she cried, holding on to me, keeping me from turning around and slugging her.

“Hey—let go!” I cried angrily. “You almost pushed me into quicksand! That’s not funny!”

She laughed some more, then let me go. “It isn’t quicksand, dork,” she muttered. “It’s a bog.”

“Huh?” I turned to stare into the gloppy green water.

“It’s a bog. A peat bog,” she repeated impatiently. “Don’t you know anything?”

“What’s a peat bog?” I asked, ignoring her insults. Emily the Know-It-All. She’s always bragging about how she knows everything and I’m a stupid clod. But she gets B’s in school, and I get A’s. So who’s the smart one?

“We learned about this last year when we studied the wetlands and rain forests,” she replied smugly. “The pond is thick because it has peat moss growing in it. The moss grows and grows. It absorbs twenty-five times its own weight in water.”

“It’s gross-looking,” I said.

“Why don’t you drink some and see how it tastes,” she urged.

She tried to push me again, but I ducked and skirted away. “I’m not thirsty,” I muttered. I realize it wasn’t too clever, but it was the best reply I could think of.

“Let’s get going,” she said, wiping sweat off her forehead with her hand. “I’m really hot.”

“Yeah. Okay,” I reluctantly agreed. “This was a pretty neat walk.”

We turned away from the peat bog and started back down the hill. “Hey, look!” I cried, pointing to two black shadows floating high above us under a white cloud.

“Falcons,” Emily said, shielding her eyes with one hand as she gazed up. “I think they’re falcons. It’s hard to see. They sure are big.”

We watched them soar out of sight. Then we continued down the hill, making our way carefully on the damp, sandy ground.

At the bottom of the hill, back under the deep shade of the trees, we stopped to catch our breath.

I was really sweating now. The back of my neck felt hot and itchy. I rubbed it with one hand, but it didn’t seem to help.

The breeze had stopped. The air felt heavy. Nothing moved.

Loud cawing sounds made me glance up. Two enormous blackbirds peered down at us from a low branch of a cypress tree. They cawed again, as if telling us to go away.

“This way,” Emily said with a sigh.

I followed her, feeling prickly and itchy all over. “I wish we had a swimming pool at our new house,” I said. “I’d jump right in with my clothes on!”

We walked for several minutes. The trees grew thicker. The light grew dimmer. The path ended. We had to push our way through tall, leafy ferns.

“I—I don’t think we’ve been here before,” I stammered. “I don’t think this is the right way.”

We stared at each other, watching each other’s face fill with fright.

We both realized we were lost. Completely lost.


 

 

“I don’t believe this!” Emily shrieked.

Her loud shout made the two blackbirds flutter off their tree limb. They soared away, cawing angrily.

“What am I doing here?” she cried. Emily is not good in emergencies. When she got a flat tire during one of her first driving lessons back home in Burlington, she jumped out of the car and ran away!

So I didn’t exactly expect her to be calm and cool now. Since we were totally lost in the middle of a dark, hot swamp, I expected her to panic. And she did.

I’m the calm one in the family. I take after Dad. Cool and scientific. “Let’s just figure out the direction of the sun,” I said, ignoring the fluttering in my chest.

“What sun?” Emily cried, throwing her hands up.

It was really dark. The palm trees with their wide leaves formed a pretty solid roof above us.

“Well, we could check out some moss,” I suggested. The fluttering in my chest was growing stronger. “Isn’t moss supposed to grow on the north side of trees?”

“East side, I think,” Emily muttered. “Or is it the west?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s the north,” I insisted, gazing around.

“Pretty sure? What good is pretty sure?” Emily cried shrilly.

“Forget the moss,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’m not even sure what moss looks like.”

We stared at each other for a long time.

“Didn’t you used to carry a compass with you wherever you went?” Emily asked, sounding a little shaky.

“Yeah. When I was four,” I replied.

“I can’t believe we were so stupid,” Emily wailed. “We should have worn one of the radio transmitters. You know. For the deer. Then Dad could track us down.”

“I should have worn jeans,” I muttered, noticing some tiny red bumps along my calf. Poison ivy? Some kind of rash?

“What should we do?” Emily asked impatiently, wiping sweat off her forehead with her hand.

“Go back up the hill, I guess,” I told her. “There were no trees there. It was sunny. Once we see where the sun is, we can figure out the direction to get back.”

“But which way is the hill?” Emily demanded.

I spun around. Was it behind us? To our right? A cold chill ran down my back as I realized I wasn’t sure.

I shrugged. “We’re really lost,” I murmured with a sigh.

“Let’s go this way,” Emily said, starting to walk away. “I just have a feeling this is the way. If we come to that bog, we’ll know we’re going right.”

“And if we don’t?” I demanded.

“We’ll come to something else, maybe,” she replied.

Brilliant.

But I didn’t see any good in arguing with her. So I followed.

We walked in silence, the shrill ringing of the insects on all sides, the calls of birds startling us from above. After a short while, we pushed our way through a clump of tall, stiff reeds.

“Have we been here before?” Emily asked.

I couldn’t remember. I pushed a reed away to step through and realized it had left something sticky on my hand. “Yuck!”

“Hey, look!” Emily’s excited cry made me glance up from the sticky green gunk that clung to my hand.

The bog! It was right in front of us. The same bog we had stopped at before.

“Yay!” Emily cried. “I knew I was right. I just had a feeling.”

The sight of the gurgling green pond cheered us both up. Once past it, we began to run. We knew we were on the right path, nearly home.

“Way to go!” I cried happily, running past my sister. “Way to go!”

I was feeling really good again.

Then something reached up, grabbed my ankle, and pulled me down to the swampy ground.


 

 

I hit the ground hard, landing on my elbows and knees.

My heart leapt into my mouth.

I tasted blood.

“Get up! Get up!” Emily was screaming.

“It—it’s got me!” I cried in a tight, trembling voice.

The fluttering in my chest had become a pounding. Again, I tasted blood.

I raised my eyes to see Emily laughing.

Laughing?

“It’s just a tree root,” she said, pointing.

I followed the direction of her finger—and instantly realized I hadn’t been pulled down. I had tripped over one of the many upraised tree roots that arched over the ground.

I stared at the bonelike root. It was bent in the middle and looked like a skinny, white leg.

But what was the blood I tasted?

I felt my aching lip. I had bitten it when I fell.

With a loud groan, I pulled myself to my feet. My knees ached. My lip throbbed. Blood trickled down my chin.

“That was pretty clumsy,” Emily said softly. And then she added, “Are you okay?” She brushed some dried leaves off the back of my T-shirt.

“Yeah, I guess,” I replied, still feeling a little shaky. “I really thought something had grabbed me.” I forced a laugh.

She rested a hand on my shoulder, and we started walking again, slower than before, side by side.

Slender beams of light poked down through the thick tree leaves, dotting the ground in front of us. It all looked unreal, like something in a dream.

Some creature scampered noisily behind the tangle of low shrubs at our right. Emily and I didn’t even turn to try to see it. We just wanted to get home.

It didn’t take us long to realize we were headed in the wrong direction.

We stopped at the edge of a small, round clearing. Birds chattered noisily above us. A light breeze made the palm leaves scrape and creak.

“What are those huge gray things?” I asked, lingering behind my sister.

“Mushrooms, I think,” she replied quietly.

“Mushrooms as big as footballs,” I murmured.

We both saw the small shack at the same time.

It was hidden in the shadow of two low cypress trees beyond the field of giant mushrooms at the other side of the clearing.

We both gaped at it in surprise, studying it in shocked silence. We took a few steps toward it. Then a few more.

The shack was tiny, built low to the ground, not much taller than me. It had some kind of thatched roof, made of long reeds or dried grass. The walls were made of layers of dried palm leaves.

The door, built of slender tree limbs bound together, was shut tight. There were no windows.

A pile of gray ashes formed a circle a few yards from the door. Signs of a campfire.

I saw a pair of battered, old workboots lying at the side of the shack. Beside them were several empty tin cans on their sides and a plastic water bottle, also empty, partly crumpled.

I turned to Emily and whispered, “Do you think someone lives here? In the middle of the swamp?”

She shrugged, her features tight with fear.

“If someone lives here, maybe he can tell us which way to go to get home,” I suggested.

“Maybe,” Emily murmured. Her eyes were straight ahead on the tiny shack covered in blue shadow.

We took another couple of steps closer.

Why would someone want to live in a tiny shack like this in the middle of a swamp? I wondered.

An answer flashed into my mind: Because whoever it is wants to hide from the world.

“It’s a hideout,” I muttered, not realizing I was speaking out loud. “A criminal. A bank robber. Or a killer. He’s hiding here.”

“Sshhh.” Emily put a finger on my mouth to silence me, hitting the cut on my lip. I pulled away.

“Anyone home?” she called. Her voice came out low and shaky, so low I could barely hear her. “Anyone home?” she repeated, a little more forcefully.

I decided to join in. We shouted together: “Anyone home? Anyone in there?”

We listened.

No reply.

We stepped up to the low door.

“Anyone in there?” I called one more time.

Then I reached for the doorknob.


 

 

Just as I was about to pull open the crude wooden door, it swung out, nearly hitting us both. We leapt back as a man burst out from the dark doorway of the hut.

He glared at us with wild black eyes. He had long, gray-white hair, down past his shoulders, tied behind him in a loose ponytail.

His face was bright red, sunburned, maybe. Or maybe red from anger. He stared at us with a menacing scowl, standing bent over, stooped from being inside the low hut.

He wore a loose-fitting white T-shirt, dirt-stained and wrinkled, over heavy black trousers that bagged over his sandals.

As he glared at us with those amazing black eyes, his mouth opened, revealing rows of jagged yellow teeth.

Huddling close to my sister, I took a step back.

I wanted to ask him who he was, why he lived in the swamp. I wanted to ask if he could help us find our way back home.

A dozen questions flashed through my mind.

But all I could utter was, “Uh… sorry.”

Then I realized that Emily was already running away. Her ponytail flew behind her as she dived through the tall weeds.

And a second later, I was running after her. My heart pounded. My sandals squished over the soft ground.

“Hey, Emily—wait up! Wait up!”

I ran over the rough carpet of dead leaves and twigs.

As I struggled to catch up to her, I glanced behind me—and cried out in terror. “Emily—he’s chasing us!”


 

 

Bent low to the ground, the man from the hut moved steadily after us, taking long strides. His hands bobbed at his sides. He was breathing hard, and his mouth was open, revealing the jagged teeth.

“Run!” Emily cried. “Run, Grady!”

We were following a narrow path between tall weeds. The trees thinned out. We ran through shadow and sunlight and back into shadow.

“Emily—wait up!” I called breathlessly. But she didn’t slow down.

A long, narrow pond appeared to our left. Strange trees lifted up from the middle of the water. The slender trunks were surrounded by a thicket of dark roots. Mangrove trees.

I wanted to stop and look at the eerie-looking trees. But this wasn’t the time for sightseeing.

We ran along the edge of the pond, our sandals sinking into the marshy ground. Then, my chest heaving, my throat choked and dry, I followed Emily as the path curved into the trees.

A sharp pain in my side made me cry out. I stopped running. I gasped for breath.

“Hey—he’s gone,” Emily said, swallowing hard. She stopped a few yards ahead of me and leaned against a tree trunk. “We lost him.”

I bent over, trying to force away the pain in my side. After a short while, my breathing slowed to normal. “Weird,” I said. I couldn’t think of anything else.

“Yeah. Weird,” Emily agreed. She walked back to me and pulled me up straight. “You okay?”

“I guess.” At least the pain had faded away. I always get a pain in my right side when I run a long time. This one was worse than usual. I usually don’t have to run for my life!

“Come on,” Emily said. She let go of me and started walking quickly, following the path.

“Hey, this looks familiar,” I said. I began to feel a little better. I started to jog. We passed clusters of trees and ferns that looked familiar. I could see our footprints in the sandy ground, going the other way.

A short while later, our back yard came into view. “Home sweet home!” I cried.

Emily and I stepped out from the low trees and began running across the grass toward the back of the house.

Mom and Dad were in the back yard setting up outdoor furniture. Dad was lowering an umbrella into the white umbrella table. Mom was washing off the white lawn chairs with the garden hose.

“Hey—welcome back,” Dad said, smiling.

“We thought you got lost,” Mom said.

“We did!” I cried breathlessly.

Mom turned off the nozzle, stopping the spray of water. “You what?”

“A man chased us!” Emily exclaimed. “A strange man with long white hair.”

“He lives in a hut. In the middle of the swamp,” I added, dropping down into one of the lawn chairs. It was wet, but I didn’t care.

“Huh? He chased you?” Dad’s eyes narrowed in alarm. Then he said, “I heard in town there’s a swamp hermit out there.”

“Yes, he chased us!” Emily repeated. Her normally pale face was bright red. Her hair had come loose and fell wildly around her face. “It—it was scary.”

“A guy in the hardware store told me about him,” Dad said. “Said he was strange, but perfectly harmless. No one knows his name.”

“Harmless?” Emily cried. “Then why did he chase us?”

Dad shrugged. “I’m only repeating what I heard. Evidently he’s lived in the swamp most of his life. By himself. He never comes to town.”

Mom dropped the hose and walked over to Emily. She placed a hand on Emily’s shoulder. In the bright sunlight, they looked like sisters. They’re both tall and thin, with long, straight blonde hair. I look more like my dad. Wavy brown hair. Dark eyes. A little chunky.

“Maybe they shouldn’t go back in the swamp by themselves,” Mom said, biting her lower lip fretfully. She started to gather Emily’s hair back up into a ponytail.

“The hermit is supposed to be completely harmless,” Dad repeated. He was still struggling to lower the umbrella into the concrete base. Every time he lowered it, he missed the opening.

“Here, Dad. I’ll help you.” I scooted under the table and guided the umbrella stem into the base.

“Don’t worry,” Emily said. “You won’t catch me back in that swamp.” She scratched both shoulders. “I’m going to be itchy for the rest of my life!” she groaned.

“We saw a lot of neat things,” I said, starting to feel normal again. “A peat bog and mangrove trees…”

“I told you this was going to be an experience,” Dad said, arranging the white chairs around the table.

“Some experience,” Emily grumbled, rolling her eyes. “I’m going in to take a shower. Maybe if I stay in it for an hour or so, I’ll stop itching.”

Mom shook her head, watching Emily stomp toward the back door. “This is going to be a hard year for Em,” she muttered.

Dad wiped his dirty hands on the sides of his jeans. “Come with me, Grady,” he said, motioning for me to follow him. “Time to feed the deer.”

 

We talked more about the swamp at dinner. Dad told us stories about how they hunted and trapped the swamp deer that he was using for his experiment.

Dad and his helpers searched the South American jungles for weeks. They used tranquilizer guns to capture the deer. Then they had to bring in helicopters to pull the deer out, and the deer were not too happy about flying.

“The swamp you two were exploring this afternoon,” he said, twirling his spaghetti. “Know what it’s called? Fever Swamp. That’s what the local people call it, anyway.”

“Why?” Emily asked. “Because it’s so hot in there?”

Dad chewed and swallowed a mouthful of spaghetti. He had orange splotches of tomato sauce on both sides of his mouth. “I don’t know why it’s called Fever Swamp. But I’m sure we’ll find out eventually.”

“It was probably discovered by a guy named Mr. Fever,” Mom joked.

“I want to go home to Vermont!” Emily wailed.

 

After dinner, I found myself feeling a little homesick, too. I took a tennis ball out to the back of the house. I thought maybe I could bounce it off the wall and catch it the way I had done back home.

But the deer pen was in the way.

I thought about my two best friends back in Burlington, Ben and Adam. We had lived on the same block and used to hang out after dinner. We’d throw a ball around or walk down to the playground and just mess around.

Staring at the deer, who milled silently at one end of the pen, I realized I really missed my friends. I wondered what they were doing right now. Probably hanging out in Ben’s back yard.

Feeling glum, I was about to go back inside and see what was on TV—when a hand grabbed me from behind.

The swamp hermit!


 

 

He found me!

The swamp hermit found me! And now he’s got me!

Those are the thoughts that burst into my mind.

I spun around—and uttered a startled cry when I saw that it wasn’t the swamp hermit. It was a boy.

“Hi,” he said. “I thought you saw me. I didn’t mean to scare you.” He had a funny voice, gravelly and hoarse.

“Oh. Uh… that’s okay,” I stammered.

“I saw you in your yard,” he said. “I live over there.” He pointed to the house two doors down. “You just moved in?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I’m Grady Tucker.” I slapped the tennis ball into my hand. “What’s your name?”

“Will. Will Blake,” he said in his hoarse voice. He was about my height, but he was heavier, bigger somehow. His shoulders were broader. His neck was thicker. He reminded me of a football lineman.

He had dark brown hair, cut very short. It stood straight up on top, like a flattop, and was swept back on the sides. He wore a blue-and-white-striped T-shirt and denim cutoffs.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Twelve,” I answered.

“Me, too,” he told me, glancing over my shoulder at the deer. “I thought maybe you were eleven. I mean, you look kind of young.”

I was insulted by that remark, but I decided to ignore it. “How long have you lived here?” I asked, tossing the tennis ball from hand to hand.

“A few months,” Will said.

“Are there any other kids our age?” I asked, glancing down the row of six houses.

“Yeah. One,” Will replied. “But she’s a girl. And she’s kind of weird.”

In the distance, the sun was lowering itself behind the swamp trees. The sky was a dark scarlet. The air suddenly became cooler. Gazing high in the sky, I could see a pale moon, nearly full.

Will headed over to the deer pen, and I followed him. He walked heavily, his big shoulders bobbing with each step. He poked his hand through the wire mesh and let a deer lick his palm.

“Your father works for the Forest Service, too?” he asked, his eyes studying the deer.

“No,” I told him. “My mom and dad are both scientists. They’re doing studies with these deer.”

“Weird-looking deer,” Will said. He pulled his wet hand from the pen and held it up. “Yuck. Deer slime.”

I laughed. “They’re called swamp deer,” I told him. I tossed him the tennis ball. We backed away from the deer pen and started to throw the ball back and forth.

“Have you been in the swamp?” he asked.

I missed the ball and had to chase it across the grass. “Yeah. This afternoon,” I told him. “My sister and I, we got lost.”

He snickered.

“Do you know why it’s called Fever Swamp?” I asked, tossing him a high one.

It was getting pretty dark, harder to see. But he caught the ball one-handed. “Yeah. My dad told me the story,” Will said. “I think it was a hundred years ago. Maybe longer. Everyone in town came down with a strange fever.”

“Everyone?” I asked.

He nodded. “Everyone who had been in the swamp.” He held on to the ball and moved closer. “My dad said the fever lasted for weeks, sometimes even months. And lots of people died from it.”

“That’s horrible,” I murmured, glancing across the back yard to the darkening trees at the swamp edge.

“And those who didn’t die from the fever began acting very strange,” Will continued. He had small, round eyes. And as he told his story, his eyes gleamed. “They started talking crazy, not making any sense, just saying nonsense words. And they couldn’t walk very well. They’d fall down a lot or walk around in circles.”

“Weird,” I said, my eyes still trained on the swamp. The sky darkened from scarlet to a deep purple. The nearly full moon seemed to glow brighter.

“Ever since that time, they called it Fever Swamp,” Will said, finishing his story. He flipped the tennis ball to me. “I’d better get home.”

“Did you ever see the swamp hermit?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No. I heard about him, but I’ve never seen him.”

“I did,” I told him. “My sister and I saw him this afternoon. We found his hut.”

“That’s cool!” Will exclaimed. “Did you talk to him or anything?”

“No way,” I replied. “He chased us.”

“He did?” Will’s expression turned thoughtful. “Why?”

“I don’t know. We were pretty scared,” I admitted.

“I’ve got to go,” Will said. He started jogging toward his house. “Hey, maybe you and I can go exploring in the swamp together,” he called back.

“Yeah. Great!” I replied.

I felt a little cheered up. I’d made a new friend. Maybe it won’t be so bad living here, I thought.

I watched Will head around the side of his house two doors down. His house looked almost identical to ours, except there was no deer pen in back, of course.

I saw a swing set with a small slide and seesaw in his back yard. I wondered if he had a little brother or sister.

I thought about Emily as I headed to the house. I knew she’d be jealous that I’d made a friend. Poor Emily was really sad without that goon Martin hanging around her.

I never liked Martin. He always called me “Kiddo”.

I watched one of the deer lower itself to the ground, folding its legs gracefully. Another deer did the same. They were settling in for the night.

I made my way inside and joined my family in the living room. They were watching a show about sharks on the Discovery Channel. My parents love the Discovery Channel. Big surprise, huh?

I watched for a short while. Then I began to realize I wasn’t feeling very well. I had a headache, a sharp throbbing at my temples. And I had chills.

I told Mom. She got up and walked over to my chair. “You look a little flushed,” she said, studying me with concern. She placed a cool hand on my forehead and left it there for a few seconds.

“Grady, I think you have a little fever,” she said.


 

 

A few nights later, I heard the strange, frightening howls for the first time.

My fever had gone up to 101 degrees and stayed there for a day. Then it went away. Then it came back.

“It’s the swamp fever!” I told my parents earlier that night. “Pretty soon I’m going to start acting crazy.”

“You already act crazy,” Mom teased. She handed me a glass of orange juice. “Drink. Keep drinking.”

“Drinking won’t help swamp fever,” I insisted glumly, taking the glass anyway. “There’s no cure for it.”

Mom tsk-tsked. Dad continued to read his science magazine.

I had strange dreams that night, disturbing dreams. I was back in Vermont, running through the snow. Something was chasing me. I thought maybe it was the swamp hermit. I kept running and running. I was very cold. I was shivering in the dream.

I turned back to see who was chasing me. There wasn’t anyone there. And suddenly, I was in the swamp. I was sinking in a peat bog. It gurgled all around me, green and thick, making these sick sucking sounds.

It was sucking me down. Down…

The howls woke me up.

I sat straight up in my bed and stared out the window at the nearly full moon. It floated right beyond the window, silvery and bright against the blue-black sky.

Another long howl rose on the night air.

I realized I was shaking all over. I was sweating. My pajama shirt stuck to my back.

Gripping the covers with both hands, I listened hard.

Another howl. The cry of an animal.

From the swamp?

The cries sounded so close. Right outside the window. Long, angry howls.

I shoved down the covers and lowered my feet to the floor. I was still trembling, and my head throbbed as I stood up. I guessed I still had a fever.

Another long howl.

I made my way to the hall on shaky legs. I had to find out if my parents had heard the howls, too.

Walking through the darkness, I bumped into a low table in the hall. I still wasn’t used to this new house.

My feet were cold as ice, but my head felt burning hot, as if it were on fire. Rubbing the knee I had banged, I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Then I continued down the hall.

My parents’ room was just past the kitchen in the back of the house. I was halfway across the kitchen when I stopped short.

What was that sound?

A scratching sound.

My breath caught in my throat. I froze, my arms stiff at my sides.

I listened.

There it was again.

Over the pounding of my heart, I heard it.

Scratch scratch scratch.

Someone—or something —scratching at the kitchen door.

Then—another howl. So close. So terrifyingly close.

Scratch scratch scratch.

What could it be? Some kind of animal? Just outside the house?

Some kind of swamp animal howling and scratching at the door?

I realized I’d been holding my breath a long while. I let it out in a whoosh, then sucked in another breath.

I listened hard, straining to hear over the pounding of my heart.

The refrigerator clicked on. The loud click nearly made me jump out of my skin. I grabbed the countertop. My hands were as cold as my feet, cold and clammy.

I listened.

Scratch scratch scratch.

I took a step toward the kitchen door.

One step, then I stopped.

A shudder of fear ran down my back.

I realized I wasn’t alone.

Someone was there, breathing beside me in the dark kitchen.


 

 

I gasped. I was gripping the countertop so hard, my hand ached.

“Wh-who’s there?” I whispered.

The kitchen light flashed on.

“Emily!” I practically shouted her name, in surprise and relief. “Emily—”

“Did you hear the howls?” she asked, speaking just above a whisper. Her blue eyes burned into mine.

“Yes. They woke me up,” I said. “They sound so angry.”

“Like a cry of attack,” Emily whispered. “Why do you look so weird, Grady?”

“Huh?” Her question caught me off guard.

“Your face is all red,” she said. “And look at you—you’re all shaky.”

“I think my fever is back,” I told her.

“Swamp fever,” she murmured, examining me with her eyes. “Maybe it’s the swamp fever you were telling me about.”

I turned to the kitchen door. “Did you hear the scratching sounds?” I asked. “Something was scratching on the back door.”

“Yes,” she whispered. She stared at the door.

We both listened.

Silence.

“Do you think one of the deer escaped?” she asked, taking a few steps toward the door, her arms crossed in front of her pink-and-white robe.

“Do you think a deer would scratch at the door?” I asked.

It was such a silly question, we both burst out laughing.

“Maybe it wanted a glass of water!” Emily exclaimed, and we both laughed some more. Giddy laughter. Nervous laughter.

We both cut our laughter short at the same time, and listened.

Another howl rose up outside like a police siren.

I saw Emily’s eyes narrow in fear. “It’s a wolf!” she cried in a hushed whisper. She raised a hand to her mouth. “Only a wolf makes a sound like that, Grady.”

“Emily, come on—” I started to protest.

“No. I’m right,” she insisted. “It’s a wolf howl.”

“Em, stop,” I said, sinking onto a kitchen stool. “There are no wolves in the Florida swamps. You can look in the guidebooks. Or better yet, ask Mom and Dad. Wolves don’t live in swamps.”

She started to argue, but a scratching at the door made her stop.

Scratch scratch scratch.

We both heard it. We both reacted with sharp gasps.

“What is that?” I whispered. And then, reading her expression, I quickly added, “Don’t say it’s a wolf.”

“I—I don’t know,” she replied, both hands raised to her face. I recognized her look of panic. “Let’s get Mom and Dad.”

I grabbed the door handle. “Let’s just take a look,” I said.

I don’t know where my sudden courage came from. Maybe it was the fever. But, suddenly, I just wanted to solve the mystery.

Who or what was scratching at the door?

There was one good way to find out—open the door and look outside.

“No, Grady—wait!” Emily pleaded.

But I waved away her protests.

Then I turned the doorknob and pulled open the kitchen door.


 

 

A gust of hot, wet air rushed in through the open door. The chirp of cicadas greeted my ears.

Holding on to the door, I peered into the darkness of the back yard.

Nothing.

The nearly full moon, yellow as a lemon, floated high in the sky. Thin wisps of black clouds drifted over it.

The cicadas stopped suddenly, and all was quiet.

Too quiet.

I squinted into the distance, toward the blackness of the swamp.

Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound.

I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. The moonlight sent a pale glow over the grass. In the far distance, I could see the black outline of slanting trees where the swamp began.

Who or what had scratched at the door? Were they hiding in the darkness now?

Watching me?

Waiting for me to close the door so they could begin their frightening howls again?

“Grady—close the door.”

I could hear my sister’s voice behind me. She sounded so frightened.

“Grady—do you see something? Do you?”

“No,” I told her. “Just the moon.”

I ventured out onto the back stoop. The air was hot and steamy, like the air in the bathroom after you’ve taken a hot shower.

“Grady—come back. Close the door.” Emily’s voice was shrill and trembly.

I gazed toward the deer pen. I could see their shadowy forms, still and silent. The hot wind rustled the grass. The cicadas began chirping again.

“Is anybody out here?” I called. I immediately felt foolish.

There was no one out here.

“Grady—shut the door. Now.”

I felt Emily’s hand on my pajama sleeve. She tugged me back into the kitchen. I closed the door and locked it.

My face felt wet from the damp night air. I had chills. My knees were shaking.

“You look kind of sick,” Emily said. She glanced over my shoulder to the door. “Did you see anything?”

“No,” I told her. “Nothing. It’s so dark in back, even with a full moon.”

“What’s going on in here?” A stern voice interrupted us. Dad lumbered into the kitchen, adjusting the collar of the long nightshirt he always wore. “It’s past midnight.” He glanced from Emily to me, then back to Emily, looking for a clue.

“We heard noises,” Emily said. “Howls outside.”

“And then something was scratching on the door,” I added, trying to keep my knees from shaking.

“Fever dreams,” Dad said to me. “Look at you. You’re red as a tomato. And you’re shaking. Let’s take your temperature. You must be burning up.” He started toward the bathroom to get the thermometer.

“It wasn’t a dream,” Emily called after him. “I heard the noises, too.”

Dad stopped in the doorway. “Did you check the deer?”

“Yeah. They’re okay,” I said.

“Then maybe it was just the wind. Or some creatures in the swamp. It’s hard to sleep in a new house. The sounds are all so new, so unfamiliar. But you’ll both get used to them after a while.”

I’ll never get used to those horrible howls, I thought stubbornly. But I headed back to my room.

Dad took my temperature. It was just slightly above normal. “You should be fine by tomorrow,” he said, smoothing my blanket over me. “No more wandering around tonight, okay?”

I murmured a reply and almost instantly drifted into a restless sleep.

Again I had strange, troubling dreams. I dreamed I was walking in the swamp. I heard the howls. I could see the full moon between the slender tree trunks of the swamp.

I started to run. And then suddenly I was up to my waist in a thick, green bog. And the howls continued, one after the other, echoing through the trees as I sank into the murky bog.

 

When I awoke the next morning, the dream lingered in my mind. I wondered if the howls were real, or just part of the dream.

Climbing out of bed, I realized I felt fine. Yellow morning sunlight poured in through the window. I could see a clear blue sky. The beautiful morning made me forget my nightmares.

I wondered if Will was around this morning. Maybe he and I could go exploring in the swamp.

I got dressed quickly, pulling on pale blue jeans and a black-and-silver Raiders T-shirt. (I’m not a Raiders fan. I just like their colors.)

I gulped down a bowl of Frosted Flakes, allowed my mom to feel my head to make sure my fever was gone, and hurried to the back door.

“Whoa. Hold on,” Mom called, setting down her coffee cup. “Where are you going so early?”

“I want to see if Will is home,” I said. “Maybe we’ll hang out or something.”

“Okay. Just don’t overdo it,” she warned. “Promise?”

“Yeah. Promise,” I replied.

I pulled open the kitchen door, stepped out into blinding sunlight—and screamed as an enormous, dark monster leapt onto my chest and heaved me to the ground.


 

 

“It—it’s got me!” I screamed as it pushed me to the ground and jumped on my chest.

“Help! It—it’s licking my face!”

I was so startled, it took me a long time to realize my attacker was a dog.

By the time Mom and Dad came to my rescue and started to pull the big creature off my chest, I was laughing. “Hey—that tickles! Stop!”

I wiped the dog spit off my face with my hands and scrambled to my feet.

“Where’d you come from?” Mom asked the dog. She and Dad were holding on to the enormous beast.

They both let go, and it stood wagging its tail excitedly, panting, its big red tongue hanging down practically to the ground.

“He’s enormous!” Dad exclaimed. “He must be part shepherd.”

I was still wiping the sticky saliva off my cheeks.

“He scared me to death,” I confessed. “Didn’t you, fella?” I reached down and stroked the dark gray fur on the top of his head. His long tail started wagging faster.

“He likes you,” Mom said.

“He practically killed me!” I exclaimed. “Look at him. He must weigh more than a hundred pounds!”

“Were you the one scratching at our door last night?” Emily appeared in the doorway, still in the long T-shirt she used as a nightshirt. “I think this clears up the mystery,” she said to me, yawning sleepily and pulling her blonde hair behind her shoulders with both hands.

“I guess,” I muttered. I got down on my knees beside the big dog and stroked his back. He turned his head and licked my cheek again. “Yuck! Quit that!” I told him.

“I wonder who he belongs to?” Mom said, staring at the dog thoughtfully. “Grady, check his collar. There’s probably an ID tag.”

I reached up to the dog’s broad neck and felt around in his fur for a collar. “Nothing there,” I reported.

“Maybe he’s a stray,” Emily said from inside the kitchen. “Maybe that’s why he was scratching the door last night.”

“Yeah,” I said quickly. “He needs a place to live.”

“Whoa,” Mom said, shaking her head. “I don’t think we need a dog right now, Grady. We just moved in, and—”

“But I need a pet!” I insisted. “It’s so lonely here. A dog would be great, Mom. He could keep me company.”

“You have the deer for pets,” Dad said, frowning. He turned to the deer pen. The six deer were all standing alertly at attention, staring warily at the dog.

“You can’t walk a deer!” I protested. “Besides, you’re going to set the deer free, right?”

“The dog probably belongs to someone,” Mom said. “You can’t just claim any dog that wanders by. Besides, he’s so big, Grady. He’s too big to—”

“Aw, let him keep it,” Emily called from the house.

I stared at her in shock. I couldn’t remember the last time Emily and I had been on the same side of a family argument.

The discussion continued for several minutes more. Everyone agreed that he seemed like a sweet-tempered, gentle dog despite his huge size. And he certainly was affectionate. I couldn’t make him stop licking me.

Glancing up, I saw Will come out of his house and head across the back lawns toward us. He was wearing a sleeveless blue T-shirt and blue Lycra bicycle shorts. “Hi! Look what we found!” I called.

I introduced Will to my mom and dad. Emily had disappeared back to her room to get dressed.

“Have you seen this dog before?” Dad asked Will. “Does he belong to someone in the neighborhood?”

Will shook his head. “Nope. Never seen him.” He cautiously petted the dog’s head.

“Where’d you come from, fella?” I asked, staring into the creature’s eyes. They were blue. Sky-blue.

“He looks more like a wolf than a dog,” Will said.

“Yeah. He really does,” I agreed. “Was that you howling like a wolf all last night?” I asked the dog. He tried to lick my nose, but I pulled my face back in time.

I glanced up at Will. “Did you hear those howls last night? They were really weird.”

“No. I didn’t hear anything,” Will replied. “I’m a very sound sleeper. My dad comes into my room and shouts through a megaphone to wake me up in the morning. Really!”

We all laughed.

“He really does look like a wolf,” Mom commented, staring at the dog’s blue eyes.

“Wolves are skinnier,” Dad remarked. “Their snouts are narrower. He could be part wolf, I suppose. But it’s not very likely in this geographical area.”

“Let’s call him Wolf,” I suggested enthusiastically. “It’s the perfect name for him.” I climbed to my feet. “Hi, Wolf,” I called to the dog. “Wolf! Hi, Wolf!”

His ears perked straight up.

“See? He likes the name!” I exclaimed. “Wolf! Wolf!”

He barked at me, a single yip.

“Can I keep him?” I asked.

Mom and Dad exchanged long glances. “We’ll see,” Mom said.

 

That afternoon, Will and I headed to the swamp to do some exploring. My nightmares about the swamp lingered in my mind. But I did my best to force them away.

It was a blazing hot day. The sun burned down in a clear, cloudless sky. As we crossed my back yard, I hoped it would be cooler in the leafy shade of the swamp.

I glanced back at Wolf. He was napping in the hot sunlight on his side, his four legs stretched straight out in front of him.

We had fed him before lunch, some leftover roast beef scraps from our dinner the night before. He gobbled it up hungrily. Then, after slurping up an entire bowl of water, he dropped down in the grass in front of the back stoop to take his nap.

Will and I followed the dirt path into the slanting trees. Black-and-orange monarch butterflies, four or five of them, fluttered over a bank of tall wildflowers.

“Hey!” I cried out as my foot sank into a marshy spot in the dirt. When I pulled my sneaker out, it was covered with wet sand.

“Have you seen the bog?” Will asked. “It’s kind of neat.”

“Yeah. Let’s go there,” I said enthusiastically. “We can throw sticks in and stuff, and watch them sink.”

“Do you think any people ever got sunk in the bog?” Will asked thoughtfully. He brushed a mosquito off his broad forehead, then scratched his short, dark brown hair.

“Maybe,” I replied, following him as he turned off the path and headed through a wide patch of tall reeds. “Do you think it would really suck you down into it, like quicksand?”

“My dad says there’s no such thing as quicksand,” Will said.

“I bet there is,” I told him. “I bet people have fallen into the bog accidentally and gotten sucked down. If we brought a fishing rod, we could cast a line in and pull up their bones.”

“Gross,” he said.

We were walking over a carpet of dead brown leaves. Our sneakers crunched noisily as we made our way under tangled palm trees toward the bog.

Suddenly, Will stopped. “Ssshhh.” He raised a finger to his lips.

I heard it, too.

Crunching behind us.

Footsteps.

We both froze in place, listening hard. The footsteps drew closer.

Will’s dark eyes narrowed in fear. “Someone’s following us,” he murmured. “It’s the swamp hermit!”


 

 

“Quick—hide!” I cried.

Will dived behind a thick clump of tall weeds. I tried to follow him, but there wasn’t room for both of us.

Crawling on my hands and knees, I searched frantically for something to hide behind.

The crackling of dead leaves became louder. The footsteps hurried closer.

I scrambled toward a nest of brambles. No. They wouldn’t hide me.

A clump of ferns across from me was too low.

The footsteps crackled closer.

Closer.

“Hide! Hide!” Will urged.

But I was trapped out in the open. Caught.

I struggled to my feet just as our pursuer came into view.

“Wolf!” I cried.

The big dog’s tail began wagging furiously as soon as he saw me. He uttered a joyful bark—and jumped.

“No!” I managed to cry.

His front paws landed hard on my chest. I stumbled backwards into the tall weeds and fell onto Will.

“Hey!” He cried out and scrambled to his feet.

Wolf barked happily and practically smothered me, trying to lick my face.

“Wolf—down! Down!” I shouted. I stood up and started brushing dead leaves off my T-shirt. “Wolf, you’ve got to stop doing that, boy,” I told him. “You’re not a little puppy, you know?”

“How did he find us?” Will asked, pulling a burr off the seat of his blue Lycra shorts.

“Good nose, I guess,” I replied, staring down at the happily panting dog. “Maybe he’s part hunting dog or something.”

“Let’s get to the bog,” Will said impatiently. He began leading the way, but Wolf pushed past him, nearly bumping him over, and continued trotting toward the bog, his powerful legs taking long, steady strides.

“Wolf acts as if he knows where we’re going,” I said, a little surprised.

“Maybe he’s been here before,” Will replied. “Maybe he’s a swamp dog.”

“Maybe,” I replied thoughtfully, staring down at Wolf. Where do you come from, dog? I wondered. He certainly did seem at home in the swamp.

In a short while, we came to the edge of the peat bog. I wiped the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand and stared across the oval-shaped pond.

Shafts of sunlight made the green surface sparkle. Thousands of tiny white insects fluttered just above it, catching the light, glistening like little diamonds.

Will picked up a small tree branch. He cracked it in half between his hands. Then he heaved one of the halves high into the air.

It hit the surface of the bog with more of a thunk than a splash. And then it just lay there. It didn’t sink.

“Weird,” I said. “Let’s try something heavier.”

I started to search for something, but a low growl caught my attention. I turned toward the sound. To my surprise, it was coming from Wolf.

The dog had lowered its big head. Its entire body stood tensed, as if in attack position. Its dark lips were pulled back, revealing two sharp rows of teeth. It uttered a low growl, then another.

“I think he senses danger,” Will said softly.


 

 

Wolf uttered another menacing growl, baring his jagged teeth. The fur on his back stood up stiffly. His legs tensed as if preparing to attack.

The sound of crackling twigs made me raise my eyes. I saw a gray figure darting behind tall weeds on the other side of the bog.

“Who—who’s that?” Will whispered.

I stared straight ahead, unable to speak.

“Is that—” Will started.

“Yes,” I managed to choke out. “It’s him. The swamp hermit.” I dropped quickly to my knees, hoping to keep out of view.

But had he already seen us?

Had he been there at the other side of the bog all along?

Will must have been sharing my thoughts. “Has that weirdo been spying on us?” he demanded, huddling beside me.

Wolf uttered a quiet growl, still frozen in place, ready to attack.

Keeping low, I scooted closer to the dog. For protection, I guess.

I watched the strange man as he made his way through the weeds. His long, gray-white hair was wild, standing straight out around his face. He kept glancing behind him as he walked, as if making sure he wasn’t being followed.

He carried a brown sack over one shoulder.

He turned his gaze in our direction. I dropped down lower, trying to hide behind Wolf, my heart pounding.

Wolf hadn’t moved, but he was silent now. His ears were still pulled back, his lips still open in a soundless snarl.

What were those dark stains on the front of the swamp hermit’s grimy shirt?

Bloodstains?

A shiver of fear ran down my back.

Wolf stared straight ahead without blinking, without moving a muscle.

The swamp hermit disappeared behind the tall weeds. We couldn’t see him, but we could still hear his footsteps crunching over dead leaves and fallen twigs.

I glanced over at Wolf. The big dog shook himself, as if shaking the swamp hermit from his mind. His tail wagged slowly. His body relaxed.

He uttered soft whimpers, as if telling me how scared he had been.

“It’s okay, boy,” I said quietly, and rubbed the soft fur on top of the dog’s head. He stopped whimpering and licked at my wrist.

“That guy is creepy!” Will exclaimed, climbing slowly to his feet.

“He even scared the dog,” I said, petting Wolf some more. “What do you think he had in the sack?”

“Probably someone’s head!” Will said, his dark eyes wide with horror.

I laughed. But I stopped when I saw that Will wasn’t joking. “Everyone says he’s harmless,” I said.

“He had blood all over the front of his shirt,” Will said with a shudder. He scratched his short, dark hair nervously.

The sunlight faded quickly as clouds rolled over the sun. Long shadows crept over the bog. The stick Will had thrown had disappeared, sucked into the thick, murky water.

“Let’s get home,” I suggested.

“Yeah. Okay,” Will agreed quickly.

I called to Wolf, who was exploring in the tall weeds. Then we turned and started to make our way back along the twisting dirt path.

A soft breeze fluttered the trees, making the palm leaves scrape and clatter. Tall ferns shivered in the wind. The shadows grew deeper and darker.

I could hear Wolf behind us. I could hear his body brushing through low shrubs and weeds.

We were nearly to where the trees ended and the flat grass leading to our back yards began. We were nearly out of the swamp when Will stopped suddenly.

I saw his mouth drop open in horror.

I turned to follow his gaze.

Then I uttered a shocked cry and covered my eyes to shut out the gruesome sight.


 

 

When I opened my eyes, the hideous pile of feathers and blood-covered flesh was still at my feet.

“Wh-what is it?” Will stammered.

It took me a long while to realize we were staring at a bird. A large heron.

It was hard to recognize because it had been torn apart.

Long, white feathers were scattered over the soft ground. The poor bird’s chest had been torn wide open.

“The swamp hermit!” Will cried.

“Huh?” I cried. I turned away from the hideous sight and tried to force the image from my mind.

“That’s why he had blood all over his shirt!” Will declared.

“But why would he rip a bird apart?” I asked weakly.

“Because… because he’s a monster!” Will exclaimed.

“He’s just a weird old guy who lives alone in the swamp,” I said. “He didn’t do this, Will. Some kind of animal did it. Look!” I pointed to the ground.

There were paw prints in the soft ground. All around the dead bird.

“They look like dog’s paws,” I said, thinking out loud.

“Dogs don’t rip apart birds,” Will replied quietly.

At that moment, Wolf came bounding up to us through the weeds. He came to a stop in front of the dead bird and started to sniff it.

“Get away from there, Wolf,” I ordered. “Come on. Get away.” I tugged him back, pulling him with both hands around his thick neck.

“Let’s get home,” Will said. “Let’s get away from this thing. I’m going to have bad dreams. I really will.”

I pulled Wolf with both hands. We stepped carefully around the dead heron and then hurried toward the swamp edge. Neither of us said a word. I guess we were both still picturing what we had seen.

As we reached the flat grass behind our houses, I said good-bye to Will. I watched him hurry to his house. Wolf scampered after him for part of the way. Then he turned and hurried back to me.

The late afternoon sun burned its way through the clouds. I shielded my eyes from the sudden brightness, and saw my dad working in the deer pen behind the house.

“Hey, Dad—” I ran toward him over the grass.

He glanced up when I called to him. He was wearing denim cutoffs and a sleeveless yellow T-shirt. He had an Orlando Magic cap pulled down over his forehead. “What’s up, Grady?”

“Will and I—we saw a dead heron,” I told him breathlessly.

“Where? In the swamp?” he asked casually. He pulled off the cap, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and replaced the cap.

“Dad, it—it was torn apart!” I cried.

He didn’t react. “That’s part of life in the wild,” he said, pulling up one of the deer’s hooves to examine the bottom. “You know that, Grady. It can get pretty violent out there. We’ve talked about survival of the fittest and stuff like that.”




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