by Kaye George
"Really?" Quinton’s eyes lit up. He wondered if he’d stumbled into the home of some famous retired special effects artist or movie star from the old black and white monster movies. Studying her again, he ruled out the latter, seeing no remnants of beauty in her frame or face. In fact, in that instant, he wished he hadn’t looked so closely and turned away.
"Oh yes." She slid one of the more ghoulish creatures to make it more in line with the others. "Fascination with local legends comes easy, I suppose, if you don’t have television or the Internet to distract you."
"The swamp monster!" Quinton got it now. Sometimes more formally known as The Goatman, The Caddo Creature, or even just Slimy, tales of the swamp monster had replaced normal classics like Hookclaw and Escaped Asylum Patient around the campfires in this part of Texas and Louisiana for generations.
"All different interpretations, of course." She spoke with the rush of an excited child. "I’ve even named each of them."
"No way!" Quinton laughed and started into the second cookie.
"I’m serious."
"Like what?" He thought for an instant. "Longtongue Tummywater?"
She let out a small laugh and then pulled out a wooden chair that looked like it wouldn’t support her weight. It creaked when she plopped down onto it, but held. "No no no. These are swamp monsters, naming them is much easier than that." She glanced at him sideways. "Also. Less girly."
He rolled his eyes. "How do you name them then?"
She waved her hands out over the statuettes. "You just string together a bunch of random letters for the most part, going as light on the vowels as possible. Oh, and adding apostrophes wherever you feel like it."
Quinton waited to see if she was going to add a punchline. "Seriously?"
"I shall demonstrate." She added a formal tone to her voice and cleared her throat. "This," she said, pointing at an atrocity with alligator heads for hands, "is Blllbdar’ollop." She studied the rest, seeming to weigh her choices with a great deal of thought. "And R’xixb’ddidid." She indicated a humanoid cross between a velociraptor and a beaver. "Oh," she said, tapping a shape covered head to toe in tiny polyps and spikes, "and my person favorite, K’kammnnnunu."
Quinton nodded while grinning foolishly. "That was…that was…glorious."
She eased back away from the table. "I think everyone should make up their own swamp creature name, really."
"Well, they are awful catchy."
"I will permit you to try it, if you wish."
"Oh, may I?" The last of the second cookie gone, the dryness in Quinton’s throat had grown to a significant level of distraction.
She cracked her knuckles louder than Quinton had ever heard anyone do before. "For losers only, I offer a special deal and won’t sue you or claim copyright infringement this one time."
Quinton tossed a bunch of nonsense sounds around in his head until he came across one that almost carried an air of power with it. "Okay, how about, uh, Rrrrarus’X’fddddddes."
She attempted to repeat it.
"Close," Quinton replied, "more ‘r’s in the first part, and six ‘d’s."
"Six ‘d’s?"
"Yes, six."
"Not five."
"No no, six."
"Very well." She took a few deep breaths before finally belching out, "Rrrrarus’X’fddddddes."
"Perfect." Quinton smiled.
"Well, then pleased to meet you, Rrrrarus’X’fddddddes."
"Thank you, thank you." Quinton released one controlled cough which spasmed into a series of involuntary ones. "Can I maybe get something to drink?"
"Beg pardon?" The woman stood and leaned towards him.
"I’m really thirsty."
"Oh." She straightened with understanding. "All I have is tea."
Quinton grimaced. "Ugh." He hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
"Well, I have well water, but it has a funny twang to it, so I boil it and add tea leaves."
"Sure. That’ll be fine."
The woman grunted and pushed herself up out of the chair. The activity of the evening seemed to have caught up with her, and slowed her movement towards the fireplace. "I think I have a map and a compass around here somewhere." She lifted the lid of the pot, releasing the same odor as before. "Would that help you make it back?"
"Actually it would," he said with no small amount of pride. The rest of the troop needed either daylight or a road with a minivan to find their way from the campgrounds even to the main highway.
The woman lifted a jet black iron ladle out of the pot and poured a coffee mug almost to the top. "Here’s to what ails ya," she said as she passed it over. He cradled the warm ceramic in his hands as she went to dig through a pile of papers next to an old cedar chest. While she rummaged through the clutter, Quinton took a deep whiff of the tea. Dissecting the individual components of the aroma, he picked out the scents of coffee, vanilla, and possibly boiled cabbage. He took a tentative sip.
The vanilla hit him first, almost like a dessert drink, but the bitter leafy aftertaste made his entire face fold in on itself. He shook it off and glanced over to see if she noticed. Since it appeared like the wooden chest might be trying to swallow her whole, he concluded that she hadn’t seen anything.
He’d never had more than a tiny drink of hot tea before, and decided he should "man-up," as that jerk Counselor Guy would say, and see how far he could get through it. Two more big gulps were all he could manage.
"Here we go!" She spun around holding up a folded sheet of plastic. He recognized it as a water-proof map case like many of the scout leaders used. "Aaaaand, a compass."
He took the items and with a reflexive motion studied the map for his present location.
"Right here, Sweetie." She pointed to a spot centered in a big splotch of undeveloped green, with blue lines representing the depth of the lake behind the cabin. Thinking back, Quinton figured where he went wrong on his trek and what would be the best route back.
Lost in his calculations and compass bearings, he almost forgot to thank the woman before he headed back out into the darkness. She insisted she had enjoyed the company, and not to worry about returning the compass or map case. Two steps out the door he turned and waved. He felt an odd sense seeing the woman in the doorway, leaving someone behind who had shown him kindness to return to a campsite filled with those he detested.
"Good luck, Rrrrarus’X’fdddddes," she said as he turned. He yelled back thanks and intentionally didn’t draw attention to the fact she’d only used five ‘d’s.
***
Quinton reached the edge of the campgrounds at just after midnight, and nearly knocked over Counselor Guy when he stumbled out into the light.
"Good lord, Quinton!" Guy seemed to struggle with his emotions, appearing to twist sudden shock into righteous anger. The wild blond locks on his thirty-year-old head looked no less ridiculous in low lighting. "Just like you to hide out in the damn woods while we search all over the place!" His volume dropped to normal levels. "Probably too scared to sleep in the cabin."
They walked together through a gauntlet of scowling counselors, all quick to offer up that they were up later than they wanted to be. They murmured about all the authorities they nearly called on account of his excursions, and what varieties of punishments and additional duties awaited him in the morning.
While the words floated by, they got progressively harder to understand. By the time Quinton reached his cot Counselor Guy’s ramblings had faded into a dull hum pushing against the thick cotton between Quinton’s ears.
He found himself standing alone in the dark next to his bunk, the sounds and smells of all the other boys sleeping radiating out from all directions. He waited a short time for his eyes to adjust so he could make out all the shapes in the room. In that moment of solace he felt powerful, up and functioning with everyone else lying vulnerable around him.
His skin itched. It felt so dry, especially on the insides of the folds of his arms, he scratched back and forth bet
ween the two until a light burning replaced the prickle. Quinton reached up to confirm the moisture in his sheets, but the cool wetness seemed inviting, a way to ease the smoldering irritation spreading across his arms and down his torso.
He stripped down to his underwear and slid into the water-soaked sheets, pulling them in and twirling around them until they formed a moist cocoon. Looking around at the others Quinton figured someone must have left a light on outside, or that a full moon hovered overhead, since he could make them out so well.
He belched a quiet croak, releasing a putrid cloud of old cookie, coffee, and boiled cabbage. His stomach turned again, but he also found himself enjoying the scent of it.
The form of Max Early, a big silhouetted blob three bunks over, rose and fell with the rattling of half-filled sinuses. Quinton stared at him, wanting to reach out with his mind and squeeze him until his face turned red and he struggled to beg for mercy. With every breath Quinton dreamt up a new way to hurt the chunky mouth-breather, each a subtle variation on a macabre theme, just as the shack woman said.
Staring at Max in the darkness, all the cruel jokes, all the mocking, and all the snide comments gathered inside Quinton, starting in his chest and working their way down to tighten in his gut. Twisting there, they brought up a slow but steady stream of quiet burps he released into his pillow.
The night dragged on, although Quinton grew less tired as it did so. He lost track of time, measuring it not by minutes, but by the rate the burning sensation crawled across his skin, spreading until it reached the tops of his toes. His eyelids, his fingernails, even his tongue itched, which made him all the more irritable at the oxygen thief snoring a few feet away.
Quinton found himself standing over Max’s bed without realizing how he’d gotten there. Looking back, a wet trail of shredded bed sheets led back to his bunk. He pondered spitting on his enemy, urinating on him, or just beating the larger boy until the counselors rushed in, grabbed him by all four limbs and hauled him off to a juvie hall somewhere.
"Ah screw it," Quinton tried to whisper, but all that came out was a guttural mish-mash of consonant sounds. He slapped his hand over Max’s mouth—actually it fit easily over the entire lower half of his face—and lifted him up out of bed. Quinton had intended to just lift him up enough to scare him, but the boy weighed almost nothing. While Max struggled to wake up, Quinton ran out of the cabin with Max’s flailing form dangling under one arm.
Muffled screams called out beneath Quinton’s hands as he loped across the campsite, his feet making loud flaps as they hit the ground. He rushed out down the dock, past the canoes, and jumped off the end.
The coolness of the water quenched the burning of his skin, and he spent a moment relishing the touch of the swamp until he glance down at Max’s face beneath the surface. Quinton had no trouble seeing through the dark liquid, seeing the utter panic in the boy’s eyes. He held him down until the squirming changed from desperate thrashing to involuntary spasms. Quinton knew Max’s chest would force a last gasp at any moment, and just before that instant, Quinton brought his head up to breathe.
After a quick intake of air, Quinton shoved Max’s head underwater again. Again he let him up just before the final breath. He repeated this over and over, his heart racing with the thrill of it. As Max grew more pathetic, his spirit pushed beyond broken, Quinton felt more alive than he had perhaps his whole life. Something called out for him to not let up this last time. A world without Max would be a richer place.
Quinton tossed the limp wet blob onto the dock. The thrill faded once Max resigned himself to die, and Quinton decided it would be better to let the boy live with this nightmare replaying for the rest of his days. Even now Max appeared to have gone into shock. Rapid breathing, eyes open and glazed over, body twisted with no regard for righting itself.
Quinton leapt back up onto the dock. He paused there in the darkness in a crouch, a position so comfortable he wondered why it hadn’t come to him before. His arms whirled at his sides as he hobbled to the counselor cabins. His legs responded differently than usual, but Quinton embraced the primal nature of his movements.
Counselor Guy shared the small tin shed with Counselor Roger, so Quinton figured he had a fifty-fifty chance of the right one opening the door. "Ooooh Counselor Guuuuuy." Again, what Quinton meant to say came out like something in slow motion and possibly backwards to his ears. He licked the hollow aluminum door as he waited. Nothing.
He tapped on the door with his long pointed fingernails. Just for fun he scratched them across the surface, a little surprised they cut into the metal.
The door flew open, and seeing the squinting face of Counselor Roger, Quinton slapped the man back and down before he could even fully open his eyes. He stayed where he landed as Quinton rushed in and lifted Guy up by the shoulders.
Guy shouted out what must have been a string of splendid expletives, but which sounded tinny and foreign to Quinton. Realizing the noise would attract everyone soon, Quinton bolted for the wood line near the water, and threw Guy down into the mud. The man hardly moved, staring up wide-eyed and covering his arms over his face. Careful not to hit anything vital, Quinton raked his fingers all up and down Guy’s skin, leaving a patchwork of thin cuts, almost guaranteed to each be infected with every microscopic horror the swamp could breed.
Noise grew in the light, the incredibly bright light. Voices murmured in that same high-pitched alien dialect. Leaving Guy crying and lying in his own filth, Quinton darted to the water and dove back in.
***
A half hour later the Elegant Spirit cut a smooth wake through the calmness of the lake, drunken idiots laughing at inconsequential drivel, hanging off every balcony. Quinton watched it pass, his eyes just above the surface of the water, visualizing himself leaping up and over the edge to...
"Now now, my little one. You’ve had enough fun for one night," the shack woman called out in a tongue he understood. Hearing someone speak it validated the sounds he’d sprouted all evening. Her voice gave the language life, and a history of something spoken and forgotten long before man learned how to make fire. Quinton whirled to see her standing against the bank of the water. "Never crap where you eat."
Without fully understanding her meaning, he swam over to her and crouched down so only his head rose up out of the water. She patted his forehead and tossed him a dead fish, which he instinctively caught in his mouth and swallowed without chewing.
"This way." The woman turned and headed back towards her home. She paused at a small round stone table she’d set out in front of her doorway, and then reached down and into a plastic bag from a nearby hobby store. She pulled out a fresh block of modeling clay and set it with a splat onto the table.
"Okay, dear," she said, dipping her hands into a bowl of water. "I’ll introduce you to the others later. For now, you just stand still while I capture the moment, as it were."
Quinton did as she asked, crouching there in front of the table while her bony hands poked and massaged the soft gray mound, shaping it to match his new form. He smiled as best he could, literally from ear to ear, content to remain motionless there in the mud. As he waited he made out other shapes rising out of the swamp in the distance, watching and wanting to meet Rrrrarus’X’fddddddes.
SWAMP MONSTER ORIGINAL
Steven Metze, age 12
The story "Swamp Baby" was inspired by a hand-written version I found in my closet while cleaning over the holidays. Scrawled over 3 wide-lined pieces of yellowed, brittle paper about 30 years old, I thought I’d see what I could do with it. Since Young Steve hadn’t ever heard of H.P. Lovecraft, the tone changed a little in the rewrite, but not much. So, for fun, and as a reminder of the unfettered imagination we all start with and should strive to never lose, here it is in its original form, unedited and with all the original grammar and spelling mistakes from the mind of a 12-year-old…
The swamp monster
(part I)
I was walking along the path hoplessly los
t. The path seemed to be disaparing. suddenly, I saw a house. As I walked up towards it I heard strange noises like some woman screaming weird sentences. I looked through the window and was amazed at what I saw.
What looked like a lady, was dancing around some nuts waving her arms and yelling weird chants at them. Then she stoped and said "come in the doors open." I started to run off, but reliezed she could help me get back to camp, so I went in. She offered me some cookies and told me a lot of stuff about a sol called "swamp monster" then gave me some nuts that would protect me from the monster. I ate one to humor her and asked how to get back to the camp, she told me. When I got to my boy scout camp, Scott, our camp prankster kidded me about getting lost. Oh how I’d like to get him back! Once he put a rotton egg uder my pillow (which stinks when broken), and once he put pepper all over my hamburger and so forth and so on. A week later it was a full moon. As I was sleeping I had an urge to go swimming.
(part II)
I got down out of my bunk and walked towards the lake. I passed a mirror. I couldn’t beleive my eyes, in the mirror I saw a 5 foot tall toad! Then I realized what had happened. that lady was a witch and had given me magic nuts which turned me into a frog on nights with a full moon! I thought to myself in the morning It’s not too bad after all it ownly happens on nights with a full moon and I could have fun scaring people. Then I said to myself, Scott! I’ll scare Scott! June 13th was my last day here and it was a night with a full moon. I could hardly wait untell June 12th, then I would have my revenge! finally it came, June 12th. it seemed like years waiting for nightfall but finaly it was bedtime. At 10:00 I got up and walked over to the mirror to make sure I was a frog, I was. Then I walked over to Scott. "BRRRRRIBIT" I said just soft enough to wake him up. "BRRRRIBIT!!!" I yelled. by this time he was up and running, he ran into a closet and peeked out of the crack to see if I came, I did. Then one last time I screamed, my loudest BRRIIIIIBIIT!!!!!
"Don’t hurt me he yelled as he locked the coset door and screamed for help. I jumped into the lake untell I turned back into myself and snuck into my bed. After that when I got home I didn’t do much except on nights when there was a full moon I took a very long and big bath.