by R. L. Stine
HOW TO KILL
A MONSTER
Goosebumps - 46
R.L. Stine
(An Undead Scan v1.5)
1
“Why do we have to go there?” I wailed from the backseat of the car. “Why?”
“Gretchen, I’ve told you three times why.” Dad sighed. “Your mother and I have to go to Atlanta. For work!”
“I know that,” I replied, leaning over the front seat. “But why can’t we go with you? Why do we have to stay with Grandma and Grandpa?”
“Because we said so,” Mom and Dad declared together.
Because we said so. Once they said those deadly words, there was no use arguing.
I slumped down in my seat.
Mom and Dad had some kind of work emergency in Atlanta. They got the call this morning.
It’s not fair, I thought. They get to visit a cool city like Atlanta. And Clark—my stepbrother—and I have to go to Mud Town.
Mud Town.
Well, it’s not really called Mud Town. But it should be. Because it’s a swamp. Grandma Rose and Grandpa Eddie live in southern Georgia—in a swamp.
Can you believe it?
A swamp.
I stared out the car window. We’d been riding on highways all day. Now we were driving on a narrow road through the swamp.
It was late afternoon. And the cypress trees began to cast long shadows over the marshy grass.
I stuck my head out the window. A blast of hot, humid air hit my face. I ducked back in and turned to Clark. His nose was buried in a comic book.
Clark is twelve—like me. He’s much shorter than I am. Much shorter. And he has curly brown hair, brown eyes, and tons of freckles. He looks exactly like Mom.
I’m kind of tall for my age. I have long, straight blond hair and green eyes. I look like Dad.
My parents divorced when I turned two years old. The same thing happened to Clark. My dad and his mom married each other right after our third birthdays, and we all moved into a new house together.
I like my stepmother. And Clark and I get along okay, I guess. He acts like a jerk sometimes. Even my friends say so. But I think their brothers act like jerks, too.
I stared at Clark.
Watched him read.
His glasses slid down his nose.
He pushed them up.
“Clark…” I started.
“Shhhh.” He waved his hand at me. “I’m at the good part.”
Clark loves comic books. Scary ones. But he’s not brave—so he’s always terrified by the time he finishes.
I glanced out the window again.
I stared at the trees. At the branches, all draped in long gray webs. They dangled from every tree—curtains of gray. They made the swamp look really gloomy.
Mom told me about the gray webs when we were packing this morning. She knows a lot about swamps. She thinks swamps are pretty—in a spooky sort of way.
Mom said the gray webs were actually a swamp plant that grew right on the trees.
A plant that grows on a plant. Weird, I thought. Definitely weird.
Almost as weird as Grandma and Grandpa.
“Dad, how come Grandma and Grandpa never visit us?” I asked. “We haven’t seen them since we were four.”
“Well, they’re a little strange.” Dad peered at me through the rearview mirror. “They don’t like to travel. They almost never leave their house. And they live so far back in the swamp, it’s very hard to visit them.”
“Oh, wow!” I said. “A sleepover with two strange old hermits.”
“Smelly, strange old hermits,” Clark mumbled, glancing up from his comic.
“Clark! Gretchen!” Mom scolded. “Don’t talk about your grandparents that way.”
“They’re not my grandparents. They’re hers.” Clark jerked his head toward me. “And they do smell. I can still remember it.”
I punched my stepbrother in the arm. But he was right. Grandma and Grandpa did smell. Like a combination of mildew and mothballs.
I sank deep into my seat and let out a loud yawn.
It seemed as if we’d been riding in the car for weeks. And it was really crowded back there—with me, Clark, and Charley kind of squished together. Charley is our dog—a golden retriever.
I pushed Charley out of the way and stretched out.
“Quit shoving him onto me!” Clark complained. His comic book dropped to the floor.
“Sit still, Gretchen,” Mom muttered. “I knew we should have boarded Charley.”
“I tried to find a kennel for him,” Dad said. “But no one could take him at the last minute.”
Clark pushed Charley off his lap and reached down for his comic. But I grabbed it first.
“Oh, brother,” I moaned when I read the title. “Creatures from the Muck? How can you read this garbage?”
“It’s not garbage,” Clark shot back. “It’s really cool. Better than those stupid nature magazines you read.”
“What’s it about?” I asked, flipping through the pages.
“It’s about some totally gross monsters. Half-human. Half-beast. They set traps to catch people. Then they hide under the mud. Near the surface,” Clark explained. He grabbed the comic from my hand.
“Then what happens?” I asked.
“They wait. They wait as long as it takes—for the humans to fall in their traps.” Clark’s voice started to quiver. “Then they force them deep into the swamp. And make them their slaves!”
Clark shuddered. He glanced out the window. Out at the eerie cypress trees with their long beards of gray.
It was growing dark now. The trees’ shadows shifted over the tall grass.
Clark lowered himself in his seat. He has a wild imagination. He really believes the stuff he reads. Then he gets scared—like now.
“Do they do anything else?” I asked. I wanted Clark to tell me more. He was really scaring himself good.
“Well, at night, the monsters rise up from the mud,” he went on, sliding down in his seat some more. “And they drag kids from their beds. They drag them into the swamp. They drag them down into the mud. No one ever sees the kids again. Ever.”
Clark was totally freaked now.
“There really are creatures like that in the swamp. I read about them in school,” I lied. “Horrible monsters. Half-alligator, half-human. Covered with mud. With spiky scales underneath, hidden. If you just brush against one, the scales rip the flesh right off your bones.”
“Gretchen, stop,” Mom warned.
Clark hugged Charley close to him.
“Hey! Clark!” I pointed out the window to an old narrow bridge up ahead. Its wooden planks sagged. It looked ready to crumble. “I bet a swamp monster is waiting for us under that bridge.”
Clark gazed out the window at the bridge. He hugged Charley closer to him.
Dad began steering the car over the old wooden planks. They rumbled and groaned under the weight.
I held my breath as we slowly rolled across. This bridge can’t hold us, I thought. No way.
Dad drove very, very slowly.
It seemed to take forever to ride across.
Clark clung to Charley. He kept his eyes out the window, glued to the bridge.
When we finally neared the end, I let out a long whoosh of air.
And then I gasped—as a deafening explosion rocked the car.
“Nooo!” Clark and I both screamed as the car swerved wildly.
Skidded out of control.
It crashed into the side of the old bridge.
Plowed right through the old wood.
“We-we’re going down!” Dad cried.
I shut my eyes as we plunged into the swamp.
2
We hit hard,
with a loud thud.
Clark and Charley bounced all over the backseat. When the car finally slid to a stop, they were sitting on top of me.
“Is everyone okay?” Mom asked in a shaky voice. She turned to the back.
“Uh-huh,” I replied. “I guess.”
We all sat quietly for a moment.
Charley broke the silence with a soft whimper.
“Wh-what happened?” Clark stammered.
“Flat tire.” Dad sighed. “I hope the spare is okay. There’s no way we’re going to get help at night in the middle of a swamp.”
I leaned out the window to check out the tire. Dad was right. It was totally flat.
Boy, were we lucky, I thought. Lucky this was a low bridge. Otherwise…
“Okay, everybody out of the car,” Mom interrupted my thoughts. “So Dad can change the tire.”
Clark took a long look out the car window before he opened the door. I could tell he was afraid.
“Better be careful, Clark,” I said as he swung his short, stubby legs out the door. “The swamp monster likes low targets.”
“That’s funny, Gretchen. Really funny. Remind me to laugh.”
Dad headed for the trunk to find the jack. Mom followed. Clark and I stepped into the swamp.
“Oh, gross!” My brand-new white high-tops sank into the thick black mud.
I let out a long sigh.
How could anyone live in a swamp? I wanted to know. It was so gross out here.
The air felt thick and soupy. So hot, it was hard to breathe.
As I pulled my hair back into a scrunchie, I glanced around.
I couldn’t see much. The sky had darkened to black.
Clark and I drifted away from the car. “Let’s explore while Dad fixes the tire,” I suggested.
“I don’t think that’s such a great idea,” Clark murmured.
“Sure it is,” I urged. “There’s nothing else to do. And it’s better than standing around here, waiting. Isn’t it?”
“I—I guess,” Clark stammered.
We took a few steps into the swamp. My face began to tingle and itch.
Mosquitoes! Hundreds of them.
We ducked and dodged, frantically brushing them off our faces, off our bare arms.
“Yuck! It’s disgusting out here!” Clark cried. “I’m not staying here. I’m going to Atlanta!”
“It’s not this buggy at Grandma’s house,” Mom called out.
“Oh, sure.” Clark rolled his eyes. “I’m going back to the car.”
“Come on,” I insisted. “Let’s just see what’s over there.” I pointed to a patch of tall grass up ahead.
I stomped through the mud, glancing over my shoulder—to make sure Clark was following me. He was.
As we reached the grass, we could hear a loud rustling deep in the blades. Clark and I peered down, straining to see in the dark.
“Don’t wander too far,” Dad warned, as he and Mom pulled our luggage from the trunk, searching for a flashlight. “There might be snakes out there.”
“Snakes? Whoa!” Clark jumped away. He started running full speed back to the car.
“Don’t be a baby!” I called after him. “Let’s do some exploring.”
“No way!” He choked out the words. “And don’t call me a baby.”
“I’m sorry,” I apologized. “Come on. We’ll walk over to that tree. The one that towers over the others. It’s not that far away. Then we’ll come right back,” I promised. “Puh-lease.”
Clark and I started toward the tree.
We walked slowly. Through the darkness. Through the jungle of cypress trees.
The curtains of gray swayed on the tree branches. They were so thick—thick enough to hide behind.
It would be real easy to get lost in here, I realized. Lost forever.
I shuddered as the heavy gray curtains brushed against my skin. They felt like spiderwebs. Huge, sticky spiderwebs.
“Come on, Gretchen. Let’s turn back,” Clark pleaded. “It’s gross out here.”
“Just a little further,” I urged him on.
We made our way carefully through the trees, sloshing through puddles of inky water.
Tiny bugs buzzed in my ears. Bigger ones bit at my neck. I swatted them away.
I stepped forward—onto a dry, grassy patch of ground. “Whoa!”
The patch started to move. Started to float across the black water.
I leaped off—and stumbled on a tree root. No—not a tree root. “Hey, Clark. Look at this!” I bent to get a better look.
“What is that?” Clark kneeled beside me and peered at the knobby form.
“It’s called a cypress knee,” I explained. “Mom told me about them. They grow near the cypress trees. They rise up from the roots.”
“How come Mom never tells me about these things?” he demanded.
“I guess she doesn’t want to scare you,” I replied.
“Yeah, right,” he muttered, pushing up his glasses. “Want to go back now?”
“We’re almost there. See?” I said, pointing to the tall tree. It stood in a small clearing just a few feet away.
Clark followed me into the clearing.
The air smelled sour here.
The night sounds of the swamp echoed in the darkness. We could hear low moans. Shrill cries. The moans and cries of swamp creatures, I thought. Hidden swamp creatures.
A shiver ran down my spine.
I moved deeper into the clearing. The tree with the high branches stood right before me.
Clark stumbled over a log. Stumbled into a black pool of mucky water.
“That’s it,” he groaned. “I’m outta here.”
Even in the dark, I could see the frightened expression on Clark’s face.
It was scary in the swamp. But Clark seemed so petrified that I started to giggle.
And then I heard the footsteps.
Clark heard them too.
Heavy, thudding footsteps across the black, misty swamp.
Charging closer.
Headed straight for us.
“Come on!” Clark cried, yanking on my arm. “Time to go!”
But I didn’t move. I couldn’t move.
Now I could hear the creature’s breathing. Heavy, rasping breaths. Nearer. Nearer.
It came springing out. From behind the gray-bearded tree limbs.
A tall black form. A huge swamp creature. Loping toward us. Darker than the black swamp mud—with glowing red eyes.
3
“Charley—! What are you doing down there?” Mom cried, marching into the clearing. “I thought you kids were watching him.”
Charley?
I’d forgotten all about Charley.
Charley was the swamp monster.
“I’ve been looking all over for you,” Mom snapped angrily. “Didn’t we tell you to stay by the car? Dad and I have been searching everywhere.”
“Sorry, Mom,” I apologized. I couldn’t say any more. Charley leaped on me and knocked me down—into the mud.
“Off! Charley! Off!” I shouted. But he planted his huge paws on my shoulders and licked my face.
I was covered in mud. Totally covered.
“Come on, boy.” Clark tugged on Charley’s collar. “You were scared, Gretchen. You thought Charley was a swamp monster.” Clark laughed. “You were really scared.”
“I—I was not,” I sputtered, wiping the mud from my jeans. “I was just trying to scare you.”
“You were really scared. Just admit it,” Clark insisted. “Just admit it.”
“I was NOT scared.” My voice started to rise. “Who was the one begging to go back?” I reminded him. “You! You! You!”
“What’s all the fighting about?” Dad demanded. “And what are you two doing way out here? Didn’t I tell you to stay near the car?”
“Um, sorry, Dad,” I apologized. “But we were kind of bored, just waiting around.”
“We! What do you mean we? It was all Gretchen’s idea,”
Clark protested. “She was the one who wanted to explore the swamp.”
“That’s enough!” Dad scolded. “Everyone—back to the car.”
Clark and I argued all the way back. Charley trotted by my side, flinging more mud on my jeans.
The flat was fixed—but now Dad had to get the car back on the road. And it wasn’t easy. Every time he stepped on the gas, the tires just spun around and around in the thick mud.
Finally, we all got out and pushed.
Now Mom and Clark were splattered with mud, too.
As we drove away, I stared out at the dark, eerie marsh.
And listened to the night sounds.
Sharp chitters.
Low moans.
Shrill cries.
I’d heard lots of stories about swamp monsters. And I’d read some ancient legends about them. Could they be real? I wondered. Do swamp monsters really exist?
Little did I know that I would soon find out the answer to that question. The hard way.
4
“Yes. Yes. They do.”
“No way!” I told Dad. “That can’t be where they live!”
“That’s their house,” Dad insisted as the car bumped up a narrow sandy road. “That’s Grandma and Grandpa’s house.”
“That can’t be their house.” Clark rubbed his eyes. “It’s a swamp mirage. I read about them in Creatures from the Muck. The swamp mud plays tricks on your eyes. It makes you see things.”
See what I mean about Clark? He really does believe the stuff he reads.
And it was beginning to sound right to me, too. How else could you explain Grandma and Grandpa’s house?
A castle.
A castle in the middle of a swamp.
Almost hidden in a grove of dark, towering trees.
Dad pulled the car up to the front door. I stared at the house in the glow of the headlights.
Three stories high. Built of dark gray stone. A turret rose up on the right side. On the left, a sliver of white smoke curled from a blackened chimney.
“I thought swamp houses were smaller,” I murmured, “and built on stilts.”
“That’s the way they look in my comic,” Clark agreed. “And what’s with the windows?” His voice shook. “Are they vampires or something?”