Swamp Monster

by James Preller

  “Like they drowned?” Lance asked.

  “Eaten by gators, I bet,” Chance mused. “Chomp, chomp.”

  “Gross!” Rosie gave Chance a punch on the shoulder for that one, even though she laughed. “All I know is what I heard,” she said. “It’s a dangerous place. Real polluted. Smells awful. They say there’s strange creatures live out here, like nothing nobody has ever seen.”

  The path started out firm and dry. But as they drew deeper into the heart of the dark land, it grew wet and sludgy. Chance led the way.

  Rosalee paused, looking around.

  “This way,” Chance said. “Still a-ways to go.”

  “I remember this place. There,” Rosie pointed to the left, in the direction of Dead River. “Uncle Edgardo used to stash his boat down this other way, I think.”

  “Ain’t you sure?” Chance asked.

  Rosie shook her head. “I haven’t been back here in a few years, ever since Uncle Edgardo disappeared.”

  “What?” Lance said. “He disappeared, too?”

  “There’s bad things in these woods,” Rosie explained. “Snakes and such. My father says he likely ran off with a pretty waitress. Who knows what happened. You two wait here. I’ll scout ahead down this bitty side path, take a little look.”

  Rosie pushed ahead down the barely-there path.

  “I don’t want to get lost,” Lance confided to his brother.

  “Like Hansel and Gretel in the woods,” Chance replied. “We might get cooked in a pie!”

  Lance frowned. “The witch tried to cook them in an oven—but there weren’t no pie that I recall.”

  A moment later, Rosie called out, “I found it! The Dead River, and my uncle’s boat!”

  They followed the sound of her voice and soon stared at a battered, old, upside-down canoe. It had been pulled ashore and propped up against a tree. Vines grew over it, like the arms of a green octopus. Two paddles lay on the ground beside it.

  “I sure don’t know about this,” Lance said, doubtfully.

  “Aw, it’ll be fun,” Chance stated. And soon enough, they were floating in the canoe on the Dead River that trickled, ever so slowly, into Dismal Swamp. Lance and Chance paddled. Rosie sat in the front.

  The river was still, nearly stagnant. It was hardly a river at all. More like a tired, old body of water that only wanted to lie down and sleep. It stank of decay and rotted leaves. Once in a while, a bird called. A faint splash signaled an animal entering the water, a gator or water rat or who knows what. The leaves of a bush trembled for an instant, quivering in the stillness.

  It was, to the twins, a silence that felt like danger, of bad things about to happen. “Somebody got it right when they named this place Dismal,” Lance observed. A feeling of dread burrowed deep into his bones.

  Still the boys paddled on, carving through the dark, shallow water.

  At last, they entered Dismal Swamp. Lance rested the paddle across his lap. He tilted his head.

  “You tired already, brother?” Chance teased.

  “Shhh. Hear that?” Lance whispered.

  Rosie and Chance leaned forward, aching to hear. CRACK, CRACK, SPLASH! It was the sound of distant thunder. Lance looked up through a small gap in the overhanging trees. The sky was clear. Not a cloud. Then another sound reached them, a sound that was hard to describe. It was like a mournful song, a desolate groan—wind in the darkness—carrying all the sorrow of the world in its arms.

  “I have a bad feeling,” Rosie said, turning around. The boys saw Rosie’s white, ghost-like face. She shivered. And because of that—because of what they saw in her eyes—Lance and Chance felt a sharp jab of fear, too.

  CRACK again, louder this time. Nearer. And again came the high-pitched, waterlogged, pitiful cry.

  OOOOOOH, OOOOOOH.

  Chance whispered, “Whatever’s making that noise, it’s just up around the bend, beyond those mangrove trees. I say we tie off. I don’t like it out here on the open water.”

  A pull of the paddle, then another, and the boat eased into the shore, obscured by a blanket of hanging moss.

  “Let’s sneak up real quiet,” Chance said.

  “And watch out for snakes, Rosie,” Lance warned. “The yellow-backed ones can kill you with just one bite.”

  6

  THE CREATURE OF THE SWAMP

  They picked their way through the boggy muck. Sometimes a foot squished deeply into the mud, as if gripped by the earth. When a foot got stuck in the ground, it only came loose with a hard yank, followed by a sucking sound, thwuuck-wuuffft. Most times the three explorers climbed cautiously along the slippery roots of mangroves.

  Chance led the way, his blood humming, going thrum-thrum-thrum. As they scrambled forward, the cries grew louder. The sounds were full of violence and pain, as if made by a wounded animal.

  And then—there, through a tangle of moss, across the swampy water—they spied it.

  The creature of the swamp.

  It could not be real.

  No way.

  Impossible.

  And yet, there it stood.

  Lance, Rosie, and Chance huddled close in a tangle of arms and legs. No one spoke. They stared in silent terror.

  The creature was covered in moss and blisters, bumps and nasty sores. It had the shape of a man: a giant or a circus freak, but like no man of this earth.

  A mutant—part gator, part fish, part beast.

  They had never seen anything like it. Except for once before, back home, in a handmade cage.

  For clearly, this horrible creature was related to Thing.

  The monster beat its scaly chest. It cried in a groan of agony. It easily snapped a thick limb from the tree—CRACK!—and hurled the branch into the boggy water.

  It stomped and raged.

  And suddenly, as a breeze kicked up, it stopped.

  And sniffed.

  And looked warily around.

  “Shhh,” Chance said needlessly, for no one dared speak. Rosie trembled, shaking with fear. Lance took her hand, tugged. This-a-way, he gestured. Slow and easy.

  Rosie nodded and gripped Lance’s hand tighter.

  Chance stumbled on a root, ripping open a bloody gash of flesh. “Ow!” he groaned out loud.

  Lance quickly covered his twin’s mouth.

  Three sets of young eyes stared out through the underbrush. Now the creature was hunched low, like a catcher in a baseball game, one clawed forelimb touching the ground. Its yellow eyes scanned the tree line. Searching, questioning.

  In one smooth motion, it dove soundlessly into the water. Cool and gone. Hidden beneath the murky dark.

  “I’m so scared,” Rosie confessed. Her voice choked with fright.

  “Let’s go,” Lance whispered, his voice soft, but clear. “Now.”

  “To the boat?” Chance asked.

  Rosie shook her head, No, no, no. Not back, not that way.

  Lance pointed in the opposite direction. Nodded once, looking to Chance for agreement.

  Chance viewed the pathless muck. “Very messy, very slow,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

  7

  UNDER THE WATER

  The swamp creature, a female, sank through the water to the soft bottom. Eyes closed, she rolled her tongue back into her throat.

  She felt safe in the cool wet.

  Protected in the dark.

  Unseen. Away from all eyes.

  She breathed like a fish, through gills in her neck. Sometimes, she stayed under for hours, for days and weeks, and through the long months of winter, sleeping under a blanket of mud like a turtle.

  With a subtle movement, she glided through the black water like a hawk riding the currents of the wind.

  A thought troubled her mind.

  Others were out there … Others had come to her home, her alone-place. She had sensed them, smelled them, seen them.

  So she hid, as she always did.

  She moved in the safe dark, the cool dark, and she grieved again for the egg that
was gone. The child she never knew. That was her loss. And then slowly, painfully—like a cloud that gathers itself in the stormy sky—a new question formed in her skull.

  Was the egg stolen?

  Had it been taken … by the Others?

  Those faces in the woods?

  She had glimpsed them.

  Their ugly, round eyes.

  Their skin like smooth stones.

  Little monsters.

  New feelings began to stir inside the heart of the swamp creature.

  Feelings of anger, of rage and revenge.

  Her eyes opened, yellow in the black water.

  With a push of her webbed feet, she rose like an arrow to the surface. Up to the air, to the afternoon light.

  She would hunt them down, those pale faces in the woods.

  She observed from the water, the way a gator cruises along the surface. Waiting, patient, watchful.

  Where are you? she wondered.

  And this thought came, too:

  What have you done to my precious one?

  8

  THE HUNT

  There was no clear path.

  Lance, Chance, and Rosie moved through an area of shallow swamp water. A black and sodden mess of mud and slime.

  “It smells awful here,” Rosie said, holding a hand over her nose and mouth.

  “No talking, not yet,” Lance warned.

  It was slow, moving through the swamp. Normally, Lance and Chance would never have taken this route. Not in a million years. But the sight of that monster was fresh in their minds. It looked wild and dangerous, like an illustration from a bizarre comic book.

  Small drops of blood dripped from the gash in Chance’s knee. Rosie noticed. They paused. She scooped up a handful of mud and spread it across the wound. “There, nature’s Band-Aid,” she said.

  They moved on, trudging step by step. Their feet sank into the shin-deep water, and at times, it felt as if the mud held them tight.

  I WON’T LET GO, I WON’T LET GO.…

  With a pull, a twist, a fierce yank, the foot was freed.

  Thus they traveled: one step, one step, one step. Muscles ached and strained. They constantly slapped and scratched at mosquitoes. Weary, so weary. But their fright kept them plunging forward. They dared not pause to rest. They had to get far away from that thing … far from that monster back there.

  “Hey, guys, um,” Chance said, lagging behind. “I think I’m stuck. Can’t seem to get my leg out.”

  A new cry filled the air, the horrible call of the swamp creature. It was far off, a distance away, but still out there somewhere. Hearts beating faster, Lance and Rosie grabbed Chance by the arms. They hauled and pulled.

  THWUCK.

  Chance’s bare foot jerked free.

  “My sneaker!” he exclaimed. He reached into the water, tried to free it from the mud. “It’s caught on a root or something.”

  “Leave it, we don’t have time,” Lance said. “Up a bit, another fifty feet, there’s dry land. We’ll move faster soon.”

  Chance didn’t argue. They were all on the edge of panic. Not a minute to waste.

  * * *

  Behind them, the swamp creature paused at the exact spot where the three children had huddled together. It was where she had first glimpsed them, hiding behind a curtain of moss. She smelled the boy’s blood on the mangrove root. Tasted with her tongue the faintest slice of flesh that had been left from the boy’s wound.

  It was, the creature thought, delicious.

  Fresh meat.

  She followed on.

  9

  FULL DARK

  It was raining in the full dark. The creature felt grateful for the rain. Water was her friend. Water was kind. She had never before come onto the Land of the Others. Some instinct had always told her to stay away. This place meant danger. So she waited in the declining twilight. She sat in stillness through the steady downpour. Like a chameleon: eyes shut, tongue rolled back, invisible in the thicket. The mother waited for night to wrap itself around her. The darkness, too, was her friend.

  On the ground beside her lay Chance’s muddy sneaker. She had found it, carried it all this way, following the scent. Hours earlier, she came across the structure the boys had built. The aroma filled her nostrils and at once she understood everything. Her very own had been here. The life that had been inside the egg. She felt new hope.

  Thinking, mine.

  But the cage was empty.

  In a sudden fury, she destroyed it all. Smashed the boards, clawed deep gashes into the earth, cried out in rage.

  Where are you, little one?

  Finally at last, she stepped out of the woods. She sniffed the air, seeking the scent of her lost one. Where, oh, where? In the near distance stood a large structure. A dwelling place of the Others. She could smell them inside. The ones with faces as smooth as stones.

  The egg stealers.

  A cloud crossed before the moon.

  The sky darkened.

  It was time.

  She stepped forward.

  SQUILCH, SQUILCH, SQUILCH.

  Fury in her heart.

  And suddenly, the house went dark.

  * * *

  Their mother was out. On weekends, she worked the night shift at the 24-hour truck stop, where she poured coffee, served eggs, and always returned the next morning with a pocket jammed with dollar bills. Lance and Chance sat around a linoleum table in their small kitchen, eating crackers and slices of pepperoni. They were weary and still stunned by what they had seen.

  “We shouldn’t have let her take Thing tonight,” Lance said.

  Chance shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. Rosie’s a hard girl to say ‘no’ to. You know that, Lance. Plus, it’s been raining hard.”

  “Thing likes water, rain don’t bother it any,” Lance protested.

  “She’ll take care of it. Rosie said she’ll keep Thing safe in her shed,” Chance reasoned. “We’ll figure this out in the morning. We can’t let things stay the way they are.”

  Lance shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “I’m too tired to argue,” Chance replied. With a sharp knife, he cut the last hunk of pepperoni into two. He popped one slice into his mouth, and pushed the last piece toward Lance. A peace offering. Brothers. Share and share alike.

  Lance checked the clock. Near midnight. He rose to bring the plate and two glasses to the sink. He’d wash them in the morning. He parted the curtains, peered out the window. “Still raining steady,” he noted.

  And then his heart skipped. He said: “What the—?”

  Chance turned in his chair. He knew his brother well, every tone in his voice. “What is it?”

  “I think I saw something,” Lance said. “A shadow moving by the trees.”

  Chance came to the window. “Hard to see,” he said. “Shut the light.”

  Lance flipped the wall switch. The room went dark. And outside, under the night stars, they clearly saw a large, shadowy figure moving awkwardly toward the house.

  SQUILCH, SQUILCH, SQUILCH.

  “Upstairs, quick!” Chance ordered. He grabbed the knife off the table.

  The boys bounded up the stairs in threes. By the time they reached the landing—BOOM! CRUNCH!—the front door flew open, knocked of its hinges.

  The swamp monster stepped into the house.

  10

  THE CHASE

  The creature stood wavering, confused, uncertain. For the first time in her life, she had ventured inside a man-made dwelling. This was not a natural place. It felt cold and hard. A shiver of doubt entered her mind.

  * * *

  SLAM!

  Chance slammed the bedroom door. The boys quickly hauled a heavy dresser in front of it.

  “Useless,” Lance muttered.

  “The window, brother,” Chance said.

  * * *

  Stairs were a new problem. She had never before encountered a flight of stairs. There were not even hillsides in the swampland, which was flat. The stai
rs seemed too small for her webbed feet. But still, she climbed—SQUILCH, SQUILCH, SQUELCH—water dripping off her scales. Plink, plink on the wooden steps.

  Up and up and up.

  And then, confusion.

  Nothing there.

  The Others had vanished.

  She heard a sound. She sensed they were behind the door, though she had no word for door. No language for any of these things. “Door” was only an obstacle that separated her from what she wanted. The swamp creature had come for the Others. So she smashed through the door.

  Honey, I’m home.

  * * *

  Chance and Lance were long practiced in the art of sneaking out of the house. They had climbed out of their bedroom window dozens of times. But never this recklessly. Lance went first. He swung a foot over, then the other, and hung for a brief instant from the ledge. It was a good drop, and dangerous if he fell the wrong way. Easy to snap a leg or sprain an ankle. Lance had no time to worry about those things. He dropped and rolled onto the wet ground. Chance was next. He paused, dangling by one hand, and with the other, closed the window.

  Slipping, slipping.

  “Geronimo!” he whispered.

  He fell through the air and landed on a jagged rock. Oomppff, Chance collapsed to the ground. A jolt of pain shivered through his leg. Chance immediately knew that his ankle was broken.

  The next moment, jagged shards of glass rained down from the sky. The window shattered.

  A cry of bewildered pain came from the swamp monster. Blood and fury. The Others had escaped. Now the creature stood—raging, crazed, furious—inside the bedroom of Chance and Lance LaRue. Comic books scattered on the floor. Posters of Dallas Cowboys on the walls.

  It turned, went out of the room, and tumbled down the stairs.

  11

  CAPTURED

  “Run!” Lance exclaimed.

  Chance hobbled forward a step and fell. “I can’t, it’s broken.”

  Lance pulled his twin to his feet, held Chance by the waist with one arm. He took Chance’s left arm and wrapped it across his shoulders. “I’ve got you, Chance. We gotta move, we gotta move now!”