R. Stine: The Werewolf of Fever Swamp

"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."

"No, Dad. This is different," I insisted. "The heron — it was ripped in two. I mean, like someone took it, and — "

"Another bird, maybe," Dad said, concentrating on the deer hoof. "A larger bird of prey. It could have been — "

"We saw the swamp hermit," I interrupted. "He had blood all over his shirt. Then we saw paw prints in the ground. All around the dead bird."

"Grady, calm down," Dad said, setting down the deer's leg. "If you go exploring in the swamp, you're going to see a lot of frightening-looking things. But don't let your imagination run away with you."

"Will said it was done by a monster!" I exclaimed.

Dad frowned and scratched his head through the cap. "I see your new friend has a good imagination, too," he said quietly.

That night, I was glad my parents agreed to let Wolf sleep in my room. I felt a lot safer with the big dog curled up on the rug beside my bed.

I hadn't been able to shake the ugly picture of the dead heron from my mind. I watched some TV until dinnertime. Then after dinner, I played a long chess game with Emily.

But no matter what I did, I kept seeing the white feathers scattered over the ground, the torn-apart bird lying crumpled on the path.

So now I felt a little comforted with Wolf sleeping in the room. "You'll protect me, won't you, boy?" I whispered from my bed.

He uttered a low snort. Light from the full moon spilled over him through the window. I saw that he was sleeping with his head resting on his two front paws.

Then I drifted into a dreamless sleep.

I don't know how long I slept.

I was awakened some time later by a horrifying crash.

I sat straight up with a startled gasp.

The crash had come from the living room, I realized.

Someone was breaking in!

Was it a burglar?

I climbed out of bed, my heart pounding, and crept to the door.

Another crash. A loud thump.