14 - The Werewolf of Fever Swamp Page 2

  “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.

  6

  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!”

  7

  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.”

  “Harm
less?” 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!

  8

  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 k
now. 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.

  9

  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.”