46 - How to Kill a Monster

“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.

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.