I read my watch—8:30. Morning.
I searched through the suitcase for my new pink T-shirt. I needed something to cheer me up—and pink is my favorite color. I pulled on my jeans. Slipped on my muddy sneakers.
I dressed quickly. The room reminded me of a prison cell. I wanted to escape fast.
I opened the bedroom door and peeked into the hall.
Empty.
But there, across from my room, I saw a small window. I hadn’t noticed it the night before.
A bright ray of sunshine filtered through the dusty glass. I peered outside—into the swamp.
A heavy mist hung over the red cypress trees, casting a soft, rosy glow over the wet land. The glowing mist made the swamp look mysterious and unreal.
Something purple fluttered on a nearby tree limb. A purple bird. A purple bird with a bright orange beak. I’d never seen a bird like that before.
Then I heard the sounds again.
The horrible howls. The shrill cries.
From animals hiding deep in the swamp—all kinds of creatures I’d probably never seen before.
Swamp creatures.
Swamp monsters.
I shuddered. Then turned away from the window and headed for Clark’s room.
I knocked on the door. “Clark!”
No answer.
“Clark?”
Silence.
I burst through the door and let out a cry.
The sheets on Clark’s bed lay in a tangled mess—as if there had been some kind of struggle.
And now there was nothing left of Clark—nothing but part of his pajamas, crumpled on the bed!
“Noooo!”
I opened my mouth in a terrified cry.
“Gretchen—what’s your problem?”
Clark stepped out from the closet.
He wore a T-shirt, baseball cap, sneakers, and his pajama bottoms.
“Uh … n-no problem,” I stammered, my heart still pounding.
“Then why did you scream?” Clark demanded. “And why do you look so weird?”
“I look weird? You’re the one who looks weird,” I snapped. I pointed to his pajama bottoms. “Where are your pants?”
“I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I think Mom must have packed them in your suitcase by mistake.”
I have to stop letting this big, old house spook me. Clark is the one with the wild imagination—not me, I reminded myself again.
“Come on,” I told my stepbrother. “Let’s go back to my room and look for your jeans.”
On the way down to breakfast, Clark stopped to peer out the hall window. The mist had cleared. The dew-covered plants glistened in the sunlight.
“It looks sort of pretty, doesn’t it?” I murmured.
“Yeah,” Clark replied. “Pretty. Pretty creepy.”
The kitchen looked pretty creepy too. It was dark—almost as dark in the morning as the night before. But the back door was open and some sun splashed on the floor and the walls.
We could hear the sounds of the swamp through the open door. But I tried to ignore them.
Grandma stood by the stove, a spatula in one hand, a huge plate of blueberry pancakes in the other. She set down the spatula and plate and wiped her hands on her faded flower apron. Then she gave us each a big good-morning hug—smearing Clark with pancake batter.
