Sniffing loudly, urgently.

He sniffed the refrigerator.

He lumbered over to the stove and sniffed some more. He plodded around the room. Sniffing.

He smells us. He smells Clark and me, I thought. Please, see the pie. See the pie.

The creature stomped back to the stove.

Sniffing.

He bent down and peered into the oven. Then he ripped the oven door off its hinges and hurled it across the room.

The door hit the wall with a loud crash. Clark jumped in fright and banged his head on the table. He let out a low moan.

I moaned too. “Look,” I whispered.

The creature was eating—but he wasn’t eating our pie. There were two pies still in the oven. And the creature was stuffing himself with them.

Oh, no, I thought. He’ll eat those pies. Then he’ll be full. He won’t eat our pie! We’re as good as dead.

The monster hungrily jammed the two pies into his mouth. He practically swallowed them whole. Then he lumbered to the center of the room.

Sniffing.

Yes! He’s still hungry! I thought. Eat our pie. Eat our pie, I chanted to myself.

I peered out from under the table—and saw the creature, heading toward the counter. Yes!

He stopped.

And sniffed.

He saw the pie.

He eyed it for a moment. Then he lifted it to his mouth and shoved it in.

Yes! I cheered silently. He’s eating it! He’s eating our pie!

He chomped away at the pie. Chomped and shoved more into his huge mouth. Chomped and shoved. Chomped and shoved.

He licked his big lips as he ate.

He licked his paws.

He rubbed his stomach.

“Oh, no!” I groaned. “He likes it!”

I watched the monster shove the last bit of pie into his mouth.

Then he flicked his reptile tongue in and out, licking up every last crumb from the pie tin.

“It isn’t working,” I moaned to Clark. “He loves it.”

“Now what are we going to do?” he whispered back. He hugged his knees tightly to his chest to keep them from shaking.

The monster let out a long groan.

I peered out from under the table. I saw the creature’s eyes bug out. They practically popped out of his head!

A gurgling, choking sound escaped his throat.

He grasped his neck with his two hairy paws.

He groaned again.

His stomach rumbled—a deep rumble. He clutched his stomach and doubled over.

He uttered a weak cry of pain—and surprise.

Then he dropped dead on the kitchen floor.

“We did it! We did it!” I cheered. “We killed the swamp monster!”

I pulled Clark out from under the table.

I studied the creature from across the room. I was sure he was dead—but I still didn’t want to get too close.

The monster’s scaly eyelids were closed.

I stared at his chest—to see if it moved. To see if he was breathing.

His chest remained still.

I stared at him a few moments longer.

He didn’t stir.

Clark peered over my shoulder. “Is—is he really dead?” he stammered.

“Yes!” I was sure of it now. Totally sure. “We did it!” I cried. I jumped up and down joyfully. “We killed the monster! We killed him!”

Clark reached into his back pocket—for his comic book, Creatures from the Muck. He hurled it across the room. It hit the monster in the head and fell to the floor.

“I never want to read about swamp monsters again. Never!” Clark cried. “Let’s get out of here!”