“Come on, boy.” Clark tugged on Charley’s collar. “You were scared, Gretchen. You thought Charley was a swamp monster.” Clark laughed. “You were really scared.”
“I—I was not,” I sputtered, wiping the mud from my jeans. “I was just trying to scare you.”
“You were really scared. Just admit it,” Clark insisted. “Just admit it.”
“I was NOT scared.” My voice started to rise. “Who was the one begging to go back?” I reminded him. “You! You! You!”
“What’s all the fighting about?” Dad demanded. “And what are you two doing way out here? Didn’t I tell you to stay near the car?”
“Um, sorry, Dad,” I apologized. “But we were kind of bored, just waiting around.”
“We! What do you mean we? It was all Gretchen’s idea,” Clark protested. “She was the one who wanted to explore the swamp.”
“That’s enough!” Dad scolded. “Everyone—back to the car.”
Clark and I argued all the way back. Charley trotted by my side, flinging more mud on my jeans.
The flat was fixed—but now Dad had to get the car back on the road. And it wasn’t easy. Every time he stepped on the gas, the tires just spun around and around in the thick mud.
Finally, we all got out and pushed.
Now Mom and Clark were splattered with mud, too.
As we drove away, I stared out at the dark, eerie marsh.
And listened to the night sounds.
Sharp chitters.
Low moans.
Shrill cries.
I’d heard lots of stories about swamp monsters. And I’d read some ancient legends about them. Could they be real? I wondered. Do swamp monsters really exist?
Little did I know that I would soon find out the answer to that question. The hard way.
“Yes. Yes. They do.”
“No way!” I told Dad. “That can’t be where they live!”
“That’s their house,” Dad insisted as the car bumped up a narrow sandy road. “That’s Grandma and Grandpa’s house.”
“That can’t be their house.” Clark rubbed his eyes. “It’s a swamp mirage. I read about them in Creatures from the Muck. The swamp mud plays tricks on your eyes. It makes you see things.”
See what I mean about Clark? He really does believe the stuff he reads.
And it was beginning to sound right to me, too. How else could you explain Grandma and Grandpa’s house?
A castle.
A castle in the middle of a swamp.
Almost hidden in a grove of dark, towering trees.
Dad pulled the car up to the front door. I stared at the house in the glow of the headlights.
Three stories high. Built of dark gray stone. A turret rose up on the right side. On the left, a sliver of white smoke curled from a blackened chimney.
“I thought swamp houses were smaller,” I murmured, “and built on stilts.”
“That’s the way they look in my comic,” Clark agreed. “And what’s with the windows?” His voice shook. “Are they vampires or something?”
I stared at the windows. They were tiny. And I could see only three of them. Three tiny windows in the entire house. One on each floor.
“Come on, kids,” Mom said. “Let’s get your luggage.”
Mom, Dad, and Clark climbed out of the car and headed for the trunk. I stood by the car door with Charley.
The night air felt cold and damp on my skin.
I stared up.
Up at the big dark house. Almost hidden behind the trees. In the middle of nowhere.
And then I heard the howl. A mournful howl. From somewhere deep in the swamp.
