The Werewolf of Fever Swamp

5

I hit the ground hard, landing on my elbows and knees.

My heart leapt into my mouth.

I tasted blood.

"Get up! Get up!" Emily was screaming.

"It — it's got me!" I cried in a tight, trembling voice.

The fluttering in my chest had become a pounding. Again, I tasted blood.

I raised my eyes to see Emily laughing.

Laughing?

"It's just a tree root," she said, pointing.

I followed the direction of her finger — and instantly realized I hadn't been pulled down. I had tripped over one of the many upraised tree roots that arched over the ground.

I stared at the bonelike root. It was bent in the middle and looked like a skinny, white leg.

But what was the blood I tasted?

I felt my aching lip. I had bitten it when I fell.

With a loud groan, I pulled myself to my feet. My knees ached. My lip throbbed. Blood trickled down my chin.

"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.