WEBVTT
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Hello, my spookies. Welcome back to the IDEs of March,
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that special stretch of the calendar where the air feels
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a little heavier and the world starts acting like it's
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been waiting for you to slip. Tonight's collection drifts in
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on swamp mist and rotten moonlight. You'll hear the hush
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of water that's too still, the soft drag of something
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scaled through reads, and the old local kind of warning
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people laugh off right up until the laughing stops. Then
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the hunger moves in. Not the normal kind, the kind
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with rules, the kind that turns the wild into a
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menu and turns people into ingredients, whether they volunteered or not.
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You'll feel it in the gut, that slow realization that
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nature isn't beautiful, it's honest, and it doesn't care if
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you're scared. And just when you think you've escaped into
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the safety of daylight, you'll wake up to the sound
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of an alarm you never ask for. Only this time,
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the noise isn't calling you to work, it's calling something
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to you. Because in the IDEs of March, even morning
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can be a threat, and the dead don't appreciate being
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put on a schedule, So settle in, get those lights low,
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the doors locked, and remember, some legends don't live in books.
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Some live in places you shouldn't go, in appetites you
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shouldn't feed. And remember, next Saturday we'll have another collection
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of IDEs of March stories from the Weekly Spooky Vault.
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And of course, subscribe today if you haven't already, and
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make sure you don't miss a brand new scary tale
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every Wednesday all year long. Now let's kick off the
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morbid joy Gator Boy of Dead or Swamp by David
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ohan Lay. Garrett Jenkins hated the swamp. He looked around
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the moonlit banks with growing uneasiness. Even if the place
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weren't cursed, he'd still have hated it. When he was little,
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they'd lived in a dilapidated stilt house with his grandparents
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on the edge of Dead Or Swamp, and he remembered
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it all vividly, the terrifying bellows of the alligators and
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their glowing eyes sitting still on the black water outside
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his bedroom window. That had been the worst. He'd never
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been happier than when his pops moved them to the
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duplex in town. Garrett never went to the swamp when
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it was time to visit his grandparents. He suddenly got
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sick when his old man wanted to go fishing. He
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remembered a school project that was due immediately. He hated
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that damn swamp more than anything, but taking your date
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to Bracket's Thumb was a Champsville tradition. He'd never gotten
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the opportunity before, and he wouldn't again. He looked over
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at Tony Rising. Her hair and make up were done
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up perfectly. It was only their fourth date, but also
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their last. They both had great opportunities far from Luxton County,
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and neither was stupid enough to squander that. They both
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knew this was their only chance, so they snuck out
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of the graduation party and headed to the Thumb. They
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sat in the air conditioning of Garrett's Oldsmobile, listening to
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the Cure and watching the haunted swamp. A new Jeep
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wagoner with big mud tires and a boat trailer was
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parked on the far side of the cracked asphalt. The
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night fishers were long gone by the time the couple arrived.
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It made Garrett more nervous. There was only one reason
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to visit the Thumb, after all, what if they came
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back and caught him in Tony. He knew they needed
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to speed things up, but they both waited for the
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other to initiate. They moved nervously in false start, and
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then giggled with embarrassment. Tony cupped his face in her
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hands and leaned in for a soft kiss. Then sighed,
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I hate this town. She whispered, I thought coming out
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here would give me one thing to miss when I
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left in the fall. She leaned back against the passenger
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side door. Garrett twisted to her face. He was secretly
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glad she'd broken contact. It had been a simple, boring kiss,
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but it had been more than enough for the virgin.
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He squirmed uncomfortably, hoping the shadow of the dash would
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hide the bulge in his leviyes. That's why I'm here, too,
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he said. I don't think making it on the boat
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ramp is what I need. She said, we can go
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somewhere else, Garrett suggested. Old man Otto always leaves his
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tractor unlocked. You do you know how many people have
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had sex in that tractor. I'm pretty sure I was
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conceived in that tractor. Garrett admitted he was probably still
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called old man Otto back then too. The guy probably
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knew Reverend Bracket in person. Who's that? Tony asked, with
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obvious embarrassment, Hugh've lived here your whole life, and you
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don't know the story of the thumb. Garrett laughed, How
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is that even possible? It sticks out from the swamp
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like a thumb. Tony shrugged, I never really cared about
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the graudy old swamp. Who was Bracket? Wow? Okay? Garrett
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cleared his throat and changed his position. We should have
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a campfire for this. That's how most of us hear it,
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settle for just hearing it before first semester. It was
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the summer of eighteen eighty eight he started. It had
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been raining for weeks. The men of Champsville were going
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stir crazy being stuck indoors with their wives. Somewhere out
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there across the swamp was a two story whorehouse called
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the Sweet Marsh. In The Sweet Marsh was well known
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in Rooker in Brownsburg, but the Champsville men rarely took
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the eighteen mile journey around the gator infested swamp to
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visit Madam Maddie. With the water up, some of the
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guys decided to shortcut the distance in their boats. They
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came back with erotic tales of the Sweet Marsh. Enterprising
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locals started building rafts for the men to rent. Some
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of them were better built than others, and not all
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of them made it back. Drownings and gator attacks were commonplace,
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so no one really thought anything of it. Naturally, other
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guys thought they were smarter and kept making the trip
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until their luck ran out. It went like that through
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July and most of August. That's when Reverend Brackett came
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to town. Did he have a giant thumb tony interrupted
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or an extra thumb like the guy we saw at
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the fair. I'll get to the thumb in a minute,
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Garrett promised. Brackett had been a Confederate bushwhacker, where he
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earned the name Brutal Bracket. Some time after, he found
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God but didn't quite lose the temperament. He became a preacher,
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traveling with a flock of deranged followers that called themselves
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the Church of Immaculate Wrath. They came to champs like
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a plague. They told the locals the truth about the
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Sweet Marsh. Madam Mattie was a witch and was sacrificing
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the Champsville husbands to the devil The widows were happy
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to hear it. They liked that version better than their
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husband's dying. In order to get some strange, the mob
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stormed the lawn of the brothel, which was sixty feet
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of soggy grass and alligator turrets. Madam Mattie was no pushover.
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When Brackett's devotees tried to torch the inn, she led
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her hookers in an armed counter attack. It was a
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hell of a fight, but the church won. Bracket hung
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the girls from the inn's balconies and left them for
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the customers to see. No one knows if it had
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a name before, but from that day on the area
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was called dead Horse Swamp. Thick accents and poor literacy
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led to maps listing it as dead or and eventually
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that stuck instead. That's terrible, Tony looked across the swamp.
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How morbid can you be? What happened to Mattie? Well,
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if you'd stop interrupting, I'd tell you. Garrett settled back
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into his storytelling voice. When it was time for her judgment,
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Mattie remained defiant. She bit off Bracket's finger and ran
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with her hands still tied up and the finger clenched
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between her teeth. She went straight into the swamp. The
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church tried to pursue the smell of death or maybe
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Maddie's black magic brought the gaiters out in full force,
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and they swarmed the men until Bracket was the only survivor.
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A week later, a finger, a thumb, they say, was
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found right here where we're sitting. That's why we call
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it Bracket's thumb. Mattie never came out of the swamp,
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and everyone assumed she had been eaten as well, until
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she began appearing in the brackish waters around Champsville. People
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saw her in the distance, always half submerged and seemingly
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at home among the reptiles and muck. Almost a year
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after the Sweet Marsh massacre, Champsville got woke up by
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a woman's screams coming from the swamp. The sightings of
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Madam Maddie stopped that night. Legend says that she ran
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away that evening, but she was raped by the alligators.
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The scream heard in Chanceville nine months later for her
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giving birth to the inhuman offspring, the Gator Boy of
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Dead or Tony, broke into laughter. It's true, Garrett promised
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Gator Boy has been seen for generations, especially when it rains. Sure,
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Tony scooted closer to him. It rained yesterday. I didn't
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see your croc boy, gator boy. No, sweetie, it's a crock,
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She caressed his face. Let's make our own story. They
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made out passionately for a long time before Garrett worked
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up the nerve to move his groping hands underneath her shirt.
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He circled her nipple with his thumb and gently pinched.
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She moaned and worked at the button of his jeans.
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Garrett sucked the side of Tony's neck. She screamed, and
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he felt like a total stud until he realized it
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hadn't been a scream of pleasure. He pushed himself away
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from her. What did I do something wrong? He asked.
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There was something outside. It's a swamp. There's lots of
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things outside, not like that. There aren't. Metal shrieked outside.
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A flicker caught Garrett's attention. A strange red glow emanated
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from behind the vehicle. Another scrape, then a third that
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lasted longer than the others. The ominous glow moved. Tony
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looked over the seats, start the engine, Garrett. She whispered
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the reptilian face popped up in her open window, with
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its eyes burning brightly. Tony scooted backwards across the seat
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until she was in Garrett's lap. The monster disappeared before
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she could get a good look. Garrett turned the key,
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but the car didn't start. He tried again, but the
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engine wouldn't turn over. No way, he growled, I just
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got it tuned up, why won't it start? A tire
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popped and the car lurched to one side. The reptilian
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monster peeked over the hood at the two teens. Their
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planned to spend the evening screaming in each other arms
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had come to twisted fruition. The monster darted suddenly out
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of sight. Garrett watched its tail swinging wildly as it
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ran for the bushes. The two teens held onto each other,
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unable to move. The nightmare was gone. For Chris Davidson,
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it was only the beginning. He tightened the lug nuts
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on the spare tire. He'd had too many cups of
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the spiked punch at the graduation party and shouldn't have
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been driving. He'd swerve to avoid an animal on the
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poorly maintained two lane road. The tire blew, and he'd
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careemed through the scrub, scratching the hell out of the
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silica and busting the headlight. It could have been worse.
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If he'd pulled the wheel in the other direction, he'd
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be drowning in the swamp instead of changing attire. Dad
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is gonna kill my ass, he said, tossing the ruined
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tire into the back of the car. Chris listened to
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the night sounds. Crickets and cicadas carried on ceaselessly. Bullfrogs
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did their best to drown them out, while nighthawks added
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their sporadic calls to the mix. Thin clouds obscured the
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half moon, casting waves of shadow over everything below. He
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heard a guttural hiss. Recognition sent shivers racking through his body.
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He whirled, pointing the flashlight at the swamp. He knew
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it was there somewhere, but the weak kmart special barely
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had the power to illuminate the brush. He scanned low
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for the eye shine, but saw nothing. His brother had
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run over a gaiter once on the same stretch, and
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it ripped the transmission clean out from under the small pickup.
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The gaiter survived, and ever since Chris imagined it was
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out there looking to take its revenge on any vehicle
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it could. An idea came to him. That was the
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story he'd tell his dad. The gaiter did it. He
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was driving along Stone sober, and that bastard sprang from
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nowhere and bit his tire off. That might work. Chris
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might have been eighteen, but that wouldn't save his hide
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if he admitted he'd been driving his graduation present shitfaced
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and wrecked it on the first night of ownership. He
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laughed at his own genius, and another hiss answered him.
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Chris moved the light in its direction. At the far
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reach of the beam, a bush seemed to be growling,
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rising straight up from the ground. Then eyes did shine
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back at him. Chris dropped the light. Its plastic housing
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shattered on the blacktop. The monster broke from its cover.
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Chris bolted from the car door. He'd just gotten his
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hands on it when an impossible force struck him from behind.
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The jaws snapped together with an audible crack that left
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Chris's ears ringing. He felt a pull at his scalp
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as the monster tore a chunk of his high top.
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His head. Thick reptilian fingers gripped his arm, keeping Chris
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face down on the road. The teeth came together once more.
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This time, the beast didn't miss The bite cracked the
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team's skull. His eyes bulged from their sockets. Chris could
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hear the teeth grinding against bone. Then he couldn't hear
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anything at all. Terry Billings laughed his ass off as
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he stripped away the Gator Boy costume he'd pieced together
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from spare parts of old Halloween costumes. He'd had a
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crush on Tony since the seventh grade, and that basically
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made them a couple as far as he was concerned.
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He wasn't about to stand while she ran off to
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the thumb with some other guy. He tossed the costume
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into the bed of the Scottsdale. Another round of laughter
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overtook him. They'd tell the story of their encounter with
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Gator Boy, and the whole town would get a very