Misty fog swirled, slowly pirouetting on top of the blackwater, as Gritton pushed his john-boat away from the dock that served to hold his small shack above the depths. Today was the last day of the hunting season for the wily American alligators. They were plentiful in Atchee swamp and he had saved one last tag, for one last kill. He thought it appropriate that the last day to hunt was Halloween. A so called "holiday". Silly in his mind.

He whispered softly, conversing with his rat terrier, Buford, who knew to be quiet too, as he stood alert and ready, a small sentry at the bow of the boat.

"What 'chu say, there Booferd ... ahhhh, they's here, ain't they boy?"

Buford wagged his tail, slowly, in agreement and acknowledgment. His bright eyes watched for a gator's snout to show just above the waterline and his nose twitched in anticipation, seeking the scent of the creatures.

Gritton was wary on this foggy morning. He had seen the biggest alligator in the swamp, or thought he had. Something huge had reared up out of the water and taken a crane, like a frog takes a fly, just days ago, not twenty feet from where his boat had sat. Gritton fled the area for home; shaking and agitated, he sat at his kitchen table, regrouping his thoughts and questioning what he did for a living. But now, determination regained a foothold as he set out on what he hoped would be a safe and successful hunt.

"Damn 'ol 'gator, he ain't a'buffaloin' me, ih he, Booferd?" Despite his brave talk, he felt deep apprehension inside, and he pushed his boat along slowly, carefully, watching the water all around as it swirled with mysterious movements.

Gritton had survived in his life's profession for forty-two years by being careful. Now, after seeing the monster 'gator, he moved slower, keeping his gun and rope closer too. And he thought that maybe he should have left Buford home this time, bringing instead, a human helper. He wished his neighbor Langford was here. But he wanted this to be his kill. It was the last day of the season.


The great creature he sought, had become a local legend, eating dogs, other 'gators; some said even people. Gritton wanted to be the man to bring him in, but doubt and fear nagged him, as he prayed to God he could do it.


The birds of the swamp were quiet as the old man's boat glided silently along the bayous of Atchee, as if they too, were expecting danger. Great strands of moss hung down, almost touching the dark water. And once in a while, they would gently move, as if unseen fingers had wistfully run through them. Gritton held his breath, listening and looking intently at the surface of the water. The silence told him evil was afoot and he made his dog sit down in the center of the boat.

Something white moved through the cypress trees, silent and fleeting. Gritton exhaled, his nerves jangled. Buford wagged his tail, his brown eyes still scanning, searching for any sign of life beneath the swamp-water.


The egret sat on deadfall, still as a statue, the only other living thing in the presence of Gritton and Buford. Gritton waited, he knew the 'gators' were here. He had to find the big one in daylight; trying to land him after dark would not be wise. Not this time. He had to kill him in the daylight.

"Ahh, Booferd, we got a few hours. Hill be 'long ... him here ... him here, yas he ih ... ." Gritton didn't even light his cigarette. He chewed his tobacco to calm his nerves and soon began to relax. Buford finally laid down, the noon sun soft and warm as it chased the misty fog away, letting the swamp shine in a new light.


Both hunters fell into light sleep, unable to resist the caress of the early autumn sun. Dragonflies flitted silently around the hull of the boat, one landing on Buford's nose, waking him up. The little terrier was instantly on guard, searching again for the scent of an alligator close by.

The blackwater moved just to the left of the boat and before Buford could even growl, the ten foot tall creature was upon them, it's huge claws clutching the boat and tipping it over. Water frothed as it pushed the boat under and Gritton found himself in darkness, over his head, completely disorientated and without his rifle.

Shrill shrieks of hell sounded across the swamp as the skeletal thing swathed through the water for it's prey. Claws latched onto the little dog and he was snatched from the water, chewed and spit out to float, lifeless and bloody twenty feet away.

Gritton saw the thing as he reached the surface and gulped for air. He immediately dived back under the water and like the alligators he always pursued, swam to hide behind an underwater log jamb. His sinewy muscles were hard and strong, but age was taking its toll. He had to have air.

He peeked up from his hiding spot and the creature still wreaked havoc on his old boat; it was in metal shreds by now, being swirled and tossed, it was in ruins. Gritton watched in disbelief as the gator he had been hunting raised up and latched onto the monster. Trying to roll with it, the fourteen foot 'gator had literally bit off more than it could chew.

The creature was thin, but strong. And it picked up the alligator, twisting it like a rag, then flinging it in the same direction it had little Buford. Gritton's blood boiled with desire to kill the thing and at the death of his dog. But his gun was long gone, there was nothing he could do but stay hidden. He didn't move. He barely breathed. And he vowed there would be another day.


*******


Gritton clung to the underwater log, for what seemed like hours and finally the montrosity eased back beneath the water after it's rampage. The sun began to sink and the swamp sprang to life once more. The only chance Gritton had of survival was if his neighbor missed him and came looking. He had no lantern, no gun, no boat. Buford was dead and all he had left was a wet cell phone and his skinning knife, which thank God, had stayed in it's sheath at his waist. Gritton took it in his hand, waiting for the next predator to come along. He promised himself he'd go down with a fight.

Thirst overtook his dry throat and he drank one mouthful of swamp water, the rank taste almost gagging him. He looked around and in the moonlight, he could see the ripples as a water moccasin swam perilously close to the log. Gritton once again held his breath. Goddamn the swamp. It was a witch, a voudon priestess, who had put a curse on him.

He managed to position himself between two limbs that barely stuck out of the water. And he listened intently, as the alligators bellowed and talked amongst themselves. He stared into the shadows and knew he was dead if the creature returned and found him. And he cursed the swamp again, muttering in his Cajun tongue.

The silver light of the moon finally began to wane, when the faint sound of a boat motor jerked Gritton wide awake. It was Langford! He recognized the Evinrude humming along and he could hear Langford yelling his name.

"Heah!! Langford! Heah!!" Weak from clinging to the slippery log, Gritton could barely yell, but he raised up the blade of his knife, hoping it would gleam in the little light left from the setting moon.

The boat slowed, the motor cut and Langford yelled his name again. Gritton eased higher up on the log and the movement caught the attention of his friend.

"GRITTON! That you?" Langford started the Evinrude again and sliced through the water toward the log.

"Heah, ya dang fool! Heah!!" Gritton was weak from relief now. The swamp hadn't gotten him just yet. He laughed inside. Damned old bitch.

"Gritton, what in hell happened, man?" Langford was relieved to see his friend alive. But the story he told was unbelievable.

"They's a creature, Lang ... he dun got poor 'lil Booferd."

"Creature? A 'gator Gritton?" Langford pulled his neighbor into his boat, aghast at the tale he was being told. Gritton was shaking, partly from being wet and chilled for so long, but also from fear and relief.


But neither man had a chance. From beneath the swamp, the apparition rose like a god and with lightning flashing from its eyes, the great creature was on them before either could raise a gun.

And the blackwater of Atchee Swamp swirled and foamed as the thing took payment for trespass into its unholy realm ... .