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KIRSTEN MCDONALD

The Secrets of Sweetgum Swamp: Chapter One

 

 

The mosquito whined invisibly around Jenna’s head, and for the millionth time that night, she slapped at it.   Fifteen seconds later, the high pitched buzzing swirled another attempt.  

 

Jenna sighed and yanked the sheet over her head.  She wondered how she was ever going to survive this visit to her grandmother’s house on the edge of Sweetgum Swamp.  Her legs were sticky where they touched, and her pajama shirt felt like a plastic bag.  Under the protection of the sheet, Jenna pulled the clammy shirt from her stomach, but the instant she let go, it flopped limply back in place.  Jenna rolled onto her side.  She tucked her improvised mosquito net tightly around her head in hopes of blocking any and all entrances the mosquito might try to use.  

 

She tried to fall asleep.

 

But the mosquito kept whining, and her legs kept sticking, and the sheet was holding in every bit of body heat and molecule of exhaled water vapor.

 

Jenna threw the sheet off and stomped over to the box fan jammed into the window of her second floor bedroom.  She stood in front of the fan with her arms and legs spread wide to catch every ounce of breeze.  Silently she dared the mosquito to bite her and added air conditioning to the growing list of things she was missing on her first night here at Belldock Farm.

 

In the dark, she gazed over the top of the fan into the backyard.  Even without any streetlights, Jenna could make out the chicken coop with its fenced run that bordered the big pecan tree, and she could see old barn with its sliding doors rusted permanently open.  Beyond the barn, the old iron bell rested in its locust post frame.  A weathered dock reached drunkenly into the black waters and cypress trees of the swamp that her grandmother claimed was a river.  Lightning bugs flicked on and off in the night out of sync with the calls of the bull frogs and cicadas that were loud enough to be heard over the rattle of the box fan.

 

Jenna absently slapped at the mosquito that had braved the fan’s breeze to zero in on her ear, and then she massaged her ear to get rid of the ringing.  She considered smearing bug spray all over her body but knew that the oily spray would amplify the humidity’s stickiness. 

A faint bluish light far out in the swamp caught Jenna’s eye, and she thought about the colonies of fireflies and phosphorescent algae that her dad had told her about.  She also thought of ghosts — but at eleven years old, Jenna only believed in ghosts as something to include in a scary story she might tell her little sister Emily.

 

She sighed, pulled her hair up off of her neck, and turned so that the fan could cool the exposed skin.  She wished once more that her grandmother’s house had air conditioning.  Or better yet, that she was back at home in Atlanta sleeping in her mosquito-free, air conditioned bedroom complete with wifi access and cell phone reception and that her grandmother were visiting them there. 

Jenna yawned and scratched at the bug bites on her leg.  She remembered the anti-itch cream that her mother had sent with her and walked purposefully from the relative bliss of the box fan to the old oak dresser with its lyre mirror.  In the dark, Jenna fumbled among the bottles and tubes of sunscreen and body mist and deodorant until she located the newly opened tube of anti-itch cream.  

 

She slathered some on her leg hoping it would lessen the itching and knowing that it would increase the sticky feeling of the Eastern North Carolina night.  

 

The relentless mosquito whined at her ear again.

 

“Stupid mosquito!” she complained to the hot, muggy air.  Jenna sighed disgustedly and groped with resignation through the stuff on the dresser top until her hands closed around a tall slim bottle slightly slick with residue. She popped back the attached cap and immediately recognized the acrid, oily smell of bug repellant.  

 

In the dark, she pumped a small amount of the spray onto her finger tips.  She was just about to rub her the bug repellant onto her ears, when the temperature in the room dropped precipitously. 

 

Jenna jerked her attention up to the reflection in the mirror.  For just a fraction of a second, she thought she saw a pale blue mist hovering just inside the bedroom before slipping like fog through the box fan and into the night.  A shiver ran up Jenna’s spine and goosebumps broke out all over her body.  She stared into the mirror and absently rubbed the bug repellant on her ear.  

 

As the heat and humidity and darkness refilled the room, she slowly turned to face the window while she reviewed everything she had ever heard about the swamp gas that sometimes drifted in ghostlike clouds near the black water.

 

Because that’s what she knew it was — glowing swamp gas — nothing to be scared of — nothing to do with ghosts and hauntings and spirits wandering in the dark of night.

 

Jenna shook her head to dispel any and all thoughts of ghost.  

 

“I should be grateful to whatever it was,” Jenna said to the empty room and with a nervous laugh added, “Because whatever it was cooled off this blasted hot room for a minute or two and that makes it my friend.”

 

But just to be safe, Jenna switched on the bedside table lamp. 

 

Then dreading the muggy sheets, Jenna forced herself to lie back down.

 

She kept her eyes open and silently counted to bullfrog croaks. 

 

And, she dared the mosquito to approach.  

 

 

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