The boat had been still for nearly an hour when the smell reached Marcus. It was not the usual rot of the swamp. Something heavier sat under it, thick enough that he tasted it when he breathed. He had come in after dark to check the lines he had set the day before. The cypress closed in on both sides of the channel. Spanish moss hung low enough to brush the gunwale when he shifted his weight. He found the first line empty, the hook was gone.
The second line still held the weight of something, but when he pulled it the rope came free easily. What remained of the bait was only a scrap of hide, blood had dried on the monofilament and flaked off when he touched it. He reeled the rest of the line in and set the rod down. The water moved without wind. A low sound travelled across the surface. Not quite a splash. Marcus stood and turned the flashlight toward the bank.
The beam stopped on a shape between two trunks. It was upright. Gray hair hung wet and matted from the shoulders to the knees. The head was low, the eyes catching the light and holding it, yellow and flat. The thing did not step back. One long arm hung at its side. The other was raised. The hand closed around something. It dripped. Marcus could not see what it held until the light shifted. A piece of the line he had set was still attached to the end of it.
He reached for the shotgun. The movement was slow because the boat rocked under him. The shape took one step into the water. The surface broke around its legs and closed again. The smell grew stronger. Marcus thumbed the safety off and raised the barrel. The eyes stayed on him. The mouth opened. Teeth showed, uneven and long. A low sound left it, wet and short. The first shot struck the chest. The hair parted.
Dark blood ran down the fur and into the water. The thing did not fall. It kept coming. The second shot hit lower. The boat rocked hard when the weight of it reached the side, one hand closed over the gunwale. The wood cracked. Marcus fired again at the arm. The fingers loosened, he shoved the boat backward with the oar. The shape stayed where it was, half in the water, the yellow eyes still fixed on him. He turned the motor, the engine caught on the second pull, the boat moved, behind him the water closed over the place where the shape had stood.
The smell followed for a short distance, then thinned. Marcus did not look back until the channel widened. When he did, the bank was empty. The lines he had left were gone. The water stayed flat. Farther out, something moved between the trunks and did not break the surface again. He kept the motor running until the lights of the landing showed ahead. On the dock the blood on the gunwale had already begun to dry. The smell stayed in the boat.
