Free Werewolf of Fever Swamp by R. L. Stine

the house, screaming, “Dad! Mom! Dad! Mom!” at the top of my lungs.
    My cries rose on the gusting wind like the terrifying howls I’d heard just a few moments before.

    His pajama shirt flapping over the jeans he had pulled on, Dad dragged the dead deer to the back of the yard. Then, as I watched from the kitchen window, he patched the deer pen with a large sheet of box cardboard.
    As he tried to return to the house, the strong winds nearly blew the screen door off its hinges. Dad jerked the door shut, then locked it.
    His face was dripping with perspiration. He had mud down the side of one pajama sleeve.
    Mom poured him a glass of water from the sink, and he drank it down without taking a breath. Then he wiped the sweat from his forehead with a dish towel.
    “I’m afraid your dog is a killer,” he said softly to me. He tossed the towel back onto the counter.
    “It wasn’t Wolf!” I cried. “It wasn’t!”
    Dad didn’t reply. He took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Mom and Emily watched silently from in front of the sink.
    “What makes you think it was Wolf?” I demanded.
    “I saw the prints on the ground,” he replied, frowning. “Paw prints.”
    “It wasn’t Wolf,” I insisted.
    “I’m going to have to take him to the pound in the morning,” Dad said. “The one over in the next county.”
    “But they’ll kill him!” I cried.
    “The dog is a killer,” Dad insisted softly. “I know how you feel, Grady. I know. But the dog is a killer.”
    “It wasn’t Wolf,” I cried. “Dad, I know it wasn’t Wolf. I heard the howls, Dad. It was a wolf.”
    “Grady, please—” he started wearily.
    Then the words just burst out of me. I lost all control of them. They just poured out in a flood. “It was a werewolf, Dad. There’s a werewolf in the swamp. Cassie is right. It wasn’t a dog, and it wasn’t a wolf. It’s a werewolf who’s been killing animals, who killed your deer.”
    “Grady, stop—” Dad pleaded impatiently.
    But I couldn’t stop. “I know I’m right, Dad,” I cried in a shrill voice that didn’t sound like me.
    “It’s been a full moon this week, right? And that’s when the howls began. It’s a werewolf, Dad. The swamp hermit. That crazy guy who lives in the shack in the swamp. He’s a werewolf. He told us he is. He chased us and he told us he’s a werewolf. He did it, Dad. Not Wolf. He killed the deer tonight. I heard him howling outside, and then—then—”
    My voice caught in my throat. I started to choke.
    Dad filled the glass with water and handed it to me. I gulped it down thirstily.
    He put a hand on my shoulder. “Grady, let’s talk about it in the morning, okay? We’re both too tired to think straight now. What do you say?”
    “It wasn’t Wolf!” I cried stubbornly. “I know it wasn’t.”
    “In the morning,” Dad repeated, his hand still on my shoulder. He held it there to comfort me, to steady me.
    I felt shaky. I was panting. My heart pounded.
    “Yeah. Okay,” I agreed finally. “In the morning.”
    I made my way slowly to my room, but I knew I wouldn’t sleep.

    The next morning, Dad was gone when I got up. “He went to the lumber yard,” Mom told me, “to get wire mesh to repair the pen.”
    I yawned and stretched. I had fallen into a restless sleep at about two-thirty. But I still felt tired and nervous.
    “Is Wolf out there?” I asked anxiously. I ran to the kitchen window before she could reply.
    I could see Wolf at the head of the driveway. He had a blue rubber ball between his front paws, and he was chewing at it furiously.
    “Bet he’s hungry for breakfast,” I muttered.
    I heard the crunch of gravel, and Dad’s car pulled up the drive. The trunk was opened partway, a roll of wire mesh bulging inside.
    “Morning,” Dad said as he came into the kitchen. His expression was grim.
    “Are you going to take Wolf?” I demanded immediately. My eyes were on the dog, chewing on the rubber ball outside. He looked so