At the long wood rick, Poetry and I stopped and he said, “Sh! Turn off the light. I heard something.” I snapped off the flashlight, peered out into the dark and listened. “It’s a crazy loon,” I said, when one of those diving birds away out on the dark lake somewhere had let out a long-tailed quavering cry, which came echoing across to where we were. Also right that second another loon, closer to the shore, answered him.
And then my hair started to stand up on end, ’cause I heard another sound almost like that of a loon, but it wasn’t coming from that lake. It sounded like a little girl crying and came from over in the direction of the boathouse where Santa kept his boat in the winter and his tools and oars and things in the summer.
Then I heard the sound again, plain as day, a faint cry like a loon that somebody was trying to smother, and maybe had his fingers on its throat...
Poetry’s hand was tightening on my shoulder, and his face was close to my neck, and I could hear and feel him breathing. “Over there,” he whispered huskily, “close to the boathouse. Down!” he hissed, and drew me down beside him, both of us hiding behind the wood rick.
Before I ducked, though, I’d looked in the direction of the boathouse which was up against the edge of a steep hill, and I saw a tiny glow like somebody had drawn on a cigarette or cigar and it had made it glow in the dark.
I knew it couldn’t be any of our camping party ’cause not a one of us smoked, not even Barry.
Then we heard the boathouse door creaking on its hinges and I knew I was beginning to be scared.
“It’s a man smoking,” Poetry hissed in my ear, but I didn’t want to believe it. “Maybe it was a lightning bug,” I said. There were several of them flashing their spooky little lamps on and off out near Santa’s boat.
“Lightning bugs’ lights are a yellowish green,” Poetry said, “and that was a reddish glow.”
I knew he was right but wished in spite of wanting a mystery that whatever it was, it wasn’t some criminal. Then I heard what sounded like a stifled cry again and knew it wasn’t any loon, but said to Poetry, “It’s a loon’s echo, maybe.”