As the hazy light filtered through the trees, Brenden realized he was not alone. The air still clung to its morning fog and the trees shrouded the bog in mystery. He tried to look around himself, but he could not penetrate the mist which hung about him. Still the feeling of being watched was ever present with the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. He slowly, quietly put oars to the water and began to paddle, moving his small canoe at a snail’s pace toward home.

He did not know if it was an animal or a person watching him, but both were equally terrifying as he sat on his boat, unarmed and silently moving through the bog. Brenden knew that if he made too much noise, whatever it was would likely be prompted to attack, and so he methodically dipped his oars in the water slowly and each stroke propelled his craft at painstakingly slow speed across the murky water. His eyes moved between the shadows of the trees, trying to spot whatever might be hunting him without turning his head, but to no avail.

Minutes crawled by, then ten. An hour passed and still he paddled slowly, his dread not diminished one iota. Finally, Brenden broke free of the bog and began to row across open waters. Confident in his safety, he began to row like mad, now quickly putting distance between himself and the grove of trees though his muscles ached from the strain of quiet rowing for so long a time.

The good cleared and Brenden was able to look back at the tree line.

Nothing was visible peering out at him, but he vowed to never again try to fish the bog