By Joseph Bruchac
The writer of Skeleton guy returns with one other chilling story. what sort of sinister creature lurks in the dead of night pond within the woodland? Armie can believe it calling to him . . . and he suspects the reply may possibly lie within the legends of his Shawnee ancestors. Joseph Bruchac, the award-winning writer of Skeleton guy, places a modern spin on local American lore to create a terrifying story of monsters and darkness.
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Extra resources for The Dark Pond
Everything freaks me out. I wish I was like you, Armie. Scared of nothing and nobody. ” Shoot indeed, I thought. b 41 b b 6 b R ES E A R C H A W E E K H A D PA S S E D since I’d first gazed down at the dark pond. A week since I had heard that voice that wasn’t a voice. A week since that fox had stepped in front of me. For seven days I had been trying hard not to think about what had happened, trying to tell myself I’d imagined it. As a result, it was all that I could think about. I was, indeed, creeped out.
But big as they are, not many people ever see a moose unless it decides to stroll out into the middle of the road. The place I had chosen to watch from was good in lots of ways. I had a clear view of the whole valley below, not just the pond but even the stone cliff that rose above it. Half a dozen trees clung to that cliff. The biggest of them, right on the top, was a tall old dead pine with jagged and broken branches. I was far enough away that the trees looked small as matchsticks. If anything b 50 b moved in the snow-covered valley below, it should be easy for me to see it and far enough away for me to move to safety if it looked dangerous.
No long hair allowed for boys. I hated what I had to do next, because I’m not really into confrontation, like my mom. I really prefer not to be noticed. But I also did not want, no way, to cut my hair. “S’cuse me, sir,” I mumbled to the headmaster. Then I handed him Mom’s letter, the same one I always proffer to every principal, headmaster or kommandant whenever I check into a new institution of learning. “My son,” it reads, “is Shawnee. It is part of our tradition that a young man be allowed to grow his hair long.