Except for one incident, I have pleasant memories of my childhood growing up in Quay, a small town nestled on Florida's Atlantic coast. I remember the summers especially, when I spent three whole months at the beach or on the river with my friends. That was back in the 1950's, yet it seems like only yesterday. I can't believe how quickly time passes - we don't even count the years in 1900-anything anymore.

Being normal teenagers, we also did some things the grown-ups considered 'bad' - you know, like skipping a day of school, or 'TP-ing' a neighbor's house at night, and smoking. That was before we knew cigarettes were bad for you. We smoked some pot too, but did that because it was bad. Not many people used it back then, beatniks and musicians mostly. It's funny, ten years later beatniks became hippies and pot smoking was considered cool. Go figure.That's about the extent of bad in those days - until the incident that was so bad it would change my life forever. I didn't talk much about it afterwards; my friends, of course, never talked about it at all. I was 16 that summer, between my junior and senior years in high school. My folks had just started letting me drive the family car. I didn't use it much though - not like I used the family boat.

She was a beauty - 17½ feet long, forward cabin that slept two, 40 hp Johnson outboard. We went out on the Indian River most days, fishing or water skiing or stopping at one of the many islands that dotted the river. There were so many of those islands, filled with trees and bushes, all kinds of birds and snakes, too. We would stop at an island to swim, make out with girls, or smoke a joint.

There was one island we never visited, though. The trees and bushes on that island were all dead. You never saw any birds, either. The only sign of life was a weird-looking shack, made from pieces of gnarled driftwood and a corrugated tin roof. It wasn't any larger than my bedroom at home. Everybody stayed away from that island - it just looked, well, evil.

Besides, the River Rat lived there. He was some kind of hermit who rarely showed himself. No one knew where he came from or how long he had lived there, but we sure heard some gruesome stories about the man. There were even rumors he had killed someone and cut the body up into little pieces.

I first heard about the River Rat soon after moving down from New York 12 years earlier. The kids told me he never left his island, not even for groceries. What he ate was a mystery since everything on the island was dead and all. Few people had ever actually seen the River Rat - but I did, along with my friends, that fateful day.

We were out cruising on the river, Reamy, Bobby, Mike and me. We couldn't believe we had spotted him. He seemed older than my grandfather, scruffy looking with raggedy cotton pants, a faded and stained blue shirt, and sandals he must have made himself out of palm fronds and old tire retreads.

He walked kind of hunched over like old people do. That scene is burned into my memory because of what followed.

It was all Reamy's fault. He shouldn't have yelled at the River Rat. Reamy was a clever little guy. He was my age but not much more than five feet tall, while I stood six foot one. Reamy came from New York too, but he moved to Quay that year. He was real cocky, probably overdoing it because of his height. Most kids in school didn't like him and he didn't get along with his parents, which wasn't unusual since most of us didn't get along with our parents. He had a devilish sense of humor though, and often kept the rest of us in stitches.

You can imagine Reamy's surprise that day we actually saw the River Rat. He should have kept his mouth shut, but then he wouldn't be Reamy. So as we're cruising by in my boat, gawking at this old guy that few people had ever seen, Reamy yells, "Hey old man, when's the last time you got laid?"

Bobby and I just looked at each other, then at the River Rat. He had been walking toward his shack but stopped to look at us. It was so strange, the way he stared. He looked angry, and stood there like he was ready to pounce, squinting his eyes and glaring right at Reamy - you could tell he had a bead on him - and continued to glare at him until our boat was long out of range.

As I recall, Reamy tried to joke about it afterward, but we could tell he was bothered. He finally said, 'man, what a creep,' to break the silence that had gripped our boat, but none of us responded. We stayed pretty quiet the rest of the day.

I wish we had just dropped the subject, knowing what eventually happened. But that evening we went to the A&W Drive-in for a burger basket and root beer. Sitting in the car, Bobby, of all people, comes up with this plan. You wouldn't expect it from him. He was a quiet sort of kid who lived with his grandmother. Bobby never talked much about himself, but we knew he had gotten into trouble somehow and his parents sent him down here to live with Grandma.

He wasn't much of a student either and spent half his time in detention, a few times getting licked with a paddle. You could do that to kids back in those days.

Bobby was fun to have around though. He always laughed the hardest at Reamy's jokes, which made the rest of us laugh, too. He never came up with any of the pranks we pulled, but he would be the first to go along. That fateful evening at the A&W, however, it was Bobby who came up with this one.

He said we should go to the River Rat's island, not on my boat, but by rowboat, and not during the day, but late at night. The idea would be to sneak up on the old guy and scare him a little - not too much - just enough to get back at him for scaring us. He would probably be asleep if we went late enough. The rowboat wouldn't make any noise and as long as Reamy kept his mouth shut, the River Rat wouldn't know we were there until we wanted him to.

Mike was quick to question Bobby's sanity. He was another quiet guy, serious type, who seemed to know a lot about everything. He was good in school without cracking a book, so the other kids hated him. The teachers didn't like him either because he always had an answer, even when there wasn't a question.

"You're out of your ever lovin'," he said as soon as Bobby presented his plan. "It'll be pitch black out on the island; you won't see nothin'."

"We'd take flashlights, of course," snarled Bobby, "Do you think I'm stupid or something?"

He and Mike had this underlying tension between them that sometimes happens between certain people.

Anyway, we tossed the idea back and forth for about an hour, then finally decided to go ahead.

As fate would have it, the youth center was holding a big end-of-summer dance the next night. Another friend of ours, Thad Wencel, had a rowboat, which he gladly contributed once we agreed to bring him along. Thad was a bit on the heavy side and we were afraid that if he insisted on going, one - or maybe two - of us would have to stay behind to make room. But he said that the boat could hold us all because he often used it with his dad and brother, who together weighed more than the four of us.

We planned to tell our parents that all the kids were going to this dance; they'd never expect us to go normally. Wouldn't you know it, after telling my folks they even let me have the car. Isn't it funny how everything always falls into place when you least want it to? I had real misgivings about this whole idea and I think the other guys did too, including Bobby, but none of us would admit it and lose face. God, we were stupid.

We actually met at the dance and stayed a few minutes, making sure people saw us there. Thad was the exception. He never went to dances because he was embarrassed about his weight and girls didn't like him anyway. Instead, he told his father that he wanted to do some nighttime fishing by himself. Thad often went out alone.

We rode down to the boat launch in my car, Reamy up front, Mike and Bobby in back. On the way, Reamy poked me and passed two joints. I nodded and slipped them into my pocket. All of us smoked cigarettes, Mike more than the rest, but only Reamy and I smoked pot, usually when the others weren't around.

Thad was waiting at the boat launch when we arrived. His dad brought the boat down and gave him a nickel to call when we he was ready to come home, but don't bother to call if it was after 11:00. Thad seemed relieved that we showed up. He didn't have many friends.

We climbed into the rowboat and after a few anxious moments, Thad started rowing. Have you ever tried to row a boat so weighted down that the water line was about an inch below the oarlocks?

We made it to the River Rat's island about nine o'clock. The bow hit shore with a thud and we were afraid the old man would wake up. We just sat there a few minutes listening to the water lap against our boat.

Satisfied we hadn't disturbed him, Bobby switched on his flashlight and we quietly stepped ashore. Then he led us toward the shack. There were no lights anywhere, the night black as pitch. We would never have made it without a flashlight.

The quiet was deafening; no breeze, not a bird or a cricket. Nobody talked either, because I guess we were all pretty nervous. The only sound came when

Thad's toe hit a rock and he farted. Reamy cupped his mouth to stifle a laugh and Bobby told everyone to shush.

Viewed from the boat, the River Rat's shack looked homemade but fairly sturdy. Up close it looked like Thad's fart might knock it over. I couldn't believe the old man lived this way.

Bobby whispered that he was going inside the shack, but none of us wanted to join him. So he went alone. We stood about 50 feet away, ready to run like hell when the old man woke up.

But he didn't make a sound, and for a good reason - he wasn't there. Bobby started shining the flashlight in every direction, into every corner of the small island and up into the trees once he was confident that the River Rat wasn't around.

"I thought you said he never left the island," complained Reamy, who always found a way to blame others when things didn't work out as planned.

We all walked back to the boat, shoulders slumped, disappointed that we had wasted an evening. Bobby led the way, shining his flashlight at the bow of our rowboat occasionally as reference.

We should have seen him sitting there any one of those times, but we didn't.

Then it was too late.

Bobby stepped into the boat first. Suddenly, his flashlight went flying and landed in the water with a 'plunk' rather than a splash. The beam quickly disappeared, leaving us in the moon-less dark.

"What did you do that for?" Reamy asked, annoyed. "Now we can't see what we're doing."

I know this seems impossible, but we heard no sound, no motion - nothing - and we were standing right there in front of the boat! It's like Bobby just vanished into thin air.

We were frozen in place, the three of us, completely silent. I could hear

Mike reach into his pocket for a box of matches. I heard them rattle as he opened the box and fumble around for a match, then struck it, twice unsuccessfully, before the flame burst alive.

He let out a scream. In the brief moment that the flame brought light until it dropped from Mike's fingers into the water, we witnessed a scene unlike anything our brief lives had ever prepared us for.

A man sat in the boat glaring at us. It could only be the River Rat, but he looked completely different. His eyes shone opaquely in the brief flame like a dog's eyes in a flash picture. He sat coiled, his mouth open, not speaking, but uttering something between a hiss and a growl, like an animal - but unlike any animal I had ever heard. Most of his face glistened red, the same red that covered his torn shirt. Most horrifying of all though, in that brief moment of illumination, we saw a limp, lifeless body draped across his legs like a comforter on a cold northern night. It had to be Bobby, but I couldn't tell for sure. Blood gushed from a gaping hole in his neck and covered everything that I could see in that brief, horrifying moment.

Thad shrieked so loud that you'd think every human, animal and living thing in the county could hear it. He stumbled and ran away from us in the dark, towards the shack. In what seemed like an instant, we heard a loud splash - probably what was left of Bobby. At the same moment, we felt a rush of air whoosh by us. Then Thad, who was at least 50 feet away by now, shrieked again. It was more of a groan, actually, and it stopped suddenly, shut off by the sound of powerful jaws chomping on fresh meat. Then we heard only chewing and slurping.

With that, Reamy jumped into the boat and fumbled for the oars. Mike got in right behind him. Operating on sheer instinct, I pushed the boat off shore, but it wouldn't budge with the other two already aboard.

"Get in!" one of them screamed. I couldn't tell if was Reamy or Mike, the voice distorted in terror.

I gathered every ounce of strength in my body and let out a yell as I finally dislodged the boat from the sandy shore. I kept pushing until the water was a foot deep, then I jumped in, flat on my stomach, wriggling forward with my legs sticking out over the bow. I could hear Reamy grunting with each pull of the oars as we gathered speed.

But we weren't speedy enough. As I lay face down, struggling to pull myself fully aboard, the boat suddenly shuddered as if we had hit a rock. I heard a high-pitched scream, then that horrible, guttural growl like moments before.

The scream quickly faded to a hopeless sigh, then nothing but the sickening sound of chomping and slurping. I couldn't even tell which one of my friends had met his fate. It was too dark and confusing as I lay on my stomach across the bow and front seat of the boat.

Then came another splash, this one purposeful, followed by thrashing sounds in the water. I knew it was Mike because he couldn't swim. At that same instant I realized that my good friend Reamy, the one guy always guaranteed to make me laugh, would joke no more.

Every fisherman knows the sound when he hooks a big one and it crashes to the surface. The fish flops back and forth, struggling to dislodge the hook and escape certain death. That was the sound I now heard. No screams this time - just the roiling, dark waters. And then it was calm.

I didn't move a muscle - I couldn't. As the enormity of what just happened flooded my consciousness, I knew only one thing for certain - I was about to die. All my life, no one close to me had ever died until this night. Now I would experience death myself.

I felt the boat shudder slightly, like it does when someone gets in. Then it became quiet. But I knew I wasn't alone. There was another presence - I could feel it - but I could not look up or speak.

"River Rat, eh?"

I had never heard this voice before. It sounded almost kind, playful - and older, much older than any of my friends.

"Do you have any idea how that makes me feel?"

I still couldn't talk, waiting the inevitable.

"Well, do you?"

He wanted me to speak. It took all my energy to answer him, which even then came forth as more of a mumble. "N-no sir."

"Then I will tell you. I am not a rat, or any other lowly creature that survives at the edge of nature. I am a person, with needs, and feelings, regardless of how I may look to you."

"A person doesn't do what you have done to my friends."

"But your friends called me a rat long before I ever hurt them."

"How do you know that?"

"I can hear things no other man can hear; it's a gift, I suppose. But usually

I only hear bad things. Then you had the nerve to come here looking for me to do what? And what would you do then, go back and tell all your friends so they would come, too? I've lived here for years, perfectly happy; now my life can never be the same. I never did anything to deserve all that from you."

"Maybe not, but none of those things give you the right to murder."

"Oh really, young man. If you were in my shoes you might feel differently."

"What's the point, old man. You're just going to kill me like you did my friends."

"I know you had little to do with this, and I know that it bothered you the others were so, shall we say, inconsiderate. You had the opportunity to prevent all this, but instead you just went along. No, I'm not going to punish you like I did your friends - I have an even worse fate for you."

He began to chuckle, under his breath at first until it exploded into an evil laugh. Then it was quiet. The boat jiggled. I tensed up in the smothering silence. Then I felt hot breath above me. A chill coursed through my body. I dared not look up. I closed my eyes to await the end. I stiffened as cold, lifeless fingers touched the back of my neck, then closed around my throat. I peed in my pants. My heart pounded. There was pain…then nothing.

I felt completely disoriented when I woke up - until I saw the nurse in her white uniform and cap. My mother and dad were in the room, my mother in tears, my dad smiling. I heard him say, "Thank God."

Then I thought about my friends - Thad, Mike, Bobby…and Reamy - the way they died, so horribly.

I don't know how - or why - I was spared their fate. Some fisherman had found me right after daybreak, drifting along the river in Thad's rowboat, lying face down, my feet dangling over the bow.

I recovered for the most part, at least from a physical standpoint; my wounds were nothing like those my friends had incurred. I told the authorities what happened - but no one believed me. My friends were gone all right, but there was no evidence of foul play or any of the horrors I had described. They couldn't even find a drop of blood, other than my own.

Unfortunately, my friends did have one thing in common - they were all considered misfits, troubled teens. Everyone knew we were friends, too. It was easy for their parents and the law to decide that my friends had simply run away together. They assumed we pre-arranged the entire thing and that I knew what really happened, even suggesting my injuries were self-inflicted.

They also decided I would never tell the truth since I had not changed my story one bit, even after being questioned dozens of times and taken some kind of test that tells if you are lying.

And the River Rat? They said he didn't exist - never had - that it was simply an old legend, around town for a hundred years.

As for the shack, it was probably used at one time, years earlier. Maybe kids built it as a clubhouse, or fishermen stored their equipment so they didn't have to drag it with them every time they went out, or maybe someone actually lived there in the distant past. But no one lived in it now.

The cops finally found the answers they were looking for - in the back pocket of my jeans - the two joints Reamy had given me on our way to the boat launch. Remember, this was before Timothy Leary and the drugged-out '60's.

Smoking pot was a serious offense and I must have been a drug addict to come up with such wild stories.

Sightings of the River Rat occurred less and less after that, and even those were probably imagined. But I know he was real, how he lived, how he drank the blood of animals, so abundant in this area, and an occasional human. No one ever noticed an occasional missing person, because no matter how small a town you live in, there's always someone who mysteriously drops out of sight over the years. When four people dropped out of sight though, that's when he decided to move on - to redder pastures, you might say.

I finally gave up trying to tell my story and instead chose a life of solitude, away from my critics and doubters, with only those awful memories to keep me company. I wish the River Rat had killed me along with all my friends - I wish he hadn't chosen me to take his place.

The years go by so quickly. I've forgotten many of the details. It's hard to believe we're in an entirely new century now, 2000's instead of 1900's. That makes all those events seem even further away in time. Now, I sit here on this little island, watching a new generation of kids speed by in their motorboats or water-skis. I can't help but reminisce about the good old days when I was so young, so full of life, just like them, when the River Rat was only legend and not reality.

Do you think those kids talk about me the way we used to talk about him?