Hot Tub Swamp Monster

Our house came with a hot tub in the back yard, installed close to the brick wall on the other side of our carport. The former owners thought it was something grand and tried to negotiate a higher price with it. We had no interest and suggested they take it with them. As they were moving out of state, that was not an option, so we inherited the hot tub.

After moving into the house, I thought we’d try it out. My wife refused as it was out in the open. So, we had someone build a double-thick wooden privacy fence around it, and I covered the inside with brick pavers and hung up a clock and an outdoor thermometer. I cleaned out the tub and added fresh water. Our kids and I used it as a kiddie pool -- once. After that, we lost interest again, and it remained shuttered for years.

The wooden pen served admirably as the backyard junk drawer, full of old flowerpots, half-empty bags of potting soil, a set of outdoor chairs, an old aquarium, and a plastic owl. When company dropped in, I could toss our backyard junk into the hot tub pen and -- Viola! No junk. Now and then, I’d open the heavy wooden door and haul the trash to the street. Once, several years into our residency, I unlatched the straps securing the cover to the hot tub and looked inside. The water stank and was covered with green algae. I quickly replaced the lid and never bothered to open it again.

Several more years later, my daughter acquired a Yorkshire Terrier. “Trixie” loved company, but having already killed a snake and a young possum, she could be fearless when engaging dangers. She was house trained but occasionally had to go out at night, which fell on me. One morning, she woke me up at 3:15 am, and I dutifully took her out. As we passed by the hot tub pen, Trixie stopped to sniff all around the fence, and I had to pull her away. Once, I forgot to take her out before bed, and she woke me up around 2:30 am. Again, we had to take a detour to sniff around the hot tub fence. This time, I heard something move inside, and Trixie started barking. I pulled her away to potty, then hurried back into the house. I assumed it was another possum and soon forgot about it.

A week later, while cutting the grass, I noticed a slight scattering of fresh sawdust on the brick pavers in front of the door to the hot tub enclosure. It looked like someone had recently opened the wooden door. I asked the family but, of course, no one had been in there, which didn’t surprise me. The door was difficult to open. It would drag along the bricks; one had to lift the door slightly to swing it open. I opened the door and peered inside but saw nothing but the usual junk, so again, I let it go.

This morning, I suddenly awoke by Trixie’s barking. It was a little after 3:00 am. I had taken her out before retiring, but she can be very insistent, and I’ve learned not to ignore her lest she leave me a surprise. So, I got up, put on my robe and slippers, and walked her outside. Of course, she made a beeline for the hot tub pen, but the door was open this time. Trixie ran inside the enclosure, barking furiously. I tried to call her, but she was in full attack mode. I heard something moving inside and then heard a big splash. Against my better judgment, I ran to the door and grabbed Trixie just in time to see a monstrous figure emerging from the hot tub.

The creature was covered in green slime, and the stench was overwhelming. Globs of gunk slid off the monster as it tried to climb out of the tub holding the lid open. I wanted to run but was frozen in disbelief. The creature stared at me with bloodshot eyes, snorting, spitting, and coughing slime from its mouth. It slipped and fell back into the tub, and the lid fell over it. Seizing the chance, I dropped Trixie and jumped onto the cover, quickly latching the two front straps while the creature howled between coughs and struggled against the lid. Each side of the cover had two straps; the two back straps were already latched. I hurriedly fastened the remaining straps, grabbed Trixie, still barking feverishly, and ran inside to call the police.

I breathlessly told them I had captured a wild, green creature and managed to lock it up in my hot tub. After giving my name and address, the dispatcher asked me to describe it again, which I did while I waited outside the front door with a flashlight for the sheriff’s deputy.

When the deputy arrived, I ushered him around the driveway to the backyard. On the way to the enclosure, we heard muffled screams from the hot tub. When we reached the door and looked inside with the flashlight, I saw a backpack in the corner with an opened bottle of whisky beside it. The bottle was nearly empty.

“Let him out,” the deputy instructed with his revolver drawn, “I’ll cover for you.” I unlatched the straps while the creature pushed open the lid. It was covered in green slime, spitting, sputtering, and slipped back into the tub twice.

“Help me out,” he demanded, “why did you lock me in?” as he struggled to get out of the tub, but I wouldn’t touch him, and neither would the deputy. He was beginning to sober up.

“Keep your hands where I can see them,” the deputy commanded, “step out slowly and put your hands up.”

The creature complied, green slime sliding from his head and torso.

“What are you doing here?” asked the policeman, “Keep your hands up and turn around slowly. Do you have any weapons?”

“Only a knife in my backpack,” he responded as he motioned toward his sleeping bag, now in a filthy heap on the side of the hot tub.

Typically, a police officer would pat him down to ensure he didn’t have a weapon, but the slime and stench prevented that.

“Stay where you are and don’t move.” The deputy spoke into his walkie-talkie strapped to his shoulder, “I have a prowler in the backyard. I have him under control, but I need backup and an ambulance. Tell them to come to the back of the house.”

Another unit soon arrived with two more deputies. I met them in the front driveway, walked them back to the hot tub, then pulled out a hose pipe while the first deputy explained everything and asked the other two to hose him down and ensure he had no weapons. He hosed off the slime, which the prowler welcomed, then carefully patted him down. Then he searched his backpack and sleeping bag.

“What were you doing here?” the deputy asked.

“I sleep here,” he answered, “Last night, I thought it would be nice if I could hide my stuff in the hot tub during the day, so I unlatched the cover and was looking inside when this dog suddenly came on to me, and I lost my balance and fell in. Then I slipped when I tried to get out, and this man,” pointing to me, “knocked me back in and latched all the straps shut. He could have killed me; you need to arrest him for attempted murder! It’s a good thing the tub was only half full, or I would have drowned, but now I’m probably poisoned by all this gunk, I think I swallowed some, I’ll probably get a deadly disease, and it’s all his fault,” pointing at me.

“Tell that to the judge,” the first deputy interrupted, “You were trespassing, and you have no business here. As for the gunk, we’re taking you to the hospital to get checked out.”

The ambulance soon arrived. After a short conversation, the paramedics rolled out the stretcher, strapped him in, and loaded him in the ambulance with his backpack and sleeping bag. The second deputy rode with them, and they drove off.

On the way out, the first deputy turned and said, “I’d put a lock on that door if I were you, and (pausing briefly) it wouldn’t hurt to clean out that tub.”

I nodded while closing the door to the hot tub, locked the house, and went straight back to bed. Trixie woke me up shortly before 7 am. Wait, she never woke me up twice in one night before. Oh, that first time, that was just a dream.