The Crocodile Hunter
By Dakota Winchester
I was little, too little to pour myself a glass of milk. I must have been lying awake for five or six hours at that point. The sound of rain beating against my window had been replaced by ear-ringing silence. My eyes, well adjusted to the darkness, shifted from my toy dinosaurs to the stuffed tiger atop my nightstand. My fantasies drifted between having a tiger cub that I could walk like a dog to having a whole zoo of my own in my backyard. There was a soft tap at the door.
“Psst.”
I sat up and croaked out a response in a dry voice that hadn’t been used in hours. The door rattled again with another series of taps.
“You in there, mate?” A familiar voice whispered. “It’s me, let me in, yeah?”
“Who?” I asked, lowering myself off of my twin sized bed.
“The Crocodile Hunter.” The voice responded. “It’s Steve. I need your help, mate.”
Steve Irwin was my hero. Mandatory viewing at breakfast time and reruns every night before bed. When anyone would ask what I wanted to be when I grew up, they always received the same, sure answer. I was going to be The Crocodile Hunter.
“There’s a monster croc out in the yard. I need your help getting him out of here.” The voice said. He was talking the way grownups spoke to children. Even as a little kid, I knew that.
“A crocodile?” I rubbed my eyes.
“A huge one” The voice replied.
“We don’t have those here. Just alligators. There are crocodiles in Florida, though.”
“Ah, mate, you must be right. Open the door and I’ll show you. You can help me wrestle him.”
“I don’t think I can. I’m too little.”
“Well, you can hold the camera then! Hurry now, before he gets away.”
“Okay…” I reached up to the brass doorknob and stopped just before my hand touched it. Something wasn’t right, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I dropped my hand back down to my side.
“Let me change my clothes.” I said, looking down at my Formula1 underwear and Jurassic Park shirt.
I slid open the bottom drawer of my dresser and pulled out a pair of khaki cargo shorts. I checked to make sure they had a snap button, since the technique to fasten a sewn-in button still eluded me. I couldn’t reach the light switch, so it took me a little while to be sure.
“Mate, we really don’t have much time now.” He knocked on the door again.
“Just a second, mister…” I pulled a khaki colored shirt, like the one Steve wore, down from a clothes hanger. “Can you button my shirt for me?”
“‘Course, mate! Just be quick.”
“I have to ask my mom where my shoes are.” I said, looking around my room for a pair of sneakers.
“Oh I think you’ll be alright. No need to wake Mum and Dad.”
My dad had died before I was born. He was in the army. I was going to tell Steve, but I knew it always made grownups sad to hear it. I didn’t really know what “dead” meant, but I knew it meant you weren’t around anymore. As a matter of fact…
“Hey Crocodile Hunter.” I stood facing the door, unbuttoned shirt draped over my narrow shoulders. “Aren’t you dead?”
Some time passed without response. Then he let out a small laugh.
“Dead? Mate, I’m right here.” He chuckled. “Open the door and you’ll see.”
“Mom said there aren’t any new episodes of Crocodile Hunter because you died.”
“That’s just for TV, mate, I’m alive! Now hurry and help me grab this croc!”
My heart was pounding in my ears. I didn’t understand any of this. I knew it wasn’t right. I took a step toward the door and thought about cracking it open to peek out at whoever was there. Then I remembered how our cat, Smokey, would slide her paws under my door when she wanted to play. If her paws could fit, then maybe…
I got down on my knees and bent over, trying to see under the door. It took some craning and adjusting, but eventually, with my ear to the ground, I could see out into the hall.
Under the door, mirroring my exact position, something black-eyed and Caprine-faced stared back at me. It’s thin lips moved.
“C’mon mate. Open up.”
I screamed and it was gone in an instant. Heavy drumming footsteps hammered through our small rambler home before the shattering of glass marked its exit.
My mom swung my door open and found me curled up in front of my dresser, screaming through tears. When she asked me what had happened, all I could choke out was “The Crocodile Hunter…”
Our sliding glass door was completely shattered. When the police arrived, I told them everything, from the knock at my door, to the thing ogling in at me. After the policeman wrote everything down on a small pad, he whispered something to my mom that made her face turn white. She didn’t tell me this until I was nineteen, but according to the cop, three weeks before, a boy a little older than me went missing from his room in the middle of the night. His parents said that just the day before, he said that Goku had been trying to convince him to open his child-locked window right after he was put to bed.
