By Fred M. Sloniker

"It was on a night much like tonight," the camp master Waddle Dee
declared, "that I first saw the hideous creature." The other, younger
Waddle Dees looked at each other, and one, the oldest and supposedly
bravest, rolled his eyes. It was a perfect night for camping; the
stars twinkled merrily in the sky, the full moon shone down through a
gap in the forest above, and the air was cool but not yet cold.
Autumn leaves surrounded their chosen campsite like a blanket of gold
and red, and dried, dead branches crackled in the campfire they
surrounded. It was a night for roasting marshmallows, looking up at
the stars... and telling ghost stories. Still, they were all of them,
except perhaps the youngest, too old to actually believe in ghosts,
and they had reputations to uphold.

"You're not going to start that story again, are you, Dad?" the oldest
of the campers whined. Upon him had fallen the burden of the parent
as chaperone, and while the other Waddle Dees sympathized, each was
glad it wasn't his father who'd been chosen to make sure no harm
befell them in the forest. "I swear, you tell it every day these
days--"

"I was all alone," the camp master continued, either oblivious to or
ignoring his teenaged son. "Walking through these very woods, without
a care in the world. I had my parasol with me, of course," he added,
pulling it out briefly to show the children. "Never go anywhere
without it; it saved my life that night. Of course, all I was
expecting that night was a little rain. I wasn't expecting a visit
from... the creature." He looked slowly around the campfire with the
eye of a practiced storyteller. Despite themselves, the children were
showing interest.

"Oh, I'd heard the stories, of course. Some say the hideous beast
descended upon us from the stars, called upon to defeat an even
greater evil by fools who called up what they could not put down.
Others, that it was once one of us, mutated in some bizarre way by
powers we cannot comprehend. Some even whisper that there may be more
than one-- indeed, an entire community of these freaks! Of course, I
don't believe those tales." The storyteller paused, seeing in his
audience's eyes that they believed, if only for the moment. "The
creature is too horrible a foe for any of us to have survived if there
were more than one."

He paused again, shifting slightly to get more comfortable. The
campfire popped, startling the youngest of the Waddle Dees, the only
one still young enough to admit fear. He nestled against the Dee he
sat next to, who groused under his breath but put a flipper on his
younger brother's head nonetheless.

"I heard it first, as they say you do. Whatever its nightmarish
talents, stealth is not among them. Off in the distance, branches...
rustled." He fell silent. As if on cue, a stiff breeze rustled
through the trees. "At first, I thought nothing of it, of course.
Who would think anything amiss of a little wind on a night like
tonight? But the sound grew louder... and closer. Despite myself,
despite my foolish belief that the tales I'd been told were only
legends or myths, I began to fear."

"I clutched my parasol close for comfort," the storyteller said,
matching actions to words, eyes darting to and fro as if searching the
group for his stalker. "I could hear it coming closer, whatever it
was. With it came a strange, unearthly sound, like all the air in the
world rushing into a great, unholy pit. I didn't know what to make of
it. Nothing I'd ever heard before had sounded quite like that."

The Waddle Dees were all staring at the camp master now, spellbound by
the story. Even his son found the night and the woods acting on him,
making the story somehow more real, more true, than the many times
he'd heard it before.

"I thought, for a moment, of trying to fight the creature, of course,"
the storyteller went on. "Many men fancy themselves brave who are
cowards. Then I heard the scream, a sound of despair, of pain beyond
mortal measure. The fight went out of me, then, and I knew I had to
hide. I dove into the bushes, cowering under my parasol, praying the
beast would not see me in the darkness."

"And then... there it stood. At first, I felt ashamed, for in the
light of the stars, it seemed to be simply another Waddle Dee. Then
it turned towards me, and I knew the fearsome truth. It walked like a
Dee, but it was no Dee. Its body... so perfectly round, like a globe.
Its color... a pink like nothing in nature, with no markings on its
face, simply eyes and cheeks seeming to hover over its skin. And its
mouth! Oh, its horrible mouth! It was at first the tiniest of dots,
and I thought perhaps it was a nose or some kind of mark, but the full
truth had yet to be revealed to me!"

"It saw me in the darkness, of course. My futile attempt to hide was
the desperate act of a doomed man. Then it opened its mouth wide,
wider, wider still, until its face seemed to disappear entirely behind
that great cavernous maw. No teeth did it possess, nothing to crush
or tear... but it didn't need them. Instead, it simply... breathed."
He held the last word, watching in satisfaction as the younger Dees
quivered. "It drew in a great, impossible breath, tearing the air in
front of it away, creating a gale, a tornado, a great ripping suction
drawing all before it into the depths of its throat!"

"I was helpless before such great power, tossed like the leaves. My
feet left the ground, and I tumbled through the air, hurtling towards
the beast. In my fear, the strength left my body, and I went
completely limp. My parasol caught the air, flying before me, and
swirled into the belly of the beast."

"And then... it caught in the creature's throat where I thought
nothing could stop, stemming the tide of doom, leaving me to fall to
my face before it. I didn't dare look. I knew that, in seconds, it
would dispose of the obstacle and renew its assault."

"There was a strange chiming noise, and then... the creature ran away.
I don't know why it spared me. Perhaps my parasol wounded it somehow,
choking it, forcing it to retreat. Perhaps it had wanted my parasol
all along, and having it, saw no need to kill me. All I know for
certain is that, when I finally dared to lift my head, it was gone, as
if it had never been."

"I went back to town, back to my family, and spent an uneasy night.
The next morning, the first thing I did was to go and buy another
parasol. I've kept it with me ever since, even on the hottest and
sunniest of days. It's surprisingly useful; it provides shade and
shelter wherever I go. Sometimes, of course, I even let myself
believe that's why I carry it."

"I know the truth, though... and now, so do you. I carry it with me
as a talisman against the creature. Some night, it will come upon me
again, and if it does, I'll be ready. It'll not feast on my tender--"

The youngest Dee interrupted. "What's that?" he quailed, staring
startledly into the night. The group fell silent for a moment,
listening to the rustling sounds.

"It's just the wind," the storyteller's son said. "Don't let Dad's
story get to you. You're supposed to tell ghost stories on a night
like--"

"No, he's right!" the storyteller spoke. "It's getting... closer."

They all listened to the forest, to the sound of someone, or
something, unmistakably approaching them.

"I-it's probably just Mom bringing us something we forgot," the
storyteller's son said, cursing his stammer in front of his friends.
"Honestly, one little spook and you all act like--"

The nearby bushes parted, and the creature peered out, looking, for a
moment, as surprised as they were. Then it opened its dot of a mouth
into a circle of doom.

The Waddle Dees screamed, scattering into the forest. There was a
high-pitched suction sound, then a mysterious chiming, then silence.
Then the rustling moved on, headed deeper into the woods.

Slowly, the campers re-emerged one and two at a time, surveying the
campground. The fire was out... no, the fire was gone, wood and all,
leaving only a scorch mark in the grass. The marshmallows were gone.
One of the sleeping bags was gone. The storyteller was still there,
but his parasol was gone, and with it, it seemed, his mind had gone.
He stared unseeing into the distance, body covered in sweat, or spit,
and said over and over again:

"The pink... the terrible pink..."