Camp Slaughter

by Sergio Gomez

  After a few minutes of staring at the pages in the microbiology textbook, the words started to run into each other, turning into continuous rectangular blobs of ink. Nothing his eyes passed over meant anything to him.

  Frustrated, he slammed the textbook closed. Fred leaned back and stared up at the ceiling, fighting the urge to check his Instagram timeline.

  Downstairs he could hear the murmur of his parents watching some cop drama—CSI or Law and Order, one or the other—which meant it was late, but not too late.

  He thought about texting Noelle, but by the time she got back to him and he drove over to her neighborhood, it probably would be too late. He’d have to talk to her before the trip to invite her, obviously, but that would have to wait until at least tomorrow.

  Thinking about the trip made Fred wonder what Fletcher was up to. He got up and stuck his head out one of the windows and looked down the street. The lights were still on at his house.

  Nice. It was never too early to start stocking up for a camping trip. Plus, maybe a few hits would help him focus on studying when he came back.

  Fred ducked back into the house, grabbed his keys off the desk, and headed out.

  Chapter 2

  “What’s with the camera?” Andy Cameron said to the pair coming into his office. “She’s not going to film with it, is she?”

  “No, I’m not,” Molly Sanger said. She could feel the death glare on her face, because even though the question was about her, he’d addressed it to her partner because he was the man of the group.

  It wasn’t surprising coming from a guy like Andy Cameron, who probably thought his expensive suits and flashy haircuts were enough to woo any woman he wanted. But just because it wasn’t surprising didn’t make Molly any less angry about it.

  “Okay, good,” Andy replied, reclining back in his chair. “I get nervous in front of the camera.”

  “Yes, yes, your concern is understandable. It could be quite a stressful ordeal to be filmed.” Emeril Dantes, Molly’s partner, settled into the chair in front of Andy’s mahogany desk. Molly sat in the one next to him. “Molly and I have interviewed and filmed enough people to know not everyone is suited for it.”

  “You guys make films?” Andy said. He leaned forward in the chair. His eyes were wide with admiration. “What kind?”

  “Documentaries,” Molly answered.

  “Very interesting,” Andy said, but with any real interest fading away. He’d been hoping to hear they were in PA from Hollywood, or something along those lines. “Well, how can I help you? You guys have a place you want to rent out in mind?”

  “Actually yes. We were interested in one of your cabins,” Emeril said, reaching into his pocket and taking out a sheet of paper with a picture of a cabin printed on it. He placed it on the desk, right-side up to Andy.

  Andy laced his fingers together and rested his elbows on the desk. It took him a few seconds to remember which of his many properties he was looking at, but then all the information flooded into his brain at once.

  “Ah, yes. I see you’ve taken an interest in Lakewood Cabin.”

  “A great interest, actually,” Emeril said, giving him a big smile.

  “I assume you looked through the pictures on the website?”

  “Mm-hmm.” Emeril said.

  “You’ve seen how beautiful this early twentieth century log cabin is, then?” Andy said, and for the first time glanced over at Molly.

  She could only assume this was the part of his pitch when he tried to convince the wife or girlfriend of his usual clientele so that she would help him convince the man.

  Poor sucker. He had no idea what was going on or who they were.

  “Oh yes,” Emeril said. “I did extensive research on the cabin, which is why we’re interested.”

  Andy reached behind him where a number of brochures for hotels, cabins, bed and breakfasts, and beach houses were filed into a clear plastic shelf. He found the brochure for Lakewood Cabin, plucked it out of the slot, and splayed it out in front of them on top of the printed-out photo. The right flap of the brochure folded out into a miniature map of the area.

  “See, if you look here, this path takes you to a nearby lake.” Andy traced his finger over a trail that was aptly named LAKE WALK. The path went around a body of water named Willow Lake that was represented by a blue blotch of ink on the map. “It’s named after the willow trees that surround it—let me tell you, Mister Dantes, you’d be picking the best time of the year to stay at Lakewood Cabin. You have a kayak or a canoe?”

  Emeril shook his head, not giving Andy the energy he was looking for. He was hoping the man would talk himself tired sooner rather than later. What he was doing was the verbal version of Mohammed Ali’s rope-a-dope strategy, but something told Emeril that Andy Cameron had the aid of a certain white powder to keep him going and going longer.

  “Do you plan on hiking? You look like you like to hike, Miss Sanger. Do you?”

  “Sure,” Molly said with little enthusiasm. She knew what was going on—it was the reason her and Emeril were partners. They could always follow the other person’s moves without having to say anything to each other.

  “Well, you’re in luck, because these trails off the main cabin grounds are to die for!” Andy said, bringing his finger to another trail east of the cabin. This one was labeled HAWK’S VIEW TRAIL because it ended at a cliff.

  There. There was Emeril’s opening to take over. Turned out he didn’t need the man to burn himself out after all.

  “Funny you mention that,” Emeril interjected.

  Andy had his mouth open, ready to go onto the next part of his sales spiel but stopped. He looked up from the brochure at Emeril with an inquisitive look on his face. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Funny you say the trails are to die for,” Emeril repeated.

  “Wh-what’s that supposed to mean?” His eyes flickered over to Molly, then back to Emeril’s, searching for the answer on their faces.

  Emeril cleared his throat, and reached into the pocket of his shirt again, and took out another folded up sheet of paper. Like he did with the picture of Lakewood Cabin, he spread it out on the desk facing Andy. Andy immediately recognized the printout as a copy of a police report. It was of the Lang incident that happened last year.

  “What’s that? Where did you get that?” Andy said. His eyes were frantic.

  Emeril leaned back in the chair. He interlaced his fingers and put his hands behind his head and smiled at Andy. “I told you, I’ve done extensive research into your cabin. I’m wondering if you’ve mentioned this incident to any of the previous renters?”

  “What’s it matter?” Andy said, shaking his head. “People can be murdered anywhere.”

  “Hmm, I see you dodged the question.”

  “No,” Andy answered, hoping that would be the end of it and he could go back to trying to get them to rent the cabin. “What kind of an idiot would bring that up? It would scare people off.”

  “I see,” Emeril said. He took out another piece of paper from his pocket and put it in front of Andy. “These are more reports of people who have gone missing in the woods. Many of the reports mention your cabin as a nearby landmark. I’m curious if you know anything about these?”

  Andy looked down at the printed out reports like a teenager staring at pages of his not-so-secret-anymore diary. His face flushed red. “What’s your point, Mister Dantes? Do you want to rent out the cabin or not?”

  “I want to know what you know about these before I hand over any money—and why you think these people are going missing.”

  “I understand you’re concerned about your safety,” Andy stumbled on his words at seeing a smile flash across Emeril’s face, “but I can assure you that Lakewood Cabin is a safe environment for you and your partner.”

  “I’m sure the Langs would disagree with that,” Emeril said.

  Andy was losing his cool and was starting to get frustrated enough to not care if he lost these two as client
s. “Who are you two?”

  “I am a paranormal investigator, Mister Cameron. My partner here is a documentarian. We investigate the odd, the mysterious, and the unexplained. These woods that your cabin is in, and the disappearances of these people, happens to fall into all three categories.”

  Andy grabbed a tumbler from a shelf under his desk, took it over to a miniature fridge and dumped some ice cubes into it. He came back into the chair, reached under the desk for his secret stash of whisky he sometimes drank when he worked late at nights at the office, and filled his cup to the rim.

  “Okay, Mister Dantes, Miss Sanger. I’ll be honest with you two.”

  “Thank you,” Emeril said. “That would be appreciated.”

  “Funny stuff does happen in the woods around Lakewood Cabin. I have no control over that. And it’s true, I don’t tell potential renters about these missing persons reports. I suppose that’s dishonest of me—maybe even slimy—but I’m in the business of renting out getaway homes for people, not busting crime. That’s what law enforcement is for. Can I ensure your safety out there? No. Of course not. But, I can suggest having a good time and making sure your life insurance is up to date.”

  “Sure,” Emeril said. “I have another question, Mister Cameron.”

  Andy took a big sip from his drink. “Go ahead.”

  “Why did the police write off the Lang incident as a murder-suicide? From what I’ve read, the wife’s body was never found.”

  Andy shook his head. “I don’t know. I suppose because the woods are too damn big to do a proper investigation. There’s not really any one department assigned to the woods. The different townships pass around the responsibility like a hot potato. It all depends on who gets called when and all that.”

  “I see,” Emeril said. “That’s interesting.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, Mister Dantes, the towns around here aren’t much of towns at all. Some of them have populations less than two thousand people. The sheriff and the milkman might be the same fucking person in some of these places for all I know.”

  “Hypothetically speaking,” Emeril said, “if I wanted to find out more about these woods and the missing people, who would I consult if not the police?”

  “Oh shit, I don’t know. Maybe the locals.” He rolled the question over in his head for a second, then a name popped into his head. “I know! There’s a guy named Harold Buckley.”

  “Where can I find this Mister Buckley?”

  “He’s usually in the Green Lizard Tavern over in Prairie Town. I can give you directions there.” Andy reached behind him, to the clear shelf where the brochures were again, and this time took a paper bar menu out of it. He handed it over to Emeril.

  “I go drinking there sometimes. Harold Buckley is almost always there when I go. Weeknight or weekends. I think maybe he lives there. Maybe rents out a room in the back of the bar or something,” Andy laughed.

  Emeril glanced at the menu and then handed it over to Molly, who did the same before putting it in her purse.

  “Fair warning,” Andy went on, “he’s a bit of a loon. Always talking crazy stuff, conspiracies and that kind of junk…er, I mean, is that what you guys do?”

  “Something along those lines,” Emeril said, ignoring the insult to his profession. This was something he’d learned to roll with early on in deciding to become a paranormal investigator.

  “Now,” Andy said, sitting up straight. He was feeling the whisky working its magic in him. “Can we get back to discussing Lakewood Cabin and how it’s the perfect summer destination for you and this young lady here?”

  “Actually,” Emeril said, getting out of the chair, “we’re not interested anymore.”

  “What!” Andy jumped out of his chair so fast the back of his thighs hit the chair. It rolled back on its wheels and slammed into the wall behind it. “B-but…but I told you all that stuff. Wait. You were never going to rent, were you? You tricked me!”

  Emeril pulled out a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and threw it down as he collected his printouts. “For your troubles. You did well on camera, Mister Cameron. Try not to be so hard on yourself.”

  Now Andy saw the red glowing light on the camera, one he should have seen before. Anger swelled up in him. “Hey, no! You-you don’t have my consent to use that footage.”

  They’d started out of the office already, and Emeril was already outside. Molly turned to Andy Cameron, halfway out the door herself, and said, “We’ll blur your face out, don’t worry. No one will know it was you admitting to being slimy.”

  “Th-this isn’t fair!” Andy called after them.

  Molly respondd by shutting the door behind her.

  “It’s amazing that people can be both stupid and rich,” Emeril said as he slid into the Subaru’s driver seat. He pulled his cellphone out, but he still had no service in this area. This far north in Pennsylvania seemed to be one big dead zone, with pockets of reception, instead of the other way around. Must be all the trees.

  “I didn’t know we had the funds to pay interviewees now,” Molly said, getting into the passenger seat and closing the door.

  Emeril snickered. “A hundred dollars for someone like Andy Cameron is nothing but pocket change. That was more an act of clearing my own conscience for the deception.”

  “Let me rephrase then: I didn’t know we had the money to clear your conscience.”

  “We don’t,” Emeril said, putting the cellphone away. “But I think with the information he gave us we might be able to make a heck of a movie.”

  “Ah, so it was an investment?” Molly asked, but it wasn’t exactly a question. More of a criticism than anything.

  “Something like that.” Emeril put the key into the ignition and started the Subaru up. They had almost an hour’s drive to get back to their hotel.

  Chapter 3

  Fletcher Donovan was part Rastafarian-wannabe and part slick businessman. He was only two years older than Fred, but word was he owned the house he lived in, which was two houses down the street from where Fred lived with his parents.

  He drove around in a two-year-old Lexus and was usually sporting the latest Apple Watch (which didn’t fit in with his trademark image of blond dreads and a tie-dye shirt). Whenever anyone asked about his money, Fletcher told them he owned a car parts shop.

  No one had ever seen or knew where this shop was located, but people didn’t ask him too many questions because everyone in the town loved him. Not just the high school and college kids who he sold weed and shrooms to, but their parents loved him too.

  Of course, they didn’t know about the drugs, or if they did, they turned a blind eye. They loved him because of the help he did around the neighborhood. Fletcher and four of his buddies (who looked closer to his image than his flashy Apple watches) got together on Sunday mornings and went around picking up litter in the neighborhood. They did this about twice a month, and it was free of charge to the neighborhood—no one knew if Fletcher paid his friends or just gave them goods from his stashes, but again, this wasn’t anyone’s concern.

  Fletcher and the same buddies also tended the communal garden they’d converted the front yard of the abandoned meat shop into. In the summer, residents could go and pick fresh cherry tomatoes, basil, carrots, cucumbers, and sometimes even catnip for their kitties. It all depended on what Fletcher and his merry band of modern-day hippies decided to grow that year, but either way, it was another bonus he had with the neighborhood adults.

  Fred rang the doorbell, hoping his friend wouldn’t think this was some sort of police drug bust since he’d forgotten to text him that he was coming.

  An eye appeared at the peephole, then Fletcher opened the door with his usual big grin. His blond dreads were pulled back into a messy ponytail and he wore an oversized Dark Side of the Moon t-shirt.

  “Freddie, my boy!” Fletcher hopped toward him and gave him a big hug. “Nice of you to stop by, man!”

  Fred wasn’t the biggest fan of being close to
people, but because it was Fletch, he always let it slide. He reciprocated by patting him on the back, then pulled away. “Yeah, man, sorry. Been busy with school and work.”

  “I know how it goes,” Fletcher said. He moved back into the house, leaving an inviting gap in the doorway. “You wanna come inside? I got some new records, come check ’em out.”

  The bit about the new records was both code for “come inside if you’re looking to buy something illicit” and the truth, because Fletcher collected vinyl. Not in a hipster way, he’d been collecting those since they were in middle school.

  Fred went inside the house and Fletcher led him into the living room.

  The inside of the house always took Fred by surprise. It was clean and tidy instead of being dark and damp and smelling of BO and weed. It wasn’t riddled with drug paraphernalia and roaches like one might expect a pothead’s place to be. Fletch’s place looked like it had been decorated by a hippie mom.

  There was a large, red Indian rug underneath a bone marrow colored coffee table decorated with Buddhas. Various images of Vishnu, Ganesha, and psychedelic patterns hung in gold-plated frames on the walls of the rooms and corridors. The place smelled of a hint of weed, but the dominating scent was floral and smoky smells coming from the incense burning on the mantle over the fireplace.

  Fred sat on one of the couches. It was large and soft, and the cushioning seemed to form itself around him. A stoner’s dream seat.

  Fletcher sat in a fan-backed wicker chair, picking up a cup off the center table filled with Coke and rum that had thick ice cubes floating in it.

  “Want some?” Fletcher asked him, taking a sip of his drink.

  “No thanks,” Fred said. “Gotta get up kind of early tomorrow.”

  “Ah, well, what can I help you with then?”

  “I need some of the good stuff,” Fred told him.

  “The good stuff, or the really good stuff?”