Grimm Woods

by D. Melhoff

“Holy sh—” Scott ducked as if a rifle had fired overhead. He looked around for the source of the sound effect, but the speakers were well hidden.

  Another trumpet blast—“Jesus.”—and then, in perfect unison, the counselors turned and faced the hall’s entrance.

  Scott shot Chase a look: What the hell is going on?

  “Didn’t you read the handbook?” Chase said. “Turn around.”

  But it was too late. As soon as Scott pivoted toward the door, the others turned to face the stage. A few of the kids must have noticed that he had no idea what he was doing, because a handful of them were pointing and giggling from the audience. He contemplated flashing them the finger, when a voice announced: “Would the ladies please rise.”

  Chairs scraped across the floor as the girls in the ballroom got to their feet. The female counselors stepped forward, and Scott saw Charlotte taking center stage.

  Music began drifting out of the hidden speakers—a dulcet French horn theme—and Norma entered the hall carrying a rolled-up banner reverently in her hands.

  “Girls,” Charlotte announced as Norma made her way onto the front platform. “The rose, royal and stunning, is nature’s most admired flower. But above all else, it represents love. Our hope is that Crownheart will help you flourish not only with beauty, but with thorns of protection against life’s harms. To you, we bestow Camp Rose.”

  Norma unfurled the banner and held it in the air, revealing the words “CAMP ROSE” stitched into the pink cloth. Scott wanted to laugh, but everyone else was taking it dead serious, so he bit his tongue and stopped a sneer from escaping.

  “Gentlemen,” Charlotte said. “Rise.”

  The girls took their seats, and the boys got to their feet as a bright-sounding string instrument started playing. Chase grabbed Scott’s arm and pulled him forward at the same time that Bruce entered the room with a banner stowed under his armpit.

  The groundskeeper had a slight hunch in his shoulders, Scott noted, which seemed oddly unconfident for a man of his size. Must not be a fan of so much attention. Serves him right, the cigarette-chucking bastard. We’re all staring at you. Come on—trip. Trip, trip, trip. But Bruce was laser-focused. He got to the stage without so much as a stumble and stood beside Charlotte.

  “The mandolin,” Charlotte continued, “a masculine name, certainly. Yet the soft plucks of lutes echo louder than swords in the halls of kings. Crownheart hopes that every one of you finds a peaceful, compassionate nature to match your vigorous spirits. To you, we bestow Camp Mandolin.”

  Bruce dropped the bottom of his banner, and it smacked the stage with a dull clack, revealing the words “CAMP MANDOLIN” above the image of a medieval lute. The boys hooted and hollered, fulfilling the “vigorous spirits” component of Charlotte’s speech, but not quite the “peaceful, compassionate” part.

  “What was that all about?” Scott muttered.

  “The kids have separate camps,” Chase replied. “Camp Rose for girls, Camp Mandolin for—”

  “Nobles!” Charlotte announced. “Lords, ladies. I can tell we have an eager crowd. But before we begin, it’s time to meet your house squires. After they’ve handed out your uniforms, we’ll break until lunch. No sense staying inside while the sun’s shining, am I right?”

  The kids cheered.

  This isn’t her first rodeo, Scott thought. Apparently, Charlotte knew you couldn’t keep children cooped up for more than five minutes unless you wanted a scene straight from Lord of the Flies. The boys and girls clambered out of their chairs and rushed the counselors, who began calling out names and distributing T-shirts accordingly.

  “Mindy!”

  “Jake!”

  “Mikaela!”

  “Stephanie!”

  Scott looked down and discovered a pile of yellow shirts and a clipboard on the floor behind him. Yup. Definitely should have read the welcome manual. He snagged the clipboard and scanned a list of names.

  “Spencer?” he called.

  An overweight kid with big blue eyes and fewer than a dozen teeth toddled forward. Immediately, Scott pictured Baby Sinclair from the television show Dinosaurs—a likeness further enhanced when the boy took his yellow T-shirt and pulled it over his button-up.

  “Brady?”

  A sporty kid with frosted tips hopped up next.

  “Tyrell?”

  Tyrell’s name had an asterisk beside it, but no footnote as to what that meant. There was no response, so he tried again. “Tyrell?”

  A chair at the opposite end of the room screeched across the floor, and an African-American kid who had been sitting by himself shuffled toward the group, his shoes leaving a trail of scuffmarks like burned rubber behind him.

  “And you, too, Skittles man. C’mon.”

  Marshall bounced up and joined the crew.

  “All right,” Scott said, “everybody else take a shirt.” He tossed out the tees, and each of the boys caught one—everyone except Tyrell, who crossed his arms and let the uniform fall to the floor.

  Oh, Scott realized. I see. Asterisk equals asshole. Great. Got stuck with a problem case.

  “Look.” Scott lowered his voice and picked up Tyrell’s shirt. “You think I like my monkey suit, either? No, but how about this: wear it while Charlotte’s around and do whatever you want the rest of the time. I don’t get you in trouble, you don’t get me in trouble. Cool?”

  Tyrell didn’t budge. Scott shook his head and threw the shirt at him. “Whatever. Just carry it.”

  ____

  The campers spilled out of the fort and branched off toward the clearing’s activity stations. Counselors with younger kids headed to Storybook Square, while older groups veered toward the stables, the hedge maze, and, in Scott and Chase’s case, the archery range.

  As they descended the hill, Scott’s sights locked on the group in front of him. Brynn’s group.

  “Geez,” he muttered, watching the girls curve west on the grassy slope. “Give it a rest. You’ve got work to do. Just focus. Focus. Focus. Focus.”

  But he couldn’t. It was ridiculous and juvenile and just plain stupid, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to concentrate until he found out where the two of them stood. Go and say something about last night, he thought. Apologize, quick—right now. The longer you wait, the more awkward it gets. Go, go, go. She’s still here; it’s not too late.

  “Guys,” he said to his group. “Keep following Chase, okay? Be back in a second.”

  Spencer, Marshall, Brady, and Tyrell tottered to a stop.

  “That way.” Scott pointed to Chase, whose group was already thirty feet ahead of them.

  “What if we get lost?” Marshall asked.

  “It’s right there,” Scott said over his shoulder, jogging in the opposite direction. Besides, he thought, I was mowing lawns and picking bottles out of the ditch when I was your age. You’ll live.

  The land dipped and leveled out at the bottom of the main hill. The girls had meandered onto a path that snaked through the clearing and brought them west of the colorful square. Scott got within ten yards of the group and stuck two fingers in his mouth, whistling.

  Brynn and Kimberly turned, confused. When they spotted him, they exchanged a look that said a thousand words.

  Kimberly held out her arms and marshaled the parade of girls farther down the trail: “Come on, gals, let’s boogie! There’s a wishing well in the center of the maze, and if we find it, we get to make a wish!” Brynn shot her a please-don’t-leave-me-here-alone look, but Kimberly waved her off, winking, and ran after the kids.

  “Listen,” Scott said, moving closer. “Last night…”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Brynn replied.

  “I just want to—”

  “Really,” Brynn said. “Don’t. I’m sorry if I led you on or something, but let’s drop it, okay?”

  “I can be pretty persistent.”

  “I have to get back to my group.”

  “In a minute. Let me—”

  “Scott. No.
”

  “Eeeeeee!”

  Scott tilted his head at the sound of a high-pitched squeal crescendoing in the distance. He looked past Brynn and saw a little girl zooming up the trail from the direction that Kimberly and the others had just gone in.

  “Brynn! Brynn! Brynn!” the girl shouted. Her tiny hands were clasped in front of her chest. “Look what I got! Lookit!”

  Scott’s blood boiled. For Christ’s sake, can’t we get a goddamn minute alone?

  “It’s a butterfly!” the girl squealed. “A butterfly! A butterfly! A butterfly!”

  “Hey, kid,” Scott called. “Beat it for a sec, okay? We’re busy here.”

  The girl stopped a dozen feet away, her smile evaporating. She opened her hands—her chin dropping bashfully to her chest—and a purple butterfly escaped on the breeze.

  Shit. I didn’t mean to hurt her feelings.

  Scott felt a twinge of shame as Brynn turned, approached the girl, and knelt beside her. “Don’t listen to him, all right?” she said, wiping a tear from the youngster’s cheek. “Let’s go, Stephy.”

  “Wait—” Scott started.

  “Unless you’re apologizing to my sister, ”—Brynn tore him apart with an eviscerating glare—“we don’t want to hear it.”

  Scott froze. Sister?

  Brynn took Stephy’s hand, and the two of them continued toward the hedge maze. Scott ran his palm over his scalp, cursing under his breath, and kicked up a tuft of grass before returning to the path for the archery range.

  ____

  “You told her sister to beat it?”

  “I didn’t know she had a sister.”

  Chase’s head fell back, and he let out a single, explosive “Ha!”

  They were standing at the edge of the archery pitch where a dozen practice stations were lined up like tee-boxes on a driving range. Wooden targets lurked in the opposing field—wolves, dragons, trolls, foxes, giant spiders—and each of their group members were attempting to slay the 2-D beasts, some more accurately than others.

  “Hey, champ,” Chase said to the nearest kid, “knees like this. Keep that arm up.” He adjusted the camper’s stance, and when the boy fired his next shot, it caught the leg of a wolf. “Nice! Keep it up, Robin Hood.”

  Already, Chase’s kids were half-decent marksmen. Scott’s, on the other hand, could barely hold their own bows. Unfortunately, he didn’t know how to help. He had never fired an arrow in his life, and frankly, he didn’t think he was qualified to supervise this particular station. If I ever get around to reading the goddamn welcome manual, there’s probably a whole list of things I shouldn’t do. He looked at his group and sighed. The fat one with the missing teeth—Spencer—had managed to crawl halfway through his bow before getting stuck, while Tyrell was snapping arrows in half by stabbing them in the dirt and reefing on the fletches.

  “Sorry,” Chase said, “what were we—oh yeah. Brynn. Forget about her, man. Find someone else. There are easier girls around here, trust me.”

  “Yeah,” Scott said. He studied the hedge maze in the distance and pictured Brynn running through its passageways. Her long legs bounding over the gravel, her blonde ponytail bouncing behind her neck. He still wanted her—badly—and his scumbag brain wouldn’t leave him alone until last night’s appetizer turned into a full-course meal. “Yeah, not a bad idea. Jealousy could work.”

  “Not what I meant,” Chase said. “But hey, speaking of work, planning on doing any? Or are you just gonna let your kids wave those arrows around like feather dusters?”

  Scott shrugged. “I’ve never shot one before.”

  “Unbelievable.” Chase shook his head. He jogged to the front of the range and signaled for everyone to stop firing. “Hey, guys! I’m seeing some great stuff out there.” He grabbed an arrow and borrowed the closest kid’s bow. “Here’s a quick tip: remember to pull straight back and brush your cheek when you release. And aim for the nuts. Slays ’em every time.”

  Chase nocked the arrow and eyed up a troll. Thock! Direct hit, right in the sack. One of the boys let out a loud “Owww!” and mimed getting hit in the balls.

  The kids burst into laughter.

  “Mamer.” Chase held out the bow. “Show us how it’s done.”

  “I’m good,” Scott replied.

  Chase ambled closer and thrust the bow against Scott’s chest. “Brynn’s a prude,” he whispered, low enough that none of the kids could hear. “Swing for Nikki and you’ll have a ninety percent chance of scoring a home run. One shot and the hut’s yours tonight.”

  Chase stepped back, leaving the bow in Scott’s hands.

  Scott looked at the targets. Great, he thought, feeling the sudden pressure of the kids’ attention. Can’t pussy out now.

  He shuffled up to the firing line, hesitant, and chose an arrow from the station’s quiver. “Well,” he mumbled, taking aim at a wooden fox, “how hard can it be?” He pulled back clumsily—shaking from the sudden tension—and let go.

  Twing. The arrow shot fifty degrees off course and smacked a tree.

  The kids erupted with laughter.

  “Shut up, fuckers.”

  The boys’ reactions changed instantaneously, from humored grins to glistening, wide-eyed wonder.

  Chase grabbed Scott’s shoulder—“Keep practicing, guys. Show me your best Scott Shots.”—and yanked him away from the range. The kids returned to their stations and started firing arrows randomly into the trees, their giggles peppering the air like tommy-gun bullets.

  “Dude,” Chase said, “cut the F-bombs. One brat tattles and we’re both doing dishes for a month.”

  “Relax,” Scott said. “No one’s gonna rat us out.”

  “Oh really? What are you going to tell them—snitches get stitches? Sure. Sure, see where that gets us.”

  “Okay, asshole. I’ll tone it down.”

  “Yeah?” Chase straightened up at the sight of something behind Scott. “Well you better start fast. And take that damn thing out of your ear, wouldja? Surprised no one’s said anything yet.”

  “Huh?”

  Scott watched, confused, as Chase shoved the hem of his uniform into his shorts and tried smoothing out the wrinkles.

  “Mamer,” a voice called. “Fehlman.”

  Scott glanced over his shoulder and saw the reason for Chase’s change in behavior: Charlotte was striding toward them with ten children in her wake. Shit. His hands shot for his left ear and removed the steel plug, pocketing it with the speed and dexterity of a street magician. When he reached for his right ear, however, he felt nothing but an empty hole. The memory dawned: Brynn took it out. I must’ve lost it when the boat capsized.

  “Hey there, Big C,” Chase said.

  Charlotte arrived in front of them, frowning. “Have either of you seen Dominique or Erin?”

  “Since when?”

  “This morning.”

  “Afraid not,” Chase said.

  “So help me…” Charlotte huffed. “I’m afraid these poor lords and ladies were left behind after everyone else ran off with a group. How do you suppose that feels, hmm?” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “Now listen. I was born at night, but it wasn’t last night. Twelve of you showed up this morning looking like death warmed over. I can turn a blind eye if the odd person wanders in a few minutes late, but an hour?” She shivered and clenched a gold chain hung around her neck, seemingly trying to stay calm in front of the kids.

  Geez, Scott thought. Somebody get this woman a Valium.

  “Tell me the truth,” Charlotte pressed, “and don’t cover for them. Where are they?”

  “I don’t know,” Chase said.

  Scott shrugged. Me, neither.

  Charlotte crossed her arms, frowning again. “Fine. One of you watch these guys while we track down team AWOL. The other one knock on Dominique’s hut—number seven. I’ll check Erin’s.”

  ____

  Scott entered the neighborhood of boys’ huts—Camp Mandolin, he noted—and strode past numbers on
e through six, hopping up the steps of number seven, and knocked on the door.

  No one answered.

  He paused, listening for movement. It was quiet enough that he could hear the laughter from the archery range floating over the treetops.

  “Come on, guys.” He knocked again. “Charlotte’s pissed.”

  Nothing.

  Gunmetal clouds covered the sun, and a gust of wind skated over his arms, pebbling his skin with gooseflesh. He reached down and grabbed the doorknob—it turned without resistance.

  A frown spread across his face. He gave a gentle push, and the door drifted open to reveal…

  A swirling, gray wall.

  Smoke spewed out of the hut and struck Scott’s sinuses like an asphyxiating mustard bomb. He coughed back the stench of marijuana and batted his arms as he peered into the herbal fog.

  He gagged again—

  And stopped.

  “Holy shit.”

  The smoke parted to reveal the naked bodies of Dominique and Erin sprawled over a nest of needles, cotton balls, and pill bottles. Leather belts were strapped around their biceps, and two plastic sandwich bags of pot were torn apart at their feet, smoldering with the last smidge of weed that had produced the swirling nimbus. Scott’s mouth dropped open, and the corpses gaped back, their pale lips bent into permanent frowns on their dead-white faces.

  7

  “Dead when he walked in—”

  “They were fine when they left the beach—”

  “I didn’t hear anything—”

  “Neither did I—”

  “Dom knew what he was doing. He wouldn’t OD—”

  “Obviously they did—”

  The counselors were crammed inside an office on the second floor of the fort, pale as specters, caught up in a flurry of tears and speculation.

  The room was a rat’s nest of bookshelves and filing cabinets. Scott sat propped against an oak desk, arms folded, staring at a faded fairy-tale fresco painted across the ceiling. Red Riding Hood with the wolf in Grandmother’s nightgown; Snow White lying in a glass case; Robin Hood firing a longbow. It was no Sistine Chapel, but it beat having to look around at the faces of the counselors whose questions he had refused to address. He had told Chase in confidence what he had seen, and although the rest of them would have caught wind of it sooner or later, he was still angry that the words “swear to God, I won’t tell a soul” meant squat.