by R. L. Stine
“Maybe it’s some kind of animal,” John replied.
Ka-thump ka-thump.
“But it sounds so close!” a boy cried.
“It’s coming from right above us,” another boy said. “Or maybe beneath us!”
“It’s just a noise,” John told them. “Don’t worry about it.”
So they set up the tents. And they spread sleeping bags inside the tents.
Ka-thump ka-thump.
They tried to ignore the sound. But it was so close. So close.
And such a strange—but familiar—sound.
What could it be? the campers wondered. What on earth makes a sound like that?
Ka-thump ka-thump.
The campers couldn’t sleep. The noise was too loud, too frightening—too near.
Ka-thump ka-thump.
They burrowed deep into their sleeping bags. They zipped themselves in tight. They covered their ears.
Ka-thump ka-thump.
It didn’t help. They couldn’t escape the sound.
“John, we can’t sleep,” they complained.
“I can’t sleep, either,” John replied.
Ka-thump ka-thump.
“What should we do?” the campers asked the counselor.
John didn’t get a chance to answer.
They heard another Ka-thump ka-thump.
And then a deep voice growled: “WHY ARE YOU STANDING ON MY HEART?”
The ground shook.
The campers suddenly realized what the frightening sound was. And as the ground rose up, they realized—too late—they had camped on the smooth skin of a hideous monster.
“I guess we went too deep into the woods!” John cried.
His last words.
Ka-thump ka-thump.
The monster’s heartbeat.
And then its huge, hairy head lifted up. Its mouth pulled open. And it swallowed John and the campers without even chewing.
And as they slid down the monster’s throat, the sound of the heartbeat grew louder and louder.
Ka-thump ka-thump. Ka-thump ka-thump. Ka-THUMP!
Uncle Marv shouted the last Ka-thump at the top of his lungs.
Some campers screamed. Some gazed at Uncle Marv in silence, their faces tight with fear. Beside me, Lucy hugged herself, biting her bottom lip.
Uncle Marv smiled, his face flickering in the dancing orange flames.
Laughing, I turned to Elvis. “That’s a funny story!” I exclaimed.
Elvis narrowed his eyes at me. “Huh? Funny?”
“Yeah. It’s a very funny story,” I repeated.
Elvis stared hard at me. “But it’s true!” he said softly.
8
I laughed. “Yeah. For sure,” I said, rolling my eyes.
I expected Elvis to laugh. But he didn’t. The firelight flickered in his pale blue eyes as he stared at me. Then he turned to talk to my brother.
A chill ran down my back. Why was he acting so weird?
Did he really think I’d believe a crazy story like that was true?
I’m twelve years old. I stopped believing in things like the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy a long time ago.
I turned to Lucy. She was still hugging herself, staring intently into the fire.
“Do you believe him?” I asked, motioning to Elvis. “Is he weird or what?”
Lucy stared straight ahead. She seemed so deep in thought, I don’t think she heard me.
Finally she raised her head. She blinked. “What?”
“My brother’s new friend,” I said, pointing to Elvis again. “He said that Uncle Marv’s story was true.”
Lucy nodded, but didn’t reply.
“I thought it was a funny story,” I said.
She picked up a twig and tossed it on the fire. I waited for her to say something. But she seemed lost in thought again.
The flames of the campfire had died down. Sparkling red embers and chunks of burning wood spread over the ground. Chris and another counselor carried fresh logs into the meeting circle.
I watched them rebuild the fire. They piled armfuls of twigs and sticks onto the burning embers. When the sticks burst into flames, the two counselors lowered logs over them.
Then they stepped back, and Uncle Marv took his place in front of the fire. He stood with his hands in the pockets of his white shorts. The full moon floated behind his head, making his long black hair shine.
He smiled. “And now I will tell the second traditional story of Camp Spirit Moon,” he announced.
Once again, the circle of campers grew silent. I leaned back, trying to get my brother’s attention. But Alex was staring across the fire at Uncle Marv.
Alex probably thought the first ghost story was kind of dumb, I knew. He hates ghost stories even more than I do. He thinks they’re silly baby stuff. And so do I.
So what was Elvis’ problem?
Was he goofing? Just teasing me? Or was he trying to scare me?
Uncle Marv’s booming voice interrupted my thoughts. “This is a story we tell every year at Camp Spirit Moon,” he said. “It’s the story of the Ghost Camp.”
He lowered his deep voice nearly to a whisper, so that we all had to lean closer to hear him. And in hushed tones, he told us the story of the Ghost Camp.
The story takes place at a camp very much like Camp Spirit Moon. On a warm summer night, the campers and counselors met around a blazing council fire.
They roasted hot dogs and toasted marshmallows. They sang the camp songs. One of the counselors played a guitar, and he led them in singing song after song.
When they were tired of singing, the counselors took turns telling ghost stories. And telling the legends of the camp, legends that had been passed on from camper to camper for nearly a hundred years.
The evening grew late. The campfire had died low. The moon floated high in the sky, a pale full moon.
The camp director stepped forward to end the council meeting.
Suddenly, darkness swept over the circle of campers.
They all looked up—and saw that the moon had been covered by a heavy blanket of black clouds.
And swirls of fog came drifting over the camp. A cold, wet fog. Cloudy gray at first. Then darkening.
And thickening.
Until the fog swept over the camp, billowing like black smoke.
Tumbling and swirling, the cold wet fog rolled over the dying campfire. Rolled over the campers and counselors. Over the cabins and the lake and the trees.
A choking fog, so thick and dark the campers couldn’t see each other. Couldn’t see the fire. Or the ground. Or the moon in the sky.
The fog lingered for a short while, swirling and tossing, low over the ground. Wet, so wet and silent.
It moved on just as silently.
Like smoke blown away.
The moonlight shone through. The grass sparkled as if a heavy dew had settled.
The fire was out. Dark purple embers sizzled over the ground.
The fog swirled away. Swept over the trees. And vanished.
And the campers sat around the dead campfire. Their eyes blank. Their arms limp at their sides.
Not moving. Not moving. Not moving.
Because they were no longer alive.
The fog had left a ghost camp in its wake.
The campers, the counselors, the camp director—they were all ghosts now.
All spirits. All ghosts. Every last one of them.
They climbed to their feet. And returned to their bunks.
They knew the ghost camp was their home now—forever!
With a smile, Uncle Marv stepped back from the fire.
I glanced around the circle. The faces were so solemn. No one smiled or laughed.
It’s a pretty good story, I thought. Kind of scary.
But it doesn’t have much of an ending.
I turned to see what Alex thought.
And gasped when I saw the terrified expression on his face. “Alex—what?” I cried, my voice cutting thro
ugh the silence of the circle. “What’s wrong?”
He didn’t reply. His eyes were raised to the sky. He pointed up.
I gazed up too—and let out a cry of horror.
As a black, swirling fog came sweeping over the camp.
9
My mouth dropped open as I watched the fog roll closer. It darkened the ground as it moved steadily toward us.
Darkened the trees. Darkened the sky.
This is crazy, I told myself.
This is impossible!
I scooted next to Alex. “It’s just a coincidence,” I told him.
He didn’t seem to hear me. He jumped to his feet. His whole body trembled.
I stood up beside him. “It’s only fog,” I said, trying to sound calm. “It gets foggy out here in the woods all the time.”
“Really?” Alex asked in a tiny voice.
The black smoky fog swirled over us.
“Of course,” I replied. “Hey—we don’t believe in ghosts, remember? We don’t think ghost stories are scary.”
“But—but—” Alex stuttered. “Why is everyone staring at us?” he finally choked out.
I turned and squinted through the thick fog.
Alex was right. All around the circle, the other campers had their eyes on Alex and me. Their faces appeared to dim behind the curtain of dark mist.
“I—I don’t know why they’re watching us,” I whispered to my brother.
Fog billowed around us. I shivered. It felt cold against my skin.
“Harry—I don’t like this,” Alex whispered.
The fog was so thick now, I could barely see him, even though he stood close beside me.
“I know we don’t believe in ghosts,” Alex said. “But I don’t like this. It—it’s too creepy.”
From the other side of the circle, Uncle Marv’s voice broke the silence. “It’s a beautiful fog tonight,” he said. “Let’s all stand up and sing the Camp Spirit Moon song.”
Alex and I were already standing. The other campers and counselors obediently climbed to their feet.
Their pale faces shimmered in and out of the fog.
I rubbed my arms. Cold and wet. I dried my face with the front of my T-shirt.
The fog grew even heavier and darker as Uncle Marv began to sing. Everyone joined in. Beside me, Alex began to sing, quieter this time.
Our voices were muffled by the heavy mist. Even Uncle Marv’s booming voice sounded smaller and far away.
I tried to sing too. But I didn’t know the words. And my own voice came out choked and small.
As I stared into the swirling fog, the voices faded. Everyone sang, but the sound sank into the fog.
The voices vanished. All of them. All except for Alex’s.
He seemed to be the only one still singing, his voice pure and soft beside me in the dark mist.
And then Alex stopped singing, too.
The fog swept on. The darkness lifted.
Silvery moonlight washed down on us once again.
Alex and I gazed around in surprise.
No one else remained.
Alex and I were all alone. All alone in front of the dying fire.
10
I blinked. And blinked again.
I don’t know what I expected. Did I think they would all appear again?
Alex and I gazed across the circle in stunned silence.
They had vanished with the fog. The campers. The counselors. Uncle Marv.
A chill ran down my back. My skin still felt damp and cold from the heavy mist.
“Wh-where—?” Alex choked out.
I swallowed hard.
A burned log crumbled into the purple embers. The soft thud startled me.
I jumped.
And then I started to laugh.
Alex squinted at me, studying me. “Harry—?”
“Don’t you see?” I told him. “It’s a joke.”
He squinted at me harder. “Huh?”
“It’s a camp joke,” I explained. “It’s a joke they probably always play on new campers here.”
Alex twisted up his whole face. He was thinking about it. But I don’t think he believed me.
“They all ran off into the woods,” I told him. “They hid behind the fog and ran away. They were all in on the joke. I’ll bet they do it to every new kid.”
“But—the fog—” Alex choked out.
“I’ll bet the fog was a fake!” I exclaimed. “They probably have some kind of smoke machine. To help them with the joke.”
Alex rubbed his chin. I could still see the fear in his eyes.
“They probably do this all the time,” I assured him. “Uncle Marv tells the story. Then somebody turns on the smoke machine. The black smoke rolls over the campfire circle. And everyone runs and hides.”
Alex turned and stared into the woods. “I don’t see anyone hiding back there,” he said softly. “I don’t see anyone watching us.”
“I’ll bet they’re all back at the cabins,” I told him. “I’ll bet they’re waiting for us. Waiting to see the looks on our faces.”
“Waiting to laugh at us for falling for their dumb joke,” Alex added.
“Let’s go!” I cried. I slapped him on the shoulder. Then I started running across the wet grass toward the row of cabins.
Alex ran close behind. The moon sent a silvery path across the grass in front of us.
Sure enough—as we came near the cabins, the campers all came running out. They were laughing and hooting. Slapping each other high fives.
Enjoying their joke. A joke they play on new campers when the fog rolls in, they told us.
I saw Lucy laughing along with a bunch of girls.
Elvis grabbed Alex and wrestled him playfully to the ground.
Everyone teased us and told us how scared we looked.
“We weren’t scared even for a second,” I lied. “Alex and I figured it out before the fog cleared.”
That made everyone start laughing and cheering all over again.
“Owoooooooh!”
Some of the kids cupped their hands around their mouths and made ghost howls.
“Owoooooooh!”
That led to more laughing and joking.
I didn’t mind the teasing. Not a bit.
I felt so relieved. My heart was still pounding like crazy. And my knees felt kind of weak.
But I felt so happy that it was all a joke.
Every summer camp has its jokes, I told myself. And this is a pretty good one.
But it didn’t fool me. Not for long, anyway.
“Lights Out in five minutes,” Uncle Marv’s booming command stopped the fun. “Lights Out, campers!”
The kids all turned and scurried to their bunks.
I stared down the row of cabins, suddenly confused. Which one was ours?
“This way, Harry,” Alex said. He tugged me toward the third cabin down the path. Alex has a better memory than I do for things like that.
Elvis and two other guys were already in the cabin when Alex and I came in. They were getting changed for bed. The other guys introduced themselves. Sam and Joey.
I made my way to the bunk bed and started to undress.
“Owoooooooh!” A ghostly howl made me jump.
I spun around and saw Joey grinning at me.
Everyone laughed. Me, too.
I like camp jokes, I thought. They’re mean. But they’re kind of fun.
I felt something soft and gooey under my bare foot. Yuck! I glanced down.
And saw that I had stepped in a fresh puddle of blue slime.
The cabin lights went out. But before they did, I saw blue puddles—fresh blue puddles—all over the floor.
The cold blue stuff stuck to the bottom of my foot. I stumbled through the dark cabin and found a towel to wipe it off.
What are these blue puddles? I asked myself as I climbed up to my top bunk.
I glimpsed Joey and Sam in the bunk against the wall.
I gasped.
&
nbsp; They stared back at me, their eyes shining like flashlights!
What is going on here? I wondered.
What are the sticky blue puddles all over the floor?
And why do Sam and Joey’s eyes glow like that in the dark?
I turned my face to the wall. I tried not to think about anything.
I had almost drifted to sleep—when I felt a cold, slimy hand sliding down my arm.
11
“Huh?”
I shot straight up. Still feeling the cold, wet touch on my skin.
I stared at my brother. “Alex—you scared me to death!” I whispered. “What do you want?”
He stood on his mattress, his dark eyes staring at me. “I can’t sleep,” he moaned.
“Keep trying,” I told him sharply. “Why are your hands so cold?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “It’s cold in here, I guess.”
“You’ll get used to it,” I said. “You always have trouble sleeping in new places.”
I yawned. I waited for him to drop back onto the bottom bunk. But he didn’t move.
“Harry, you don’t believe in ghosts—do you?” he whispered.
“Of course not,” I told him. “Don’t let a couple of silly stories creep you out.”
“Yeah. Right,” he agreed. “Good night.”
I said good night. He disappeared back to his bed. I heard him tossing around down there. He had a very squeaky mattress.
Poor guy, I thought. That dumb Ghost Camp joke with the fog really messed him up.
He’ll be fine in the morning, I decided.
I turned and gazed across the dark cabin toward Joey and Sam’s bunk. Were their eyes still glowing so strangely?
No.
Darkness there.
I started to turn away—then stopped.
And stared hard.
“Oh no!” I murmured out loud.
In the dim light, I could see Joey. Stretched out. Asleep.
Floating two feet above his mattress!
12
I scrambled to climb out of bed. My legs tangled in the blanket, and I nearly fell on my head!
“Hey—what’s up?” I heard Alex whisper below me.
I ignored him. I swung myself around, and leaped to the floor.
