by Mary McCoy
The horses knew every inch of the trail. They were not fooled by the way the moonlight created snares where none existed and hid others. They saw every root, every stone. But they had never seen anything like the creature that stood outside the cave. It had the body of a spider and the head of a snake, and it loomed over a girl with beads in her hair who lay stunned by the side of the path.
They were upon it in an instant. There was no time to stop or slow down. The creature was big—it should have stopped them like a stone wall, but instead, they thundered over it, crushing its head beneath the hooves of their steeds.
A Note from the Narrator: It was pure fear that kept the girls from tugging at the reins, turning around, and fleeing back in the direction from which they’d come when they saw the beast in the middle of the trail. They could not go back. They would not go back. When a terror-stricken girl believes she is fleeing a psychotic murderer, perhaps the girl will dispatch the monster in front of her without fully noticing because it is standing between her and her escape route.
No sooner had it happened than the horses panicked—they reared up and bolted off the path. Wallis just barely managed to hang on as she and her horse crashed through the brambles, and tree branches whipped her across the face.
Just ahead of her, Wallis saw the figure of one of her cabinmates slump to the side and tumble off her horse. In the darkness, she could only make out her silhouette, but the tightly coiled mass of curls was a giveaway. Shea. Wallis tried to stop, but her horse was wild with fear and would not be stopped, would not be directed, would not double back. It dawned on Wallis that this was not going to be the story of how they escaped either.
The horses weren’t going to bring them out of the forest, not unless they were willing to leave Shea behind.
Still, knowing that and willingly throwing herself from the back of a horse were two different things. As her horse galloped past the spot where Shea had fallen, Wallis found she was frozen in the saddle. It was only when she saw Corinne grasp an overhanging tree branch and lift herself from her horse’s back, and when she saw Hennie let go of the reins and fall backwards, that Wallis realized she and Becca were in danger of losing the others if she didn’t act quickly.
First, she caught up to the catatonic Becca, who was clinging to the saddle and saying over and over again, “I want to go home, I want to go home, I want to go home,” and gave her a firm push, breathing a sigh of relief when Becca tucked and rolled clear of the horse’s hooves.
Now it was her turn. Wallis tried to tuck and roll like Becca had, but landed flat on her back and had the wind knocked out of her. Wincing, she pulled herself upright just in time to see the horses disappear into the darkness. Then she crawled over to the pile of rotten leaves that had broken Shea’s fall. The others had already gathered there and were surveying the damage.
Shea could ill afford another injury. After being hit in the head by that piece of shrapnel during the truck explosion, she had lost a fair amount of blood. The mile-long run to the stables hadn’t done her any favors either, though she’d kept up with them fairly well. However, she’d barely spoken since the explosion, and when she did, her voice was a fraction of its usual volume.
Now Shea lay very still. At first, Wallis thought that she had passed out from fear, exhaustion, or loss of blood, but when they rolled her over, she saw that this was not the case.
Abigail had struck again.
Or at least she’d tried to. There was a gash on Shea’s cheek and fresh blood in her hair at the temples, but her hands had gotten the worst of it. They were cut to ribbons, and blood streamed down her wrists and arms.
What happened? Wallis wondered, looking around the soft, fecund mulch of the forest floor. There was nothing sharper than a stick around here.
Then she looked up and saw the barbed wire that had been strung between the trees. Her insides twisted as it dawned on her that Shea had avoided a grisly outcome by the narrowest of margins. Whether it was luck or instinct or remarkably good night vision, Shea had raised her hands to protect her face just as her horse passed beneath the barbed-wire snare. She’d been knocked off the horse, but that was a small price to pay for an intact jugular vein.
“We have to stop the bleeding,” Hennie said, the first of them to recover from the shock. “Give me some light.”
“What about Abigail?” Becca whimpered.
“I don’t care,” Hennie said. “I have to help Shea.”
Wallis drew a flashlight from the pocket of her overall shorts and switched it on, glancing nervously into the woods for signs of movement. Under Hennie’s guidance, the others applied pressure to Shea’s wounds until the bleeding slowed, then bandaged her hands with strips torn from the sleeves of their t-shirts.
“Her head’s bleeding again,” Hennie said, mopping Shea’s temple with a bandanna.
“Well, then bandage it,” Corinne said, a little snappishly.
“With what?”
The bandana was already soaked through. Corinne sucked in a breath and gave Hennie an apologetic look.
“I’m doing the best I can,” Hennie said.
After what seemed like hours, they’d managed to stop the worst of the bleeding, and though Shea looked like a crime scene, she had somehow remained conscious.
Of course, by that time, the horses were long gone. Now the girls were stranded in the middle of the woods with no choice but to walk to safety. They’d lost Megan and Oscar. They’d lost the trail. They’d lost the horses.
It was still their first night at camp. They should have been in their cabin, curling up in their sleeping bags right now. Instead, they were on the run from a killer with a flair for booby traps. They were lost. And they still barely knew each other.
“Be careful,” Corinne warned them, pointing out more strands of barbed wire strung overhead like macabre Christmas lights. “More of Abigail’s traps.”
“How do you know it’s Abigail?” Hennie asked.
“Who else would it be?”
“Well, if she wants to kill us, why doesn’t she just come out here and do it?” Shea asked, weakly. Becca clung to her side, still shaking and muttering under her breath that she wanted to go home.
“Because,” Wallis said, “she’s only a little bit older than us. Remember what Oscar said? She was a camper here. She’s probably not very big or strong, so she’s trying to pick us off one by one. She’s hunting us.”
Shea examined her hands and tested the bandages to make sure they were secure. “But we’re not the ones who abandoned her in that cave and drove her insane.”
“I don’t think that matters much to Abigail.”
They continued to walk in the wrong direction, meandering first toward the stables, then making a dogleg turn south just when a straight course would have led them back on the trail. It was slow going. Hennie half-dragged, half-carried Shea, while Becca clung to Shea’s arm. Corinne and Wallis led the way, scanning their flashlights over the ground as they walked.
In this way they managed to avoid a spring-loaded bear trap, a tripwire, and a deep pit with sticks filed to sharp points lining the bottom.
These were small victories by themselves, but did little to distract them from the larger goal of getting to safety. And as far as they could tell, they were no closer to that. During the hour before dawn they decided to rest and sat down in a clearing.
Seated between Shea and Hennie, Wallis sneaked glimpses of the other girls. They were all covered in blood—their own, or someone else’s—and leaves and twigs clung to their hair. No one had eaten, no one had slept. Their clothes were torn and reeking of smoke, and yet, Abigail had not quite broken them yet.
Despite her head wound and her ruined hands, Shea seemed unperturbed. Her eyes were clear and determined as she stared straight out into the forest, half-daring any evil thing to go ahead and just try to attack her again. Shea was a fighter, Wallis decided. The same went for Corinne. Even lost in the middle of the woods, in the middle of the n
ight, with a psycho killer after them, she was like a firefighter or a reporter in a war zone. She never panicked. She refused to panic. And while Hennie seemed as daffy and off-kilter as ever, that strange smile still plastered on her face, without her quick thinking and first aid skills, Wallis was afraid to think what might have happened to Shea.
Becca was the only one Wallis remained unsure about. Ever since they had found Megan’s body, Becca had been a quivering, useless mess. Wallis understood. Wallis sympathized. But there was no denying that Becca slowed them down, even more than Shea did.
As soon as the thought entered her head, she felt guilty for it and gave Becca a squeeze on the arm. “Hey, are you doing okay?”
Becca did not reply. Uh oh, thought Wallis.
“Hey, Becca?”
She put her arm around Becca’s shoulder and gave her a shake. Becca’s neck swayed from side to side, but the expression on her face didn’t budge.
“Corinne, can you come here? I think something’s the matter with Becca.”
The other girls gathered around Becca. Shea waved a hand in front of her eyes. Corinne took her pulse. Hennie watched all of it thoughtfully, then said, “You know, it’s possible that she’s fallen under Abigail’s thrall.”
“Are you insane?” Corinne asked, and she put her arm around Becca’s shoulder.
“It happens sometimes on TV shows. One of the potential victims becomes inexplicably drawn to the killer. The killer is aware of this and grooms the victim to become his or her assistant. It’s like Stockholm syndrome, only worse. Soon, the assistant begins actively helping the killer, finding victims and offering them up to the killer or even taking part in the murder itself.”
“And you think that’s what happened to Becca?” Shea asked. It was hard to tell whether she was dazed from blood loss, or if she was actually considering Hennie’s suggestion.
“I think you watch too much TV,” Corinne said.
Hennie shrugged. “Maybe we should tie her up, just to be safe.”
At this, Becca’s face crumpled and her eyes squeezed shut and her mouth contorted and she began to sob, wild, hysterical sobs so loud they might have summoned every murderer within a ten-mile radius.
“See? She’s trying to draw Abigail to us,” Hennie said, so taken with her own theory that she hardly seemed to care if this was indeed what was happening.
Becca opened her mouth and gasped through her tears, “No . . . I’m . . . not. I . . . just . . . I just . . . I’m homesick!”
Having said this, she dissolved into fresh and inconsolable tears.
Corinne and Shea descended upon her with hugs. They patted her back and smoothed her hair and whispered that it was okay. Becca tried to catch her breath, but it only gave her the hiccups, which, for some reason, made her cry all over again. Eventually, even Hennie relented and put her arms around Becca. Wallis told herself she didn’t join in because someone needed to keep an eye on the woods, but in truth, Wallis had a horror of hugging or being hugged by people she didn’t know very well.
“I just wanted people to like me and to make friends,” Becca sobbed.
“We do like you, Becca,” they cooed to her. “We are your friends.”
“I want my mom! I want to go home!” Becca wailed.
Wallis scowled. If we weren’t lost in the woods together and being hunted by an insane murderer, they’d probably all be making fun of her right now.
Eventually, Becca got it all out of her system. Her shoulders stopped heaving. She dried her eyes on her sleeves, caught her breath, and discovered that she had almost completely forgotten about Abigail. It was amazing what a good cry could do. It was so amazing, in fact, that she recommended it to the other girls, and as Wallis kept watch, one by one, the others took turns weeping loudly and bitterly for home, for their counselor Megan, for Oscar, for the things they’d seen, and for the inexorably horrible week they were all having. While it happened, Wallis sat away from the others, stony-faced, and then her heart filled with shame and self-pity because she realized that they’d all comforted Becca and she hadn’t, and now the four of them sat together weeping and hugging, and she was left on the outside.
In the end, she cried about that.
When it was over, dawn was just beginning to break through the treetops, and they all felt remarkably strong, clear-headed, and ready to begin their journey anew.
Through the pale gray light, Shea thought she spied the trail. Cheered and determined, they set off in the direction she pointed, discussing their new plan.
Wallis had been right, they agreed. Abigail was weak and alone. There were five of them. Together they could take her. They would still go for help, but if they met up with Abigail on the way, they promised each other that they would not run. They would stand their ground and fight her.
“If I see Abigail, I’m going to punch her right in the face,” Becca said, with more fire than they’d ever heard from her.
“I’LL SLAP HER WITH A PIECE OF BARBED WIRE,” Shea said, back in full voice.
“I’ll kick her in the teeth,” Hennie said, once again all smiles.
They were all laughing when the net they’d just stepped into scooped them up, lifting them ten feet above the forest floor, where they swayed, a tangle of arms and legs.
Only Wallis remained below. Panicked, she screamed. Her eyes darted through the trees for any sign of motion, and then, not sure if she’d seen anything or not, she screamed some more.
“HELP US!” Shea said.
“Stop screaming, Wallis, and cut us down,” Corinne shouted from inside the net.
Wallis looked up at the girls in the net. Her head jerked toward the sound of crackling leaves in one direction, then the sound of a twig snapping in another. The tree branches groaned overhead. They were surrounded—Wallis could feel it. The forest seemed to be closing in around her. In the distance, she could have sworn she heard footsteps approaching the clearing.
This time, though, Wallis couldn’t see what was going to happen next. Not until the moment it happened. Not until the moment she did it.
The girls’ pleading and curses died in her ears as she turned and ran into the forest.
CABIN 3
THE HERO’S QUEST
[SCENE: At the mouth of a cave and next to the carcass of a recently deceased beast, THE GIRL WITH THOUSANDS OF FRECKLES clings to life, and THE GIRL WITH BEADS IN HER HAIR clings to a raven.]
“Let go of me,” said the raven whose name was Renata. “I can’t breathe.”
The girl with beads in her hair loosened her grip on the bird, who hopped to the ground and over to the spot where her body lay, the orange hoodie spattered with mud from the cave as well as with the beast’s dark, murky blood. The body was still, the eyes open to reveal lifeless, black pools.
“I didn’t set anyone free, did I?” Renata asked, her voice tremulous as she stared at the body that only a few minutes ago had been her.
The girl with beads in her hair shook her head.
“The beast?”
“Dead,” said the girl with beads in her hair.
“And the others?”
The girl with beads in her hair felt her face crumple as she looked up from the ground and surveyed the scene. If there was a silver lining to having your friend turned into a raven by the contents of a supernatural cask, it was that it did distract you from your other problems.
“It’s bad,” she said at last, the only words she could squeeze out without crying.
She shone her flashlight over to the spot where the sticklike goth girl still lay motionless on the ground, bound up in the beast’s webs. They could only hope she hadn’t been bitten, too. Then she ran the light along the craggy rock wall until she found the girl with the upturned nose, her leg twisted underneath her at an unnatural angle. She’d stopped screaming and gone frighteningly silent.
And then there was the girl with thousands of freckles, who looked weaker and paler with each minute that the beast’s venom coursed
through her veins.
The girl with beads in her hair swallowed down the lump in her throat and balled her fists at her sides. She was the only one who could help them now, so she had to—even though she didn’t know where to begin, even though it felt like every brave and capable thing about her had been sapped away by the last hour.
“Go to her.” The girl with beads in her hair pointed Renata toward the girl with thousands of freckles. “Keep her talking. Keep her awake. See if you can think of anything we can do for her.”
“What happened?” Renata asked, testing out her wings before trusting them to carry her over to the spot where her cabinmate lay.
“That thing bit her,” the girl with beads in her hair called out after her.
As Renata went to the girl with thousands of freckles, the girl with beads in her hair went to the sticklike goth girl and examined the thick webs that wound around her whole body like a skein of yarn. She had to cut her free before the girl suffocated, but the hatchet was no good for a job like that. Fortunately, the girl with beads in her hair saw a Swiss army knife on the ground nearby. One of the girls must have dropped it during their battle with the beast. She picked it up, wiped the gore from the blade as best as she could, and sliced the webs free from the sticklike goth girl’s face. She could feel her breath—shallow—and her pulse—faint—and thus encouraged, the girl with beads in her hair continued to hack away at the webs until the sticklike goth girl was free. After a minute or two, her eyes fluttered open and the girl with beads in her hair helped her sit up.
“Can you stand?” she asked.
“I think so,” said the sticklike goth girl. She was still wearing her backpack. The beast had struck so quickly, she hadn’t had a chance to shuck it off. Now, she slid the straps off of her shoulders, brushed away the strands of sticky web, and unzipped the backpack’s front pouch, producing a flashlight.
With help from the girl with beads in her hair, she rose, and together, they went to the girl with the upturned nose. She was propped up against a rock, sweat beaded on her forehead. The girl with beads in her hair noticed that the girl’s lips had a bluish tinge.
