John Luke’s mouth and nose start to grow, to sprout out, to morph into something long. While his teeth—he’s growing fangs. They’re like alligator teeth.
It reminds you of those old horror movies where the man turns into a werewolf. Except this isn’t a werewolf.
It’s a weregator.
No, ’cause look at that thing sticking out of him—a tail, a beaver tail!
You back up, and you’ve never backed up from anything in your life.
But your grandson has turned into an . . . an . . .
He gets on all fours and runs into the woods.
You can feel your heart beating and your forehead sweating, and you know you’ve lost your mind.
Si’s the one who’s supposed to lose it—not me.
You snap out of it. Your grandson is an allibeaver, and you have to do something about it.
For a few seconds you can barely walk, your whole body shaking, your mind in shock. But then you start to jog. You chase him toward the cabins.
That’s when you see the lights on the Jeep.
John Luke—no, he’s an allibeaver now—is driving the vehicle.
The vehicle flies out of the camp and leaves you in darkness.
Do you return to the cabin and go back to bed since you’re surely dreaming? Go here.
Do you track down John Luke? Go here.
LEAVING?
HOLD ON THERE . . . YOU’RE LEAVING?
You’re no Phil Robertson. Phil would never leave someone screaming in the woods.
And if he did, John Luke would call Miss Kay and Willie to tell them there was an impostor with him.
No, no, no. You can’t just leave.
Call the cops and go? Yes, it’s certainly logical, but what does that have to do with anything?
Where’s the adventurous spirit in you?
Where’s the fight?
Oh, well. Time for bed. Let the cops solve the rest.
The adventure is over. Nighty-night.
Have some milk with your cookies.
THE WIMPY END
Start over.
Read “The Shadows That Follow Us: A Note from John Luke Robertson.”
NOT SO SINISTER NOW
SOMETHING DOESN’T FEEL RIGHT about letting John Luke go alone. You realize it’s gotten colder outside. Maybe it’s just because you’re no longer sitting by the campfire, but the wind has picked up and you’re definitely feeling chilly. And you almost never feel chilly in West Monroe, Louisiana, this time of year.
John Luke enters the dining hall first and searches for the phone. Now that you’re in here, you notice how high-pitched the ring is. It reminds you of the way your very first phone sounded. You can almost hear the clicking noise inside the phone, the ringer is so ancient.
You both spot the phone at the same time—sitting there on the floor by one of the tables. It’s a black rotary, the kind where you have to actually turn the wheel with your finger to dial a number. No texting allowed on this bad boy! Maybe you should get one for John Luke.
He goes to pick up the still-jangling phone when you notice something odd.
It’s not plugged in.
“John Luke,” you say.
He turns toward you.
“Let me pick that up.”
Maybe whoever’s terrorizing the campers is playing a game right now with the two of you. You lean over and pick up the receiver.
“Who’s calling?” you ask right away, without a greeting.
You hear laughter on the other end.
“Hello?”
More laughter. It’s the sound of little girls.
Someone’s prank calling.
“Hello?”
The laughter stops and you hear only heavy breathing. Really heavy breathing. As if the person on the line just ran a marathon.
“Who is this?” you ask.
“Hold on—let me catch my breath,” a normal, average, not-creepy-at-all voice says.
So you wait a few seconds. “Still there?” you ask.
“Yes.” The stranger clears his throat. Then coughs. Clears his throat again. “Hello,” he says in a deeper, creepier voice.
You’re about fed up. “Who is this calling?”
“Have you checked the children tonight?”
You glance at John Luke and roll your eyes. “Uh, look, fella. There’s no children around here tonight.”
“Exactly.”
“You know you’re calling a camp?”
There is a pause.
“That’s right; you’re calling a camp. Is this the same person who’s been harassing campers the past week?”
The man on the other end clears his throat again. “Is this, uh, 37 Chestnut Lane?”
“No. Does it sound like 37 Chestnut Lane?”
“And you’re not the babysitter?” he asks.
“Are you trying to be funny?”
Another pause, another slight clearing of the throat. Then the voice resumes its earlier tone—its very normal, not-so-sinister-sounding tone.
“You’re not going to believe this, but I just made a big mistake. I think I dialed a nine when I really should have pushed an eight.”
“We can trace calls,” you threaten, even though you have no idea if this call can be traced.
“Look, buddy, it’s all good. I’m just . . . It’s just . . . it’s nothing, really.”
He hangs up, leaving you holding the receiver. There’s no dial tone or eh-eh-eh sound that comes on. It goes totally dead.
Dead silent.
“Who was that?” John Luke asks.
“A wrong number,” you say, setting down the receiver. “Still, I think we should call the cops. Just to tell them.”
“About what?”
“37 Chestnut Lane. Never hurts to be too careful. Let’s use your cell phone this time, though.”
You never thought you’d say those words.
But this feels like a solid lead on who might be behind the camp’s mysterious happenings. That guy might act innocent, but only a fishy person could call a phone that’s not plugged in.
Can the police track a call to an unplugged phone? Surely they can. And maybe they’ll let you help interrogate this guy when they find him.
Mystery solved. You think.
THE END
Start over.
Read “The Shadows That Follow Us: A Note from John Luke Robertson.”
PECULIAR MOSS
YOU’VE BEEN IN THE DIRECTOR’S CABIN for a few minutes when John Luke asks you about something weird in the corner, right by the doorway.
“Do you know what that is, Papaw?”
You rub your beard and stare at it for a moment. Then you get closer.
It looks like a green beach ball. But upon further inspection, you see that it’s a clump of moss. You touch it and wrench your hand away immediately.
“That’s real, all right,” you say. “Burns to the touch.”
“What’s it doing here?”
“Maybe someone was usin’ it as a foot warmer. Who knows?”
As you unroll your sleeping bag on one of the bottom bunk beds (yep, even the director’s cabin has bunks), you feel something strange on your fingertips. You look and see some of the moss stuck there.
“John Luke, I’ll be right back.”
You go into the bathroom to wash your hands, but for some reason the moss won’t go away. In fact, as you scrub your hands together, the moss seems to be growing.
That’s crazy. These old eyes are seein’ things.
But by the time you turn off the water, both of your hands are covered in moss.
It’s definitely growing.
“I think we have something peculiar happening right here,” you call to John Luke as you return to the main room.
The ball of moss has been busy. Now it’s covering most of the floor.
“John Luke?”
You find him on one of the top bunks, staring down at the floor.
“It’s out of control,�
�� he says.
You show him your hands. Your fingers are no longer visible—they’re just clumps of moss.
“Papaw!” John Luke shouts.
“I know. I think we need to get a little help. Whatever this moss happens to be, it’s taking over my hands.”
“And your head!”
You almost ask John Luke what he’s talking about but instead run back to the bathroom and glance in the mirror. Sure enough, somehow the moss got on your head. Parts of your hair are turning into moss. Your beard too.
“John Luke, we need to get out of here!” you shout, running back into the main room. He leaps off the bed and hurdles the multiplying moss.
The two of you escape from the cabin just as the moss overtakes the door and window. You stare in disbelief.
“Does this count as something we should report to Isaiah?” John Luke asks.
“Uh, yeah.” The moss has stopped growing on your body, but your hands are still unrecognizable. “But first I’m gonna need to head home and get a haircut.”
THE END
Start over.
Read “The Shadows That Follow Us: A Note from John Luke Robertson.”
IT WAS ALL A . . . DREAM?
YOU WAKE UP in your own living room, more thankful for your favorite chair than ever before. The credits are rolling for some movie. It’s playing scary music, so it must’ve been a horror flick. It’s late, and most of the lights are turned off already.
You get out of the chair and stretch. Then you remember the dreams you were having.
Isaiah Bangs and a mysterious hitchhiker and Camp Ch-Yo-Ca . . .
And they were all just dreams.
But they felt so real.
How did I end up here?
You scratch your head, rub your beard, and squint at the clock. It’s about two in the morning. Time to get back in your own bed.
Before heading there, you get yourself a glass of cold water. It tastes good on this muggy night.
You gaze out a window into the darkness.
Then you notice something right in front of you on the kitchen floor.
It’s a mask. A white mask.
Where’d that come from?
You’re not sure you want to know.
THE END
Start over.
Read “The Shadows That Follow Us: A Note from John Luke Robertson.”
TWILIGHT ZONE
YOU FIND YOURSELF AT CAMP CH-YO-CA, but you can’t really remember how you got here. You’re alone and you’re not sure what time it is.
What’s happening?
It’s sorta like a dream where you start the story midway through and aren’t sure how you got there.
You’re standing near the fenced-off swimming pool. You can hear voices coming from inside but can’t quite tell who’s talking. You try to open the gate, but it’s locked. You call out, but nobody comes to open the door.
So you start walking around.
After a while of still not finding anybody (but now hearing the sounds of campers laughing and screaming in the distance), you decide to return home. But you can’t find the Jeep. Come to think of it, you can’t find John Luke either.
So you start walking down the dirt road leading to the main street that brought you here. Only tonight the dirt road keeps going and going. It doesn’t end.
It brings you around to the back of the lake.
That’s impossible. I just walked away from the camp.
So you do the whole thing again.
You walk over the hill and down a path through the woods until you get to the main camp area. Then you pass between the cabins, and farther on, you walk past the soccer field.
You keep going.
And going.
The dirt road winds around until you reach the edge . . .
Of the lake.
You’re stuck here in Camp Ch-Yo-Ca. Still not sure how you got here. Still not sure how to get out.
Since you didn’t follow any of the directions, you’re caught in a never-ending episode of The Twilight Zone. You’re the star and the host all in one.
Maybe you should start at the beginning. Think back . . .
Go here.
ZODIE SIMS
“I DON’T KNOW who dropped that feather, but making up stories isn’t helping anything. Let’s keep looking for somebody around here.”
So you do. But the camp is empty. All you and John Luke find are remnants of the summer: a child-size bow and arrow left outside, a log that’s recently been painted bright colors, a towel abandoned on the grass, a journal.
You guys eventually give up and put your sleeping bags in cabin two—one of the boys’ cabins—and you make a quick stop in the bathroom, dropping your shaving kit on the sink. Then the two of you head outside and proceed to build a campfire. Soon the fire is blazing, its flames waving up to the heavens.
“So tell me about this Zodie Sims.” You can’t help being a little curious about a name like that.
“It’s just a ghost story that’s been told over the years. Haven’t you ever heard it?”
“I sure don’t remember it.”
“They say it’s true.”
“They say you can buy plots on the moon too.”
He laughs, then sticks another log in the fire. “There was once this Camp Ch-Yo-Ca counselor named Zodie Sims. Everybody loved him. He was the best counselor who’d ever worked here. No one could imagine the place without him.”
You nod and listen attentively to John Luke.
“One summer, a troubled kid came to camp. His name was Parker. Zodie took it on himself to help the kid out. He had Parker stay in his cabin, which was number six.”
“I thought there were only five boys’ cabins here.”
“That’s part of the story. Anyway, Parker kept getting into trouble. He’d sneak into the girls’ cabins. Wander off and disappear. Stay up really late. They were on the verge of sending him home. But Zodie told them not to—that he’d really try harder to get through to the rebellious kid.
“One night, while everybody was asleep, a fire started in cabin six. Zodie got all the kids out of the cabin—or so he thought.”
John Luke sticks a branch in the fire to move some of the red-hot logs around. The flames seem to go higher as he speaks again.
“With the cabin blazing in front of them, Zodie Sims counts all the kids standing by him and realizes one is missing. He knows exactly who it is. So without even thinking, he darts back into the burning cabin.”
John Luke pauses and stares at you. Then, in a slow, sad tone, he says, “Zodie Sims is never seen again. Neither is Parker.”
“Well, that’s not the happiest story I’ve ever heard.”
“Ever since that fateful night, people have reported seeing Zodie Sims around the camp. Not haunting them, but looking for Parker. But the kid is nowhere to be found. The cycle never ends. Zodie keeps searching for Parker, trying to save him, but he never turns up.”
“So Zodie Sims is sorta like Casper the friendly ghost.”
“Yes,” John Luke says. “He’s not a malicious ghost.”
“You’ve had some good fellowship with him, have you?” You have to smile.
“Zodie Sims is real,” John Luke says in a serious voice that breaks into a laugh. “That’s what I try to tell everybody, anyway. The kids love the story. There’s a Zodie Sims Road around here. He shows up there all the time.”
“I think if I died, I’d give up trying to find out where this bratty little kid happened to be,” you say. “There’d be bigger fish to fry in the afterlife. I’d like to ask God a lot of questions.”
“Zodie Sims is stuck here, don’t you see? Since he can’t find resolution on what happened to Parker—did he live or did he die?—Zodie Sims can’t move on.”
“So what did happen to Parker?”
“That’s a good question. One that’s fun to talk and speculate about.”
“I bet Parker wasn’t even in the cabin.”
J
ohn Luke scratches his head. “A lot of kids who come to camp here think the same thing.”
The wind blows the fire sideways, and you both get a mouthful of smoke.
“Maybe we’ll see him tonight,” you say in an eerie voice.
When you finally decide to go back to the cabin for bed, you discover something strange. Not only strange but a bit unsettling.
All the mattresses from the bunk beds—and there are about fifteen of them lined up in the cabin—are piled on top of each other on one side of the room. The beds have been moved together to allow the mattresses to be stacked like this.
“What happened here?” you ask.
“I don’t know.”
“It wasn’t like this when we put our stuff in here.”
John Luke nods. He looks a bit pale.
You let out a sigh. Something’s definitely wrong.
Do you rearrange the furniture and get into your bunk beds? Go here.
Do you decide to sleep in another cabin? Go here.
WALKING WITH JOHN LUKE
“ARE YOU SCARED, JOHN LUKE?” you ask your grandson as you enter the woods.
“No, sir.”
“Good. There’s no reason to be.”
The screaming seems to have stopped for now, but a howl rings out, and it’s not very far away from you.
“There’s nothing to be frightened of,” you say again. “Someone’s probably playing a—”
There’s the howl again, interrupting you. It sounds closer.
Both of you stop.
“We should stay together, okay?” you remind him.
“Okay.”
You take a few more steps before you hear it again. The joker must be nearby—unless this is actually a wolf.
“That was freaky,” John Luke says.
“It’s fine. Someone’s just messin’ with—”
Then you hear something falling in the woods—lots of things, like rain is pouring down ahead of you—but sticks and branches are falling, not rain.
Phil and the Ghost of Camp Ch-Yo-Ca Page 9
