Phil and the Ghost of Camp Ch-Yo-Ca

by John Luke Robertson

  So you drive on.

  You arrive at the camp and climb out of the Jeep. It’s strange to see the place deserted. The cabin doors are closed. The picnic tables are empty. You hear the soothing sound of crickets.

  “John Luke, are we the only ones here?”

  “I think so.”

  The fire pit looks like it was just used a couple days ago.

  “Which cabin should we put our stuff in?”

  “Let’s stay in the director’s cabin,” John Luke says. “It’s a little nicer.”

  After unloading your sleeping bags and other belongings, you walk around the camp with John Luke.

  “It’s been a while since I was here,” you tell him.

  “You should come back sometime. The kids love it. Lots of great discussions around here.”

  You check out the rest of the cabins but don’t find a soul. The gymnasium is silent and empty too.

  Later that night, you’re watching the fire you made an hour earlier die down. You’ve been talking to John Luke about lots of good things: where he wants to go to college, what he plans to study, why girls are so impossible to understand yet why they’re amazing anyway. It’s nice to have some one-on-one time with him.

  “The camp’s a lot different when it’s quiet like this, right?” You poke the embers with a stick.

  “Yeah.”

  You look up at the sky through an opening in the trees. The sight never gets old.

  “See those stars, John Luke? Think about them. Think about who made them. Every single one of them—God simply waved his hands and the universe sat up. Kinda cool to think about, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  You remember the stranger you saw on the side of the road, waving his hand to try to get a lift. Where is he now?

  Maybe we should’ve given the guy a ride.

  You decide to put out the remaining embers and head toward the cabin for the night.

  So far it’s been a quiet and enjoyable evening.

  You wonder why you had to come here in the first place.

  You’re pretty certain you’ll sleep like a log and wake up tomorrow morning with nothing noteworthy to talk about. Unless you have some cool dreams.

  Do you watch a little TV before bed? (The director’s cabin has its perks.) Go here.

  Do you stop and listen to the silence for a moment before turning in? Go here.

  Do you fall into a restful sleep? Go here.

  Do you worry about the hitchhiker in your dreams? Go here.

  THE HUNTER BECOMES THE PREY

  HUNTING REQUIRES PATIENCE. It requires waiting and watching. And honestly, if you were ever to be called something besides Duck Commander, it would be Patience Commander. You don’t mind sitting still and just . . . being.

  You’ve had a lot of practice at this. Being and waiting.

  So that’s what you do. And you have to do it for quite some time. An hour passes. At least you reckon it’s an hour. Then another.

  But you don’t fall asleep. You watch the cabin, knowing someone’s going to reveal himself. Knowing the mattresses didn’t just happen to rearrange themselves. Knowing the toothpaste didn’t put itself on the mirrors in the form of a disturbing message.

  No, someone’s doing this to mess with you.

  And not a moment too soon, you spot the likely culprit.

  Someone steps out of the woods and makes his way toward the cabin. The person is tall and wearing dark clothing and a stocking cap. He blends into the night pretty well, but you can still make out what he’s carrying. It’s some kind of can.

  You don’t wait any longer. It’s the moment to act.

  You stand and quickly approach the stranger from behind. As much as possible, you remain quiet and try not to be seen or heard.

  Whoever it is, he’s stopping near the front doorway and doing something with the can.

  It’s a gasoline can.

  You don’t have any more time for stealth. Time to deal with this.

  You’re running as fast as you can when you reach the creep and tackle him. He lands on his chest, and you can tell he gets the air knocked out of him. You dig a knee into his back and jerk an arm up.

  Yeah, you might be over sixty, but you’re not letting anybody mess with your family.

  You can smell the can, and it turns out you were right. Gasoline.

  The man is screaming now, and you see lights pop on inside the cabin. The door opens.

  “John Luke, call the cops!” you shout. “Do it and stay inside.”

  The man struggles, but you stay on top of him and keep his arm pinned back. He might be tall, but he’s not particularly strong. You notice he has long hair and a beard. He also stinks. This is all strangely familiar.

  Then you realize. It’s the man you picked up earlier—the hitchhiker.

  “What are you trying to do, huh?” you demand.

  The man doesn’t answer but keeps squirming.

  John Luke opens the door again. “I called the cops.”

  “I’ve got this guy. Go take your rifle out of the Jeep. We need to keep an eye on this fella.”

  The cops arrive soon enough and put your prisoner in handcuffs. So far he’s still said nothing to you. You’ve asked him to tell you about his plan, but not a word. And that’s fine by you.

  “Papaw Phil?” John Luke says after the police have taken the hitchhiker away. “I know my parents are going to freak out about this, but thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “For saving my life.”

  You laugh. “Well, you’re the one who held the gun. Maybe you ended up saving mine.”

  When the excitement is over, everybody learns the truth.

  The hitchhiker you picked up wasn’t any ordinary stranger. And he wasn’t called Otis, either.

  His name was Parker. Parker Adams.

  Yes, he was that Parker.

  The one who supposedly died in the awful fire at Camp Ch-Yo-Ca.

  Turns out Parker lived. He ended up running away from the camp and from Louisiana and, as it happens, from all known sanity.

  The cops tell you that Parker Adams had a strange fixation on the camp. Maybe because he ran off after setting fire to a cabin that killed a man years ago . . . a man named Zodie Sims.

  Maybe that’s also why he started harassing some of the kids around the camp, pretending to be a ghost.

  A week later, you find yourself discussing the situation with John Luke. You’re both sitting in your living room, John Luke on the couch across from you.

  “Wow—I didn’t even think the Zodie Sims thing really happened,” he says. “I thought it was a camp legend. Just a ghost story.”

  “The only ghost I want to focus on is the holy one,” you tell him.

  But he has another question. “You think the ghost of Zodie Sims could have been haunting the camp?”

  You pause for a moment, thinking. “I don’t know about that. But I do know, as you’ve heard me say, that we eventually all get placed six feet deep into the ground. We all end up with a body that’s as empty as a haunted house. We’re all faced with the big questions of life and death.”

  You turn down the volume on the television.

  “We’re fortunate to know the truth. Zodie Sims—based on his actions, his sacrifice, it seems like he knew the truth too. That Jesus is the only way. But those who don’t know get caught up in the mysteries and the bogeyman and the monsters behind the trees. They want to make these things up to help explain the unease they have about dying and where they’re spending eternity. But the hope of eternal life with Jesus is a fact.”

  John Luke nods in agreement.

  You give him a big grin. “But I do think that somewhere out there a scary-lookin’ creature could be watching us. Waiting in the darkness. Preparing to jump out of the trees. But the joke’s gonna be on us because he’s gonna be as friendly as a little kitten.”

  THE END

  Start over.

  Read “The Shadows T
hat Follow Us: A Note from John Luke Robertson.”

  SPIDEY SENSES

  YOU’VE GOT BETTER THINGS TO DO than to keep looking for whatever kind of animal is making that weird noise. You’d rather try to get some shut-eye.

  The howling doesn’t happen again, and you’re pleased that, for once, it doesn’t take you a long time to fall back asleep.

  When morning comes, you plan to investigate the source of the noise that kept you up last night. But first you’re going to enjoy a cup of coffee and the bacon that Miss Kay is making for you and John Luke.

  The phone rings, and John Luke answers, then hands the phone to you.

  “Hello?”

  “Phil, somethin’ bad’s happened.” It’s Isaiah. He sounds more worried than he did last night.

  “What’s goin’ on?”

  “The camp. There’s been . . . I just got here and I don’t—”

  “Whoa, whoa. Slow down. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “It’s covered in . . . I know this has to sound crazy, but it’s covered in cobwebs.”

  You don’t think you heard him right. “You say cobwebs? Like spiderwebs?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s covered in cobwebs?”

  “The entire camp.”

  You laugh. “What are you talking about?”

  “You have to come see it for yourself.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Dead serious. And even more freaked out than I was yesterday.”

  “Are you still around here? I thought you were going to a funeral.”

  “I’m heading out this morning. I swung by the camp, and then . . . then this. I don’t even know who to call. I mean, what are the cops gonna do? And I have to get going. My flight’s leaving soon.”

  “You go on, and John Luke and I will drive over there in a few minutes.”

  “Thanks, Phil,” Isaiah says. Then he quickly adds, “Be careful.”

  The problems at the camp sound more urgent than whatever was in the woods last night.

  You and John Luke arrive at the camp less than an hour after the phone call.

  Isaiah was right.

  It’s unbelievable.

  The first cobwebs you encounter are on the soccer field. They’re so thick, the field seems to be covered in snow. But you know it’s way too hot for snow. Plus, snow doesn’t hang off goalposts like loose clothing.

  “Is that for real?” John Luke says.

  He’s staring so hard the Jeep starts to drive toward a tree. You jerk the steering wheel straight.

  “That is the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispers.

  You pass a sign covered by what looks like a blanket. But of course it’s actually a huge cobweb swaying slightly in the wind.

  “Thousands of spiders must’ve done this,” you say. “Hundreds of thousands of spiders.”

  “Where are they now?”

  You’re about to answer when you pull up to the cabins. They’re all white. Every one of them. The webs are glistening sheets that glow in the sunlight.

  It’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever seen in your life. And you’ve seen some weird things.

  The outdoor tables are also covered in white. You notice speckles of black on top of them.

  “There are some of the spiders.”

  “I’m not getting out of the car,” John Luke says. “Look at all of them.”

  You open the door. “Come on. They’re just spiders. They’re not buffalo.” But you’re beginning to have second thoughts.

  The tree you’re parked next to is smothered in spiderwebs. You swipe it to see how thick the webs are.

  Dozens of spiders move down the tree.

  You jerk your hand away and hop back in the Jeep. It takes you a minute to decide what to do.

  Do you try to clean up some of the cobwebs yourself? Go here.

  Do you call for reinforcements fast? Go here.

  TRUE DETECTIVE

  AS THE FIREMEN BEGIN PUTTING OUT THE BLAZE, you go straight over to the first police car that pulls up and tell the two uniformed officers that you’ll be sitting at the picnic table if they need to talk to you.

  Ten minutes later you watch a guy in a trench coat walk around the scene, talking to the other officers and looking for clues. He’s wearing a Sherlock Holmes–type hat, and you half expect him to pull out a magnifying glass. Eventually he takes a call on his cell phone and walks in your direction after hanging up.

  This trench coat dude must be a detective. You confirm this when you see he’s wearing a badge that reads Donny A. True Detective. You snort when you first read it.

  There’s no way “True Detective” is his real last name. Robertson is a last name. True Detective is a made-up name that means you’re not such a great detective after all.

  Donny opens the notebook he’s carrying and starts going through a page full of handwritten notes. “I’d appreciate it if you’d give me a full account of the events of this evening.”

  So you begin the story from the moment Isaiah entered your house. Donny cuts you off after you mention the hitchhiker.

  “I suspected as much. My sources just confirmed the name of this drifter you encountered on the road: Nathan Fremont. Originally from Denver, Colorado. Spent some time in Florida and Georgia, then school in New York. Nathan Fremont’s a wanted man in several parts of the country.”

  “For killin’ people?” you ask.

  “No. For making bad films. Really, really bad films.”

  “Really bad films?”

  “So dumb they’re inexcusable,” the detective says. “He likes taking familiar horror movies and making them ridiculous. Basically he ends up insulting the directors of the original movies he’s mocking. He’s also been known to hypnotize some viewers of his films. When they’re in the trance, he exchanges his film for another movie, and afterward the viewers awaken and think his movie was really great.”

  “He’s actually done this?”

  “Yes. He’s wanted for questioning.”

  “So what do you think happened here?” you ask.

  “I think he drugged you. You were both hallucinating when we found you.”

  “But everything that happened tonight—it’s real.”

  The detective shakes his head. “He wanted you to think it was real. Your wallets were stolen. So was everything in your Jeep.”

  “How could he drug us?”

  “The water in the camp,” the man says. “Maybe he was starting to experiment last week and it resulted in some of the campers ‘seeing things.’”

  “What we saw was real.”

  “Really? Do you want to go on record about what you’ve experienced tonight?”

  “I’d prefer never going on the record unless I’m talking about my faith.”

  The detective shuts his notebook and gives you a friendly smile. “I’m sure if you get tested out at the hospital, they’ll be able to trace the toxins in your bloodstream. Your grandson’s too.”

  “And that’s it? Just like that. Everything explained?”

  He nods, then thinks for a moment. “Some people in this life, Mr. Robertson—they like things spelled out. As in s-p-e-l-l-e-d out. But others . . . others like a little mystery. A little curiosity. A little lack of explanation. It boils down to who you are and what version you want to accept. The messy version? Well, you can go to whatever page is your fancy. But the neat, tidy version? Well, some only want to feel like the time they’ve spent has been worthwhile. They want a lesson and a pat on the back.”

  “I don’t need either,” you tell him.

  “Okay. Then you two go home and forget about this. Forget that we ever showed up. Forget about ghosts and monsters. Forget everything and just move on. That’s life, right? Strange things happen, and then you move on.”

  You watch him get into his car and leave. Then you look around the camp, knowing very soon it will again be full of life and love and prayer and faith.

  Maybe a little mystery is
n’t such a bad thing after all.

  THE END

  Start over.

  Read “The Shadows That Follow Us: A Note from John Luke Robertson.”

  THE SHADOWS THAT FOLLOW US

  A Note from John Luke Robertson

  THERE’S SOMETHING EXHILARATING about sitting in a theater and jumping in your seat at a scary part of the movie. Or walking through the dark forest and having your siblings pop out of nowhere and almost give you a heart attack. We hold our breath and freak out for a moment, sort of like when the roller-coaster ride takes that first inevitable drop.

  But these are only temporary scares. They’re fun and simple.

  Life gives us daily opportunities for fear to be a real thing. Like the shadows that follow us on the sidewalk, we can’t escape them. We can, however, do something about them.

  Fears can be as small as worrying about a grade on a test or whether your friend will like the present you bought him. They can be big too. The anxiety of facing a bully nobody knows about. The dread of knowing your family is about to move to a new place. The concern for a sick loved one. The terror of turning on the news and learning about the evil that’s out there in this world.

  The one solace we can take is that God promises he is there. That he will always be there.

  I love the image that’s described in Isaiah 41:13:

  For I hold you by your right hand—

  I, the Lord your God.

  And I say to you,

  “Don’t be afraid. I am here to help you.”

  The God of this universe is right there, holding our hand. He’s not too big to still be able to do that.

  It reminds me of when I was young and I’d hold my father’s or Papaw’s hand. Their thick, rough hands reminded me I would be okay. They still do now.