The South Will Rise Again

by Jeffrey Kosh

  You’ve heard about the Breed Mother in ‘Feeding the Urge’. And you can bet you already know that ax-wielding maniac in ‘Kamp Koko by Night’. Dr. Henry Hart and his terrific t-shirt collection returns in ‘I Will Get Her’.

  So, forgive my long rant and let’s return to Prosperity.

  Yet beware, once there … avoid making wishes.

  They can come true and take form.

  KAMP KOKO BY NIGHT

  (1984)

  Craig was waiting in the dark, alert for every sound coming from his parent’s room.

  But none came, just the night creaks of wood adjusting itself. Nevertheless, he was afraid dad - or mom, mostly - would peek in to check the lights were off and he was safely sleeping. And he wasn’t. No, not tonight. Tonight he had to face his own fears to show his peers he wasn’t a wuss.

  He was startled by a loud crack coming out of the half-open window, and a pale, white glow shone suddenly on the glass, casting longer shadows behind him. His heart raced fast as a silhouette grew larger on the windowsill.

  They had kept their word; they had come for him.

  Matt’s flashlight brightened Craig’s already bleached face, causing his eyes to shrink in distress.

  “Eleven-ten,” Matt whispered, excited. “Time to go!”

  “Take off that darn light from my face, dumb-ass!” Craig protested, at the same time reaching for his sneakers. Then went for the window and fully raised it upward, causing a breeze of warm Floridian night air to invade quickly his cooled room as an enemy waiting for the right moment to launch an attack. Yet, the chill he felt inside his stomach seemed unaffected by the change in temperature; it was still there, more, it had expanded to his innards.

  ‘I’m gonna do it. No matter what,’ he thought.

  “C’mon, Craig! We don’t have all the night for this,” Matt whispered again from the tree branch he was perched on, this time a little bit louder, causing Craig’s heart to stop, fearful that would wake up his parents.

  “Shut up! Wanna put me in trouble?” Craig sibilated back. “I’m coming.”

  Matt nodded with a guilty face, then switched off the torchlight and began backtracking on the branch.

  “Whassup? Sissy ain’t comin’?”

  That was David’s voice coming from below in an ushered, but still too loud tone. He was seated on his bright yellow bike, wearing black matching pants and t-shirt who made him look like a ninja.

  “I’m coming. And stop calling me like that,” rebuked Craig, sliding out of the room and jumping on the tree. He was shivering, yet it wasn’t the climb he was afraid of, but his destination.

  Kamp Koko.

  The Camp of Death.

  That summer camp had been abandoned by 1978, when its owner and a kid were found dead, killed by a yet unknown assailant. But stories had circulated in town about the truth behind that double murder. Some asserted that Russell Floyd, the owner and manager of the camp, had killed the seven-year-old boy. The same people swore that Floyd was a pervert, who liked to torture and kill kids, except he had limited the killings on runaways, until then. Mrs. Wilson, an old spinster and grocery seller down at the Chicken Farm on Lakeview Parkway, was sure as hell that one of the runaways he had murdered and (yuck!) eaten had a father who was looking for him and had carried his revenge on Floyd. Some said this unnamed guy had infiltrated the staff by getting hired as a gardener or janitor. Other said it was a camp counselor who had taken into his own hands the duty to payback Floyd with some of his medicine. Anyway, it was not what had happened before 1978 which scared Craig Turner, but everything which had happened after.

  Many people had disappeared down there; mostly backpackers and campers. And kids.

  A lot of kids.

  Or so the stories said.

  ****

  Craig Wales was the new kid in town, having moved from New Hampshire three months ago, and being the new kid at Ethan Hall Elementary School in Prosperity wasn’t easy. He had been picked up immediately by local bullies, yet Craig wasn’t a wuss and had been able to strike the right contacts, which had allowed him to get out of their list. Matt Fenwick and David Reese were the right fifth-graders to stick with.

  Matt was tall and big for his age, although he didn’t use his brawn as the rest of the local jocks; always daring and adventurous, he was scared only by Mrs. Wilkins, the math teacher.

  By contrast, David Reese was the sly one; always ready for a joke and with a lanky figure which had gained him the nickname of ‘Storky Dave’. Funny, at times, it could easily overstep and get on your nerves with his constant puns and pranks. However, they were respected back at school, mostly due to their upbringing. They were part of Prosperity’s heritage nobility; the one made by reputability, more than old money.

  Both lived in the Laketown neighborhood, where Craig had moved in, and their families had been in Prosperity Glades by almost a century. Friendship had come by accident, when Porter Phyllis, a local punk, had targeted Craig for money, ambushing him halfway from home on Mimosa Lane. Porter was a petty kind of bully; a bottom feeder, not one of those which usually hijacked younger kids in a pack. He was a lone prowler striking out of West Bend. Nonetheless, being fourteen year-old, even if rangy-looking and not very muscular, he could still be a threat to a chubby ten-year like Craig. Luckily, Matt and Storky Dave couldn’t stand this jackal and had rescued him from the vermin by reminding Porter his last severe beating and humiliation at the Jackson Reservoir last summer. In that instance, Matt had kicked the shit out of this bastard after his failed attempt at extorting money from Storky while he was catching frogs. He hadn’t see Matt coming, and still bore a scar on his left cheek to mark the encounter.

  After their rescue, Craig had set the basis of a nice friendship by offering his saviors a couple of ice creams at the local corner store. Next, they had swapped some stories and the tale of Kamp Koko had come out.

  “Russell Floyd owned the place,” Matt had told him while they were resting, bikes set aside, under the canopy of mangroves right in front of the heavy chain link warning trespassers of the seized property. “The guy was mad. He killed and ate kids. He liked to dress as a clown and torture his victims into a secret chamber he’d dug himself right under the camp.”

  Storky Dave had nodded assertively, with a grim face; no jokes had come out of his thin mouth.

  “But the worst came after. People in the know say his ghost still haunts the place, and if you visit the camp after midnight, you can see it prowling around, moaning.”

  “That’s just bullshit. I don’t believe in ghosts.” Craig had scoffed.

  “We saw him,” had said Storky Dave, with a snort, and Matt had looked straight at him as he had just revealed a state secret.

  “C’mon, Matt, he must know!” Dave had exclaimed. “Last Halloween we snuck inside the camp and saw Floyd coming out of the ground. It scared the crap out of me!”

  “Did you really saw a ghost?” Craig had queried skeptically.

  Matt had sipped some soda from his can, then had gazed toward the overgrown trail to the summer camp. “Actually, we did not really saw him, but a light coming from under one of the cabins.” His eyes had returned on Craig. “But Shane Robson; a guy I trust, said he saw him and was lucky to survive, ‘cause the ghost tried to kill him.”

  “Why, do you believe him?” Craig had retorted with a sarcastic smile.

  “He’s gone now,” had stated Dave with a sad face. “Nobody knows what happened to him. Cops say he’s been kidnapped or run away from his drink-too-much mother, but everyone here knows Russell Floyd took him a week after he dared to visit the camp after dark.”

  Craig’s face had changed color, but still showed his defiance.

  “You still don’t believe us, don’t you?” Matt had broke in. “So why don’t you come with us next night of full moon? Cause that’s the time when the ghost appears.”

  “It should be cool,” had said Craig showing excessive boldness and a shrug.

 
Yet, inside a tiny voice was telling him he had just made a fatal mistake.

  ****

  Continues on

  At Amazon.com

  BIOGRAPHY

  Jeffrey Kosh (born October 28, 1968) is the pen name of an author living in Thailand. He had various art experiences, before discovering his love for writing fiction. His different careers have led him to travel extensively worldwide, causing a passion for photography, wildlife, history, and popular folklore. All these things have had a heavy influence on his writing. Extroverted in public, he is very private in his work, preferring complete isolation to ‘tune’ his mind to the ‘Great Tales Radio’. He believes that stories are already out there, waiting to be put on paper. Jeff currently lives in Thailand, with his wife and four cats, plus a lot of geckos.

  With a unique voice and writing style, Jeffrey Kosh weaves a fascinating story in Feeding the Urge. Feeding the Urge is a thought provoking novel that leaves the reader pondering what is truly good and what is absolute evil. This is an Indy author to watch.

  Kat Yares – Author of Vengeance is Mine

  Kosh has the chops to be a player in the world of the written word. "One to watch!"

  Franklin E. Wales – Author of Deadheads: Evolution

  " Jeffrey Kosh has a natural talent for spinning an entertaining, engaging story. Not only does he paint a picture with your mind's eye, but captures it's full attention!

  Heaven Leigh Eldeen – Author of The Demon Side

  THANK YOU FOR READING

  Jeffrey Kosh