Phil and the Ghost of Camp Ch-Yo-Ca (15 page)

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.”

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.”

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.”

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.”

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
.