Scene 1: “Murder Fog and Free T-Shirts”
There’s something suspicious about fog that smells like lemon pledge and vintage trauma.
Todd Avery knew this in his bones—the same bones that were currently vibrating like cursed tuning forks as the Camp Dreadmoor bus hissed to a stop. He squinted out the grimy window. Beyond the cracked parking lot lay a forest that looked like it wanted to eat him. Trees leaned too far inward, birds made eye contact way too confidently, and a raccoon in a tiny sweater was actively flipping them off from atop a crooked “WELCOME CAMPERS!” sign.
Beneath that, in smaller font:
We are not legally liable for screams.
“Smells like trouble,” Rachel muttered beside him, adjusting her combat boots with the sort of slow menace that made even ghosts apologize. She had her usual arsenal strapped to her belt: silver stakes, a cursed hair tie, and something that looked suspiciously like a collapsible scythe.
“Smells like… potential,” Jessie said from the aisle seat, already shirtless, sunglasses perched backwards on his head like a proud himbo peacock. He leaned forward, inhaling dramatically. “Yep. That’s cryptid musk. Or raccoon pee. Either way, it’s gonna be a good summer.”
Todd gave a short, pre-traumatized sigh and looked to the fourth member of their group. Zara was gently humming to herself and sketching protective sigils into her travel-sized notebook. Her witchy aura always smelled faintly of rosemary, smoke, and childhood therapy.
“I’m sensing a mild soul fracture in this forest,” she said brightly. “But also good s’more energy. It’s complicated.”
The bus doors creaked open with a noise like someone whispering “run.”
“Alright, campers!” chirped the bus driver, who might’ve been human once but now looked about 11% shadow. “Gather your things, check for stray hauntings, and remember: no summoning unsupervised!”
Todd stood, promptly tripping over his own backpack and landing facedown on a cursed t-shirt. The tag read: CAMP DREADMOOR 2024 – Emotional Scarring Builds Character! It reeked of sulfur and promotional despair.
Jessie helped him up and slapped the back of his hoodie. “You’re gonna be fine, man. This place is probably only, like, soft haunted.”
“Soft haunted,” Todd muttered, brushing ghost lint off his sleeve. “Like a pillow full of teeth.”
They stepped off the bus and immediately the fog thickened. Not metaphorically. Like—actually. One minute you could see the trail, the next you were nose-to-bark with a tree that whispered your Zodiac sign.
Doug, the ghost dog, materialized next to them, sniffing a pinecone like it owed him money. He barked once, floated five inches off the ground, and immediately peed spectral mist on Todd’s shoes.
“Thanks, buddy,” Todd grumbled. “I missed you too.”
A signpost creaked violently overhead, pointing in six directions—all of them labeled “Cabins This Way” with wildly contradictory arrows. One pointed directly into a pond. One pointed up.
“Definitely ley lines,” Rachel said, pulling out a stake like it was a compass. “This forest has bad breath.”
A shrill whistle cut through the air. Enter Chip.
Camp Dreadmoor’s lodge counselor stood on the cracked welcome mat with the eerie cheer of a man who either survived something horrible or is something horrible. He wore khaki shorts, a camp tee three sizes too tight, and a lanyard that glowed faintly. His eyes twitched. His smile did not.
“Welcome to your post-grad rejuvenation experience!” he sang out, voice just a touch too upbeat. “Here at Camp Dreadmoor, we focus on self-discovery, stress reduction, and—ha ha—internal peace!”
The fog hissed like it disagreed.
Todd raised a tentative hand. “Hi. Uh. Is that raccoon okay?”
The raccoon was now foaming slightly and dragging a severed mannequin arm across the welcome mat.
“Oh, Maurice?” Chip blinked rapidly. “He’s our emotional support raccoon. Please don’t pet him unless he initiates contact.”
The raccoon flipped them off again. This time in cursive.
Jessie leaned into Todd’s shoulder and whispered, “I love it here already.”
The air smelled like cinnamon and distant screams.
Zara turned in a slow circle, eyebrows furrowed. “Something’s… humming. Not a spell. Not a ghost. More like… anticipation.”
“I hate it,” Rachel said, pulling out her second-best dagger and stabbing the fog like it owed her rent.
Todd’s name tag descended from the air on a bit of string, hissing. He touched it and it tried to bite him.
“Cool,” he muttered. “Sentient lanyards. Definitely not a sign.”
Chip clapped once. The sound echoed like a thunderclap through the clearing. “Let’s get you all to your cabins! You’ll find snacks, bedding, and your personalized Welcome Basket of Interpretive Meaning waiting for you!”
Rachel muttered, “I swear if mine starts whispering Latin again…”
Todd gulped. The wind whispered his name—but with a question mark at the end.
“Todd?” the forest said. “Todd?”
He turned to the others. “I don’t like being a question.”
Jessie grinned, eyes glowing just a little. “C’mon. We’ve survived worse.”
Rachel shrugged. “Let’s just find out what this place wants before it eats someone.”
Doug barked once.
Then the camp sign creaked violently and fell over.
They stepped across it and into Camp Dreadmoor.
Where absolutely nothing was fine.
Scene 2: “Welcome Basket from Hell”
The lodge smelled like burned sage and expired granola bars.
Todd stepped inside, and the first thing that hit him—besides the actual slap from a dangling cobweb—was the sheer number of animal skulls nailed to the rafters. It was less rustic-campy and more “Hobby Lobby but possessed.”
Chip beamed as he held open the door, which creaked dramatically despite being freshly oiled. “Welcome to the Lodge, the heart of Camp Dreadmoor! Here we meditate, meal-plan, and maintain mild spiritual containment!”
Rachel squinted at a dreamcatcher that was actively twitching. “Your definition of ‘containment’ is loose.”
“It’s more of a suggestion,” Zara added, brushing her fingers along the warped wood of the welcome desk. “This place has been… bleached. Emotionally.”
Doug padded across the floor, sniffed a candle labeled "Spiritual Centering", and sneezed ectoplasm into Todd’s left shoe. Again.
At the center of the room sat four woven wicker baskets, each tied with a ribbon the color of someone’s repressed childhood fear. A little chalkboard read:
WELCOME HEX FILES!
“We know what you did last semester. :)”
Jessie leaned over the closest basket like a kid on Christmas and yanked the tag labeled TO: Jessie (alpha-vibes approved).
“Oh ho HO, baby,” he said, pulling out:
- A bottle of steak-scented sunscreen (SPF Howl).
- A packet of marshmallows shaped like wolf heads.
- A leather headband embossed with the words: “Flex. Then Fight.”
- And a protein bar labeled simply: FLESHLITE.
“I love it here,” he said reverently, hugging the basket.
Rachel knelt next to hers with visible suspicion. The ribbon was blood red and already fraying at the edges. The name tag read: To Rachel, the girl most likely to survive the sequel.
Inside:
- A black-and-silver tactical pen that bled ink when she unscrewed it.
- A compact mirror that whispered compliments in Infernal.
- A “self-defense” charm bracelet made entirely of sharpened obsidian teeth.
- And, inexplicably, a baby bunny plush that stared directly into her soul.
The bunny blinked. She stabbed it with the pen.
Zara unfolded a neat scroll tied to her basket. “Oh, mine has a note!” she said, unrolling it gently.
The parchment read, in scratchy, shifting ink:
Zara, you're late. The stars noticed. —M.
P.S. You dropped this again.
She blinked and pulled out a small bundle of lavender and bones. “Oh,” she said. “My nightmare satchel. I was wondering where I left that.”
Todd, meanwhile, was staring at his basket like it might pounce.
The bow was pink. Which felt suspicious. The tag simply said:
To Todd: You’re… trying.
“That’s offensive,” he muttered, kneeling cautiously. Doug barked once, then floated backwards into a curtain.
Todd peeled back the ribbon. The contents included:
- A Ziploc of suspiciously old trail mix. Raisins were judging him.
- A broken compass that spun wildly whenever Rachel got within ten feet.
- A self-help pamphlet titled “So You Might Be Cursed: 10 Steps to Acceptance (and Ritual Maintenance)”.
- And finally, wrapped delicately in silk... a mannequin foot. Left leg. Painted nails. Ribbon around the ankle. No note.
Todd stared at it.
Then looked at the others.
Then back at the foot.
Rachel leaned over his shoulder. “Congratulations. You got the Clue.”
“I didn’t want the Clue,” he whispered. “I wanted socks.”
Jessie plucked the foot from the basket, gave it a sniff, and raised an eyebrow. “Yup. Definitely haunted. Or scented like regret. Same difference.”
Chip clapped his hands from behind the counter. “Isn’t this fun? Every basket is tailor-made to help you uncover your deepest self!”
“What about the foot?” Todd called.
Chip blinked—twice, rapidly. “Oh, that’s just symbolic.”
“Of what?” Rachel asked.
“Disconnection,” Chip said, too quickly.
Doug barked once, then growled at the foot. The foot… blinked. One polished pink nail lifted slightly, like a wave. Then fell still.
Zara reached into her basket and pulled out a lollipop that shimmered blue and green and maybe screamed a little. “Is this safe?”
“Depends on your blood type,” Chip chirped.
Rachel: “I’m going to stab you.”
Chip: “Haha! That’s the spirit!”
Jessie bit into his protein bar and immediately howled. “OH. This tastes like vengeance and peanut butter.”
“Those are the best kinds,” Zara said, sucking thoughtfully on her possibly-possessed lollipop.
Todd sat cross-legged on the floor and stared at the mannequin foot resting neatly beside him, like a weirdly polite omen.
“I just… want one normal thing,” he whispered.
The foot wiggled one toe.
He screamed. Rachel yanked a throw pillow off the couch and smacked it into submission. Jessie applauded. Doug peed in triumph.
Chip gave a thumbs-up from behind a shelf of mysterious amulets. “You’re all adjusting great!”
“I hate it here,” Todd muttered.
“I love it here,” Jessie said at the same time.
Zara smiled. “This place has... vibes.”
Rachel cracked her knuckles. “This place has targets.”
Todd glanced down at the basket again. The pamphlet now read:
“It begins.”
The mannequin foot twitched again.
And from the fireplace, faint and echoing: a voice whispered—
"Welcome back."
Scene 3: “Cabin Assignments and Hexed Hammocks”
Todd’s cabin smelled like someone had bottled shame and set it on fire.
It was the kind of space that looked fine—log walls, rustic décor, too many owl carvings—but felt like the final act of a horror movie. There was a bunk bed with faint scorch marks. A rocking chair that creaked despite no one ever sitting in it. And a mirror that refused to reflect anyone without side-eye.
Doug floated through the wall first, tail wagging like a spectral fan blade. “Please,” Todd muttered, dragging his duffel bag inside, “tell me you sniffed the place for cursed objects.”
Doug barked twice. Then farted ectoplasm.
“That’s a no,” Todd said, dropping his bag by the door and already regretting every life choice that led to this moment.
Behind him, Rachel entered like she was casing a crime scene. She flicked a stake into her hand, sniffed the air, and scowled at the bunk beds. “These creak in Latin.”
Todd froze. “Sorry—what?”
Rachel pointed at the lower bunk. “Every time someone breathes near it, it whispers “mea culpa.” That’s an apology. From the furniture.”
“Cool. Totally healthy. My bed’s repenting already.”
Jessie strolled in shirtless, still clutching the severed mannequin foot like it was a comfort object. “You guys get bunk beds? I’m sleeping outside.”
Rachel gave him a side-eye that could curdle blood. “Because you’re a werewolf?”
“Because nature understands me.” He opened the window dramatically and howled. A squirrel threw a pinecone at his head.
Zara floated in—no, walked in, but somehow made it feel floaty. “The ley lines here are intersecting under the floorboards,” she said, placing crystals in the corners of the room like she was redecorating for a séance-themed HGTV show. “You should be fine as long as no one dreams too hard.”
Todd blinked. “Define… ‘too hard.’”
Doug jumped onto the top bunk, curled into a translucent loaf, and immediately claimed the space by howling a Gregorian melody that made the window shades rattle.
“Guess I’m bottom bunk,” Todd muttered.
He sat down—then promptly yelped. The mattress purred. Purred. Then, in a voice like someone mumbling through a gas station intercom, it whispered: “You cried during Bridge to Terabithia. Twice.”
Todd flung himself off the bed like it had teeth. “NOPE.”
Zara poked the mattress with a stick. “It’s a memory-foam possession. Common in haunted camps. They feed on vulnerability.”
“Great,” Todd said, backing away. “Then it’s full.”
Rachel sat on the edge of the bunk and glared the mattress into silence. It whimpered.
Jessie peeked back in through the window, holding a branch and smiling proudly. “I built a hammock!”
The others paused. Rachel crossed her arms. “From what?”
Jessie shrugged. “A vine, a pair of pants I found in the woods, and belief.”
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.
Todd stared. “That sounds cursed.”
“It feels comfortable,” Jessie replied. Then vanished back outside with an “awwoooo” that echoed a little too long.
Zara was unpacking her tarot deck and a jar of “ritual-grade” almond butter when the lights flickered. Not the light bulbs—the actual sunlight dimmed through the windows.
Doug whimpered. The mirror cracked. Rachel’s obsidian bracelet spun on its own.
Todd groaned and sat cross-legged on the floor. “I give it 24 hours before something starts possessing my spleen.”
Zara hummed. “It’s always the spleen.”
Rachel stood, brushed her pants off, and said, “I’m going to check the perimeter for glyphs. If my bed tries to emotionally gaslight me again, I’m burning it.”
Todd glanced around, finally alone with Doug and a mattress that whispered “He peaked in middle school.”
He sighed. “I’ll sleep in a hammock. Hell, I’ll sleep on a cursed pile of pinecones. Just once, I want one summer camp experience that doesn’t involve aggressive memory foam.”
The mirror rippled. The walls groaned. A raccoon pressed its face against the window, then held up a sign that read: WE SEE YOUR DREAM JOURNAL.
Todd stared.
Doug barked in agreement.
From outside, Jessie shouted, “Guys! My hammock’s fighting back! I think I made it too confident!”
Rachel: “Told you.”
Zara: “On the plus side, your aura’s already toughening.”
Todd laid down on the floor.
The floor whispered: “At least you’re trying.”
Scene 4: “S’mores and S’maybe Curses”
The first night’s campfire should’ve been comforting. Or at least full of cheap sugar and minor singed eyebrows.
Instead, it had the vibe of a séance hosted by the wrong side of Etsy.
The fire in the stone ring hissed like it was disagreeing with reality, spitting purple sparks every third minute. The logs smelled faintly of cinnamon and bad decisions. And the graham crackers kept rearranging themselves into occult runes no one wanted to acknowledge.
Todd sat on a log that squelched slightly. He decided not to ask why.
Jessie was trying to skewer five marshmallows at once using a sharpened stick and impressive abs. “Campfire time, baby!” he cheered, flexing for no one in particular. “Let’s get roasted!”
“That was last semester,” Rachel muttered, inspecting a Hershey bar with the caution of someone handling a hex grenade.
Zara sat beside her, delicately adjusting the placement of protective stones around the fire. “These graham crackers,” she said thoughtfully, “contain ancestral memory. I can taste the trauma of colonialism.”
Todd stared at his s’more ingredients and immediately dropped them. “Oh god. Mine’s gluten-cursed.”
Across the fire, Chip—still suspiciously peppy—clapped his hands with the energy of a substitute teacher trying too hard. “Let’s go around and say our names, fun facts, and deepest fears!”
A girl in a wide black hoodie muttered, “My name is Margo. I collect teeth.”
The twins next to her—pale, red-eyed, and disturbingly synchronized—smiled with matching eye bags and said, “We’re Bryce and Blythe. We can taste dreams.”
Kevin, a stocky camper with intense garlic energy, stood proudly with a baby Bj?rn strapped to his chest. Inside it: garlic cloves. Everywhere. “Hi. I’m Kevin. I’m not taking chances.”
Jessie fist-bumped him. “Respect.”
When it got to Todd, he panicked and blurted, “Hi. Todd. I—uh—I think my marshmallow’s haunted.”
Rachel arched a brow. “That’s not a fact. That’s a cry for help.”
“I’m working with what I’ve got,” Todd muttered, jabbing his marshmallow into the fire. It promptly burst into flame, screamed something in Aramaic, and launched itself into the woods.
The twins clapped politely.
Doug, floating nearby with spectral sparkles swirling in his fur, howled softly and buried a stick for no reason. Zara offered him a crystal-infused marshmallow. He sniffed it. It exploded in a tiny fireball of delight.
“Don’t give him citrine,” Rachel warned. “He’ll start floating upside down again.”
Zara blinked. “That was citrine?”
Rachel’s marshmallow hissed as she roasted it. “This chocolate’s humming in minor key. Definitely memory dust. Someone cursed the cocoa.”
“Define cursed,” Todd asked.
Rachel blew on her marshmallow. “Temporal residue. If you eat it, you might remember a trauma you never had.”
Jessie bit into a full s’more and blinked three times. “Guys,” he said through a mouthful of gooey sugar, “I think I just relived my own birth.”
Zara took a careful nibble of her graham cracker. “My tongue is seeing time sideways.”
Todd stared at his fresh marshmallow, now twitching on the stick like it had performance anxiety. “I’m good. I’ll just eat plain crackers and repress everything.”
Margo spoke again from the shadows. “The fire likes you.”
Todd flinched. “That’s not reassuring.”
Chip bounced on his toes. “Wonderful energy, everyone! Let’s sing the Camp Dreadmoor Chant!”
All the campers groaned.
Jessie raised his stick like a mic. “Howl if you’re happy to be here!”
Only Doug responded, with a sound halfway between a bark and a war crime.
Todd's next marshmallow burst again.
Rachel offered him her extra. “Yours might be cursed to self-destruct.”
“Because of me?”
She shrugged. “Because of you. Because of fate. Who can say?”
Todd bit into it. It whispered, “You’re trying your best,” which was somehow worse.
Zara leaned back against a mossy log, her marshmallow perfectly golden and gently vibrating. “You know, it’s nice. Sitting together. Watching the flames eat the soul of the forest.”
Todd blinked. “What.”
She smiled. “Metaphorically. Probably.”
The flames crackled.
Doug sneezed. A pinecone caught fire behind them.
Rachel sighed. “I’m keeping my dagger out tonight.”
“Do you think we’ll sleep?” Todd asked.
Rachel deadpanned, “I think you’ll attempt sleep. And the woods will whisper back.”
As the group slowly dispersed, the fire fizzled into a low, purple smolder. Todd glanced back at it.
The embers spelled out:
hi todd
He screamed a little.
Doug farted in sympathy.
And just beyond the firelight, something whispered, “Toasted souls taste best.”
Scene 5: “Something in the Woods Is Screaming”
At 3:06 a.m., Todd woke up glowing.
Not metaphorically—like “glowing with the light of inner growth” or “glowing because he finally moisturized”—but actually, literally glowing.
A faint, minty-green aura pulsed from his skin like he’d swallowed a glow stick and forgotten to chew. His sheets clung to him like frightened fabric. His cursed memory-foam mattress softly hissed in Latin, then attempted to lull him back to sleep with Gregorian whimpering.
Todd sat bolt upright. His bunk creaked.
Then whispered: “You’ve been chosen...ish.”
Doug floated upside down near the ceiling, tail wagging slowly in zero gravity. His ghost tongue lolled out like a wet sock. He stared at Todd, blinked his milky dog eyes, and mumbled, “It sees you now.”
Todd did what any well-adjusted young adult with a history of magical trauma would do. He screamed.
“Stop screaming,” Rachel snapped, already dressed, crouched by the window with a silver dagger and a peanut butter protein bar. “Something else is screaming outside.”
And it was. Beyond the creaking cabin walls, in the dark heart of the woods, a high, warbling shriek cut through the trees. It didn’t sound animal. It didn’t sound human.
It sounded personal.
“Did the forest just scream at me?” Todd asked.
Rachel didn’t answer. She kicked the door open with the casual grace of someone who’s definitely roundhouse-kicked a demon before breakfast. “Stay inside. Or don’t. I’m not your mom.”
Jessie burst in from the other side wearing nothing but boxer briefs, a necklace made of teeth (hopefully decorative), and a face of determined concern.
“I heard a scream. I brought a tree branch.”
“It’s 3 a.m.!” Todd shouted, dragging the blanket around his glowing shoulders like a budget wizard. “Why do you look like you’re posing for Werewolf Fitness Weekly?!”
Jessie held up the branch like a broadsword. “Because danger doesn’t wait for pants, bro.”
Doug barked once, floated past him, and disappeared through the door.
Rachel vanished into the woods behind him, combat boots somehow not crunching on anything. Zara appeared beside Todd like a well-moisturized cryptid, rubbing sleep out of her eyes and holding a crystal shaped like a tiny moon.
She blinked. “You’re glowing.”
“Yes,” Todd hissed. “Thank you. I noticed.”
She waved her crystal over him. It buzzed.
“Oh,” she said. “Your aura’s agitated. Possibly foreshadowing.”
Outside, something growled. Loudly.
Rachel’s voice echoed back to the cabin. “There are claw marks on the rec center!”
“Normal-size?” Jessie called back.
“No. Rake-the-sky size.”
Zara frowned. “That’s a terrible unit of measurement.”
Jessie bolted, barefoot and radiant, into the night.
Todd started to follow, then tripped over his cursed blanket, collided with the bunk bed, and collapsed in a heap of shame and supernatural eczema.
“I hate everything,” he muttered.
Zara helped him up with one hand and sprinkled his blanket with something glittery. “Salted moon sugar. For resilience.”
“Does it come in espresso?”
“Only during solstice.”
They stepped outside together into the buzzing silence. The forest looked wrong—like the trees had grown taller since sunset. Like they were leaning in to listen.
Jessie stood shirtless by the rec center wall, breathing hard. He pointed to deep, vicious claw marks gouged through the wood. In the dirt below them: a muddy, single flip-flop.
Rachel crouched beside it. “This belonged to Bryce. Or Blythe. Whoever was left-footed.”
Doug growled.
Todd blinked. “Are we… sure that wasn’t his flip-flop?”
Doug gave him a look. An ancient, knowing, you-don’t-get-to-blame-the-dog-this-time look.
Todd raised both hands. “Okay. I’m just saying. Let’s not jump to blaming the demon forest.”
Something snapped behind them.
The campers spun.
A shadow streaked across the trees—tall, too fast, not nearly blurry enough for comfort.
Zara gasped. “That was not natural.”
Rachel stood. “That was Echo-adjacent.”
“Echo?” Todd asked.
“She’s in the campfire story,” Zara said.
“Wait,” Todd said, turning to Rachel. “You believe Chip’s ghost story?”
Rachel’s eyes gleamed faintly in the dark. “I believe anything with claw marks and a flip-flop.”
Jessie muttered, “There’s demon-squirrel energy in the air.”
Todd stared at the footprint. Then the claw marks. Then his own softly-glowing hand.
“This is summer vacation,” he said flatly. “I came here to relax.”
Doug peed ghostly mist on the flip-flop and barked once.
From the trees, a voice whispered again—low, strange, echoing through the bark: “It sees you all now…”
Rachel drew a second dagger.
Jessie cracked his knuckles.
Zara hummed a calming rune.
Todd farted. Just a little.
Everyone turned to him.
“Sorry,” he said. “Stress.”
Scene 6: “Creepy History Campfire Story (That’s Probably Real)”
Todd sat back down at the cursed campfire like someone returning to the scene of a very gooey crime.
The flames hissed, sparked, and crackled like they were building dramatic tension for a third-act twist. Purple embers wafted up into the pine-thick air, curling like smoke signals from the underworld.
Doug lay sprawled across Todd’s feet like a very cold, occasionally translucent electric blanket. His tail flicked in anticipation. Or warning. It was always hard to tell with undead canines.
Jessie had reapplied deodorant (axe-scented, possibly cursed), and was balancing a flaming marshmallow on the edge of a dagger like he was auditioning for a vampire-themed circus. Zara had summoned a little spiral of wind that kept her hair from frizzing. Rachel simply glared at the fire like it owed her rent.
Chip—Camp Director, suspiciously upbeat khaki-wearer, and probable demon intern—clapped his hands once, hard enough to make the flames rear back in surprise.
“Gather ‘round, campers!” he chirped. “It’s time for the Legend of Echo!”
Todd groaned and whispered to Rachel, “Why do we need a legend? We already have enough local horror. I watched a tree sob this morning.”
“Because,” Rachel muttered, sharpening her s’mores stick into a stake, “cursed camps love cursed context.”
Chip stood before the flickering blaze like a TED Talk host who’d just bitten into a Ouija board. “Long ago—1987, to be exact—Camp Dreadmoor was founded on this very ley-line-laced land. Intended to be a safe, sacred space for magical youth.”
Zara leaned toward Todd. “He’s reading this off a scroll inside his brain. I can hear it crinkle.”
“But,” Chip said, lowering his voice to dramatic murmur territory, “the land was already… occupied.”
Todd blinked. “By what?”
Chip smiled too wide. “By fear.”
Jessie leaned forward, unusually serious. “Fear like… the concept?”
Rachel grunted. “No. Fear like manifestation magic. This place pulls from you. Twists it. Turns it loose.”
“Exactly!” Chip beamed. “You’re all so receptive.”
Todd raised his hand. “Can I opt out?”
“Anyway,” Chip steamrolled ahead, “one summer, a camper named Echo went missing. Not ran away. Just—vanished. During a blood moon. One minute she was at the arts and crafts table making a popsicle-stick pentagram, the next—poof!”
Doug growled low. The fire hissed in sympathy.
“When she returned,” Chip continued, voice low, “she was… changed. Her eyes weren’t her own. Her shadow walked opposite directions. Her bunk bed began to cry at night.”
Zara whispered, “Okay but same.”
“She never spoke again. Just hummed,” Chip went on, “until one night, she led a counselor into the woods. Only he came back. Shaking. Smiling. And missing a tooth. When asked what happened, he just said, ‘She’s learning.’”
Todd shivered. “That’s the creepiest sentence I’ve ever heard that doesn’t involve taxes.”
Chip nodded reverently. “Some say she still walks the forest. That she became part of it. Echoing. Watching. Waiting for new campers to show up with potential.”
Todd glanced down at his glowing hand. “Okay but like. Hypothetically. What if one camper was… glowing? Just slightly. In a cursed, luminous, my-skin-has-wifi kind of way?”
Rachel looked at him. “You’re Echo bait.”
Doug barked softly and buried his nose under Todd’s hoodie.
“Now!” Chip snapped, hands clapping again. “Let’s sing the official Camp Dreadmoor closing chant! You may feel a light pressure behind the eyes. That’s normal.”
The group half-heartedly sang:
?? “Campfire bright, we end the night / Our souls intact, if cursed, that’s slight…” ??
?? “No wailing ghosts or hexes deep / Just one more scream before we sleep.” ??
Todd clapped, dead-eyed. “I feel so comforted. Deep in my trauma.”
The fire sparked once, and the smoke spelled out:
see you soon, todd
—lowercase. Italicized. Creepy.
He screamed. Again.
Jessie patted his shoulder. “That’s just personalized haunting, bro. Means they like you.”
“I don’t want to be liked by disembodied spirits!”
Rachel stood. “Good. Because they don’t like you. They’re marking you.”
Todd whimpered. Doug whined.
Zara leaned forward, peering into the flames like they owed her money. “She’s near. The Echo. I can feel her pulling. Something recognizes you, Todd.”
“Can we not?” Todd croaked. “Just for once. Can we not be recognized by ancient whispering entities with bad boundaries?”
Jessie: “Do you want me to sleep inside tonight?”
Todd blinked. “Jessie, you’re allergic to blankets.”
“I’ll fight the ghost air for you.”
Zara offered him a calming rune the shape of a smiley face. “Put this under your pillow. It’ll only make you partially transparent in dreams.”
Todd clutched it like a nightlight. “This camp is trying to kill me with lore.”
Rachel cracked her neck. “Then we’d better learn it faster than it learns us.”
The fire popped once, and the logs collapsed in a perfectly symmetrical sigil.
Doug sat on it. And farted.
Scene 7: “Todd’s Hair Falls Out. Then Back In.”
Todd woke up feeling watched.
Not in the “creepy guy at the coffee shop” way, or even the “Doug staring blankly while floating three inches from your nose” way. This was cosmic scrutiny. Existential awkwardness. Like a god had scrolled too far into his diary and now wanted a refund.
Also, something under his bunk was humming in Latin.
He sat up slowly. His glow had faded overnight—mostly—but one pinky finger was still faintly pulsing like a dying neon sign. Doug snored upside down on the top bunk, emitting faint dream-whimpers and little ghost farts that froze mid-air like invisible snowflakes.
Todd rubbed his face, swung his legs over the side of the bed… and felt the temperature drop ten degrees near the floor.
“Oh no,” he whispered, because it was morning and he hadn’t screamed yet and the universe hates a vacuum.
A soft thrum came from beneath the bed.
So of course, he looked.
The crawlspace was musty and dim and smelled like haunted cedar chips. But tucked in the far back corner—right where the ley lines probably converged to whisper about him behind his back—was a trapdoor.
A trapdoor.
He stared at it. It stared back, metaphorically.
Doug blinked awake, rolled over (in the air), and muttered, “You’re not ready.”
“That’s never stopped me before,” Todd muttered. Then added, “Unfortunately.”
He opened the trapdoor with all the caution of someone diffusing a bomb made of mood swings and glitter.
Inside, nestled in a box of moss, a crumpled letter, and what may have once been a squirrel skull doing jazz hands, sat a jar.
It was labeled in elegant cursive:
“Night Screams, Batch #3”
Beneath that, scribbled in frantic chicken scratch:
Property of: The One Who Fumbles the Apocalypse?
Do Not Touch Unless You Are Absolutely, Unquestionably The One. Or bored.
(This means you, Todd.)
Todd blinked.
Then picked it up.
Of course he did.
The moment his fingers touched glass, a shock ran up his arm like an ex-boyfriend’s emotional baggage. He yelped. The jar glowed. The lid whispered. The moss combusted. Doug gasped and dropped to the ground with a ghostly thud.
Then every single strand of Todd’s hair fell out.
In one unified foof.
He stood, bald as a snickerdoodle, wide-eyed in the mirror. “Oh no. No, no, no—my emotional support bangs!”
Doug hovered at his shoulder, solemn and flat-eared. “You touched the Fumble Jar.”
Todd turned to him, furious. “You knew this was down there?!”
“You weren’t supposed to find it until Chapter Six!”
Todd opened his mouth to yell—then clutched his scalp as every hair follicle reversed course and schlorped back into place like rewinding a shampoo commercial on fast-forward.
Todd blinked. His hair looked shinier now. Possibly sentient.
Rachel appeared in the doorway without knocking. “You touched a cursed object before breakfast?”
“I didn’t mean to!”
“It had your name on it.”
“It was polite about it!”
She crossed her arms. “Your aura’s hiccupping.”
Doug nodded solemnly. “And your follicles are whispering in Enochian.”
Todd pulled on a hoodie. His hood levitated slightly off his scalp like it feared contact. “What even was that thing?”
Rachel stepped inside, inspected the open trapdoor, and retrieved the crumpled letter. She scanned it, expression unreadable. “It’s from Echo. Written to the next person who might break the veil between worlds. Also, it’s scented.”
She sniffed it. “Midnight despair. With hints of petrichor.”
Todd groaned. “Why is my life a fragrance sample from an interdimensional mall?”
Zara drifted into the cabin with a cup of herbal sleep-stabilizing tea and a rune on her forehead that glowed faintly like a forehead mood ring.
“You tripped a prophecy,” she said calmly. “Your head is now a beacon for eldritch entities and possibly sentient shampoo brands.”
“Cool, cool, love that,” Todd muttered, kicking the trapdoor shut. “Let’s just bury this whole cabin in holy salt and call it a day.”
Rachel tossed the jar to Doug, who immediately buried it in a ghost hole (which was either a metaphor or a feature of ghost physics).
Todd pulled his hoodie tighter, glared at his reflection, and muttered, “I swear, if my eyebrows start speaking Latin, I’m going home.”
Rachel patted his shoulder—gently. Comfortingly. With the same energy one uses before euthanizing a haunted toaster.
“Welcome to Camp Dreadmoor,” she said.
Doug barked once. And farted. Again.
Scene 8: “Everything’s Fine, According to the Screaming Trees”
It started with the trees screaming Todd’s name.
At first, he thought it was just another cursed side effect. You glow once, accidentally trigger a prophecy jar, and suddenly every deciduous in a thirty-foot radius is calling you out like a disappointed aunt at Thanksgiving.
But no—this was full-blown botanical shade.
“Todd…”
“Toooodd…”
“TOOOOOODDDDD.”
“Why are they dragging the vowel like that?” he hissed, ducking behind Zara as they stood at the edge of the woods near the main camp circle. The trees weren’t moving, exactly—but their leaves were vibrating like they had opinions.
Zara calmly held a protection crystal the size of a tangerine against her temple. “You’re aura-bright and echo-tagged now. The trees know your brand.”
“Can I un-brand?”
Rachel appeared next to them with a handful of acorns. “These were thrown at me. With intent.”
One of the oaks let out a low, wood-splitting groan.
“HE GLOWS. HE KNOWS. HE FUMBLES THE CHOSEN PATH.”
“Excuse me,” Todd snapped at the nearest maple. “That was one time. And I put the prophecy jar back.”
Zara handed him a sage-wrapped stick. “Rub this on your armpits. It might confuse them.”
Jessie, shirtless again because of course he was, arrived dragging two sleeping bags and one half-eaten granola bar.
“I heard yelling. And aggressive rustling. I assumed it was important.”
Rachel grunted. “Roll call’s starting.”
They turned toward the circle clearing, where the counselors were lining up in their usual uncomfortable display of too-white teeth and camp-issued khaki nightmares. Todd counted them, frowned, and counted again.
“Did we… get new counselors overnight?”
Jessie narrowed his eyes. “Weren’t there five yesterday?”
There were definitely ten now.
And three of them were Chip.
The Chips stood at staggered points in the circle, all smiling the same way—like mannequins that had just learned about emotions from a training video made by ghosts.
“Greetings, campers!” said the original, or possibly Alpha Chip. “We are thrilled to announce today’s activities, including nature walks, rune carving, and a guided scream through the thistle meadow!”
One of the Other Chips raised his hand robotically. “We are also offering canoe whispering. For those struggling with paddle-based trauma.”
Todd leaned over to Zara. “Okay, no, that’s definitely new.”
The third Chip gave a too-wide grin. “Everything is fine. Extremely fine. Statistically fine.”
The trees hissed. The air dropped five degrees.
Todd raised his hand. “Quick question, just a logistics thing—why are there more Chips?”
All three turned to him in eerie synchronicity. “Counselor replication is a normal part of your camp journey!”
“Replication?” Rachel repeated.
“Like fungi,” Jessie added, impressed.
Doug—hovering behind them with his usual mild ectoplasmic buzz—let out a sharp woof. Then a second, quieter bark. Then something that sounded like Morse code for get your butt out of here now.
Zara squinted at the duplicate Chips. “They smell like mirror magic. Cheap, unsanctioned mirror magic.”
Rachel muttered, “We could test for that with a silver shard.”
Todd said, “Or we could not antagonize the clones until after breakfast.”
But it was too late.
The trees groaned again—this time louder, layered with overlapping voices.
“HE WALKS IN GLITCHED CIRCLES.”
“HE IS MOSTLY READY.”
“HE CARRIES THE FOOT.”
Todd blinked. “What foot?”
Then he looked down.
The mannequin foot from his welcome basket had followed him.
Not been carried.
Not dragged.
Followed.
It blinked once—soft, pulsing LED light from the ankle stump—and then turned to point toward the rec center.
Zara gasped. “That’s directional magic.”
Jessie squinted. “Or maybe it’s just haunted. Like everything else here.”
Rachel picked it up, turned it upside down, and shook it like a Magic 8 Ball.
Words flickered across the ankle in glowing script:
“GO NOW. FIND ECHO. BEFORE SHE FINDS YOU.”
Todd sat down on the nearest stump. “I need fiber. And a refund. And maybe a priest.”
Rachel tossed the foot into his lap. “Congrats, you have a prophet prosthetic.”
Doug began to howl.
Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang that no one remembered installing.
The woods shimmered.
And the extra Chips began to hum in unison.
“Okay,” Todd said, standing up and hugging the foot like a comfort ferret. “I know this is probably a bad idea, but I vote we follow the creepy foot.”
Rachel pulled out both daggers. Jessie nodded. Zara chugged an anti-hex smoothie.
Doug farted again—on purpose this time.
Todd glanced back at the glowing forest.
“Yep. This feels like a great time to start Chapter Two.”