Phil and the Ghost of Camp Ch-Yo-Ca (6 page)

“YEAH, LET’S SLEEP OUTSIDE,”
John Luke says. “If anything sketchy is going on, we’ll hear it from out here.”

“Right. Let’s make a big fire and put lots of bug spray on and tell some spooky stories. See who
 
—or
what
 
—comes to visit us.” You raise your eyebrows, and John Luke rolls his eyes.

He knows the perfect spot for your sleeping bags. You guys don’t have a tent, but that’s okay. You’ll be able to spot the monsters or aliens or bogeymen better this way.

After a few minutes, you have a good fire going and suddenly wish you’d brought some stuff to make s’mores with. It’s not that you’re hungry, but you’ve got to have a little something to eat when you’re around a fire, right? Especially at camp.

You lean forward on the log that serves as a bench. “So let’s hear one of those ghost stories you kids tell.”

“Which one?”

“Any of them. The scarier the better.” You toss a piece of wood onto the fire while John Luke thinks.

“Well, the one I always tell is about the allibeaver.”

You nod like you know what that is. “An allibeaver. Oh, this is gonna be good.”

“Years ago, one of the directors here had a pet beaver. All the kids loved him. He was a friendly little guy who made everybody laugh. But one night he escaped from his cage.”

“Uh-oh.”

“He wandered down to the lake, and this big alligator bit him. But it wasn’t no ordinary gator. This one was infected with some awful disease. Once he bit the beaver, it turned into an allibeaver.”

“What’s that supposed to look like?”

John Luke laughs. “It’s got the face of an alligator and the body of a beaver. So it can climb things but also tear off someone’s head with its long gator mouth.”

“I’d love to see one of those.”

John Luke is about to keep talking when you both hear something fall in the woods with a loud, heavy thud.

“What was that?” you ask.

“I don’t know.”

Maybe it’s an allibeaver responding to the sound of its name.

You probably won’t share that thought with John Luke.

“Keep talking,” you tell him.

“Now the allibeaver sneaks into the cabins and starts infecting the kids. When they’re bitten, though, they don’t die. They become allibeavers too. And they can walk around and infect other people.”

“Do they have tails?”

“Uh, yeah. And sharp teeth like gators.”

“This is the most terrifyin’ thing I’ve ever heard.” You smirk.

“There’s only one way to stop an allibeaver.”

“What’s that?”

“You have to kill it, and then everyone it’s bitten turns back into themselves. But you can’t just shoot the allibeaver. You have to cut off its tail.”

“Wow, that’s too much for me.” You shake your head and drop another piece of wood onto the fire. “So who does the choppin’ in your story?”

“Sometimes it’s me. Sometimes Dad. Sometimes it’s nobody, and the allibeaver infects everybody at the camp, who then go home and infect more.”

Another thudding sound echoes from the woods.

“Maybe it’s the allibeaver,” John Luke says, only half-laughing. Great minds think alike.

Do you and John Luke try to find what’s in the woods?
Go here
.

Do you stay by the fire and go to sleep?
Go here
.

YOU WAIT A FEW MINUTES
and hear the wailing sound again. This time it’s farther away from you, deeper in the woods. You follow it.

You’ve hunted animals many times at night, so this is no different.

The trail leads you through the trees and over a hill. It’s cooler outside now and the sky above is clear, allowing enough light through the treetops that you don’t need to use your flashlight.

The animal scream rings out again. You’re getting closer.

You keep your rifle pointed in front of you, not wanting to be caught off guard by some kind of rabid beast. You imagine the headline:
Duck Commander Phil Robertson Attacked by Wild Animal in the Middle of the Night
.

At that moment, you make out another sound, distinct
from the first one. It’s a deep, heavy panting sound, almost like a big dog.

Or how about a wol
f
?

You look at the moon and notice it’s full. You didn’t realize this earlier.

The howling surrounds you again. This time it definitely sounds like some kind of wolf. Except it’s more intense than any wolf you’ve ever heard.

The bushes in front of you shake with a wild, loud scampering noise.

Then . . .

Something rushes at you from the right. Attacks you. Crashes into you, bites your right forearm, and forces you to drop the rifle.

But you manage to pick up the weapon again and fire at the big, hairy beast. Once. Twice.

Yet it’s gone.

The pain in your arm is intense. You touch it with your left hand and can feel the warm blood.

You use the flashlight to survey the land around you. But you don’t see or hear anything.

You better go get this wound treated.

Do you go to the hospital just in case you need a rabies shot?
Go here
.

Do you bandage the wound at home?
Go here
.

YOU FINALLY MANAGE TO WIGGLE
the blade out of the trunk. It’s more than just a knife
 
—you’re holding a machete in your hands. “Look at this. It’s gotta be about an eighteen- or twenty-inch blade.”

As you turn the machete to examine it, you see something you wish you would have noticed sooner. Something red.

Something that looks exactly like blood.

And it appears to be fresh.

It takes about ten minutes for John Luke to locate where the blood might have come from.

“Hey, Papaw Phil. I think I found something.”

John Luke is standing near the outdoor theater with seats in a half circle descending the hill. He points to the stage,
where oftentimes a worship leader speaks to the campers and leads music. Lots of songs and prayers have been offered up from this little section of the world right here.

“Do you see that?” he says.

Both of you walk down the hill and step onto the wooden platform.

Sure enough, there’s some type of animal in the middle of the stage. And it’s not moving, even when you poke it with the machete.

You’ve seen plenty of dead animals before, and so has John Luke, so the sight doesn’t gross you out. But you are a bit fascinated with why this particular one might have been left here. Is it a message?

“Well, can’t just leave this thing in the middle of the theater,” you say. “Let’s clean it up and head back . . . after we’ve secured the perimeter.”

Before leaving, the two of you search the stage for a few minutes but can’t find any other clues.

Eventually, you give up and tell John Luke to deposit the animal in a nearby garbage can. “Don’t get guts on you,” you warn John Luke. “Your mom won’t like that.”

“
I
won’t like that,” he replies.

As you climb the hill out of the theater, the machete at your side, John Luke asks, “You think this has anything to do with the stuff that was reported?”

“I think this machete had something to do with that ani
mal,” you say. “And I think someone’s having a good ole time laughing about it. That’s what I think.”

You head toward the cabins to unload your gear and settle in for the night, and as you walk, you notice how thick the woods around you are. You scan them intently, looking for anything or anybody. But nobody’s out there
 
—not within your line of sight, at least.

At the cabin, John Luke goes straight to the bathroom to wash his hands.

“We’ll look things over again tomorrow,” you call from your seat on a bottom bunk.

That’s the moment you hear the sound again.

Ch-ch-ch-ka-ka-ka.

John Luke doesn’t say anything, so you figure he can’t hear it over the sound of the running water.

You step outside and squint into the woods. They seem darker than before. But the noise has stopped.

As you return to the cabin, you decide it would be a good idea to keep the machete close by. You may need it tonight.

When John Luke finishes, you head to the bathroom to clean up before bed.

But before you squeeze toothpaste on your brush, you hear the noise again.

Ch-ch-ch-ka-ka-ka.

You return to the main room and peer into the woods.

The noise definitely came from close by.

Do you run into the woods to try to find the source of the noise?
Go here
.

Do you ignore the noise and keep getting ready for bed?
Go here
.