It had been an exceptionally warm and bright day, but with all windows rolled down we now caught a cold gust from off the lake. To some extent this would have been expected, as much of the camp was already caught in the late afternoon shadow of the surrounding Glacier Mountains. But even knowing this, I kept looking into the gloom, while half expecting to see something horrible creep from out of the growing shadows.
Pulling up and parking before the main cabin, Rich turned off the engine and with a quick glance, motioned for me to follow. This I did without a second thought. Following him to where we joined our friends who waited upon the front steps, we both turned to look back down the hill and over the lake.
A cold gust whipped the hair from my eyes, as adjusting my sun glasses, I turned to Rich and asked, “What’s your first impression?”
He slowly shook his head, and without removing his gaze from the deep blue waters, quietly said, “I’m not sure yet? But whatever it is—I don’t like it….”
My first impression had been a sense of having returned to a summer camp from my childhood, only to find it empty and absolutely barren of even a single living thing.
“This used to be Jake’s cabin--,” Red Cloud announced as he and Scott stood looking out and over the camp; he pointed, “My shack was three rows down, and on the west side of the camp.”
“Why did you change your mind about coming along?” Rich asked the obvious question.
Red Cloud sighed deeply, as looking around at us and shrugging, he said, “Maybe, it was because I have my own ghosts to sort out in this place…”
“It sure looks like the kind of place where you’d find them.” Scott groaned, scratching at his beard as he gazed into the distance. Pointing to a large building to the far eastern edge of camp, he turned to Red Cloud and asked, “What was that building used for?”
“It was the canteen and cook-house—and above and next to that is the bathrooms and showers.” Red Cloud announced, pointing as he directed our attention to several larger steel-roofed structures, “Those were the tool-sheds, machine shop and buildings where we kept and worked on heavy equipment. The buildings on the dock were offices and storage for supplies, which we brought in by boat. There is a boat-house, pump-house and generator shack, which supplied power to the whole camp. That big tank near the generator shack was for diesel. It fueled our equipment, logging trucks and the boats that we used to go across the lake.”
“It’s a little creepy to be honest--,” Rich turned to look at the old native, “Being so close to Road’s End, it’s almost like the bad vibes from this place spread out….”
“You know?” Scott thought for a moment, “It might have been faster if we had just rented a boat for the weekend? One of those big old cabin-cruisers, you know? It would’ve been more comfortable than staying here.”
“The lake is very deep, unpredictable and very, very cold.” Red Cloud stared out and over the water, his hair tossed in a sudden gust, “I would prefer to remain on solid ground—even in this place….”
“It’s a glacier lake.” Rich turned to Scott, “It’s likely full of deep, endless caverns and likely bottomless in some places. If you drown in there, being so cold, your body could float forever in some dark, icy and endless abyss….”
“Bottomless?” Scott’s eyes grew wide behind his glasses, as slowly turning to look back at the deep and dark waters, he said, “You know? I heard boats are cold at night anyway, being on the water and all.” Rubbing his hands together, he glanced over his shoulder and at the chimney pipe of the cabin, “I’ll bet you can get a real cozy fire going in there.”
Before anyone had a chance to reply, the sound of a vehicle on the road above drew our attention from the lake. We had all walked toward the road as a red 1956 Chevrolet pick-up truck pulled up before the cabin and parked.
Red Cloud had remained silent as the sole occupant, a white man that appeared in his mid to late fifties, climbed out with a grunt and slammed the door behind him. He was a little over six feet tall, lean and broad shouldered. He wore black cowboy boots, blue jeans, a red plaid shirt and an old blue jean jacket. He walked like an old gun-fighter and his features were hard, making him appear much older, meaner. Clean-shaven, high cheek boned and with thinning gray hair, I stared into his piercing and steel blue eyes.
He had extended a hand in greeting, and then stopping, turned suspiciously toward Red Cloud, “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” His voice was deep and the tone revealed a subtle though obvious suspicion.
“Frank Jorgenson.” Red Cloud allowed the name to slip from off his lips as thought it was poison, and forced a smile, “My brother Andy and I once worked for old Jake, for a short time, many years ago.”
Frank had appeared suddenly startled, as looking between us and cracking a sly grin, he turned back to Red Cloud and extended a hand in greeting, “A lot of men worked for my brother. I have an eye for faces. But, I’m not so good with names.”
“Robert “Red Cloud” Farley.” Red Cloud shook Frank’s hand, the grip tight as the two men faced off. It was obvious that though they were never properly acquainted, there was an immediate tension, paranoia, and even dread on Frank’s part.
“I’m Rich MacDonald--,” Rich stepped forward, politely extending a hand as he took Frank’s attention from Red Cloud, “And these are my associates, Michael Schreiber and Scott Dayment. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jorgenson.”
The tension having dissipated somewhat as we introduced ourselves, Frank motioned for us to follow. Making his way up the old wooden steps and onto the front porch, he quickly unlocked the cabin door. Throwing it open and coughing in the resulting cloud of dust, he made his way inside and began opening the large windows. “It’s been a while since anyone stayed here--,” He choked, waving his hands about him grimacing, and said “Shouldn’t take us long to tidy up a little.”
The air was stagnant, dust-filled and held the odor of moldering wood. I sneezed uncontrollably, steadied by Rich’s hand and the offer of a napkin. The next half hour was spent doing exactly that, dusting, sweeping and sorting out clean bedding that was still folded in cupboards.
“At least there aren’t any bugs.” Rich’s comment had caught the old man’s attention, as winking, he replied, “None that you’ll see until after the lights go out.”
We had all turned as our host dropped into an old chair in the Livingroom and motioned for us to be seated on the couches surrounding a little coffee table. As we did so, I looked around into the shadows of the large cabin.
There were two bedrooms to the rear, a large kitchen, dining area and main room. I was surprised as to how it was all lavishly furnished. There was an antique kitchen table and chairs, wood stove and an enormous oak desk. It reminded me of the style that teachers had used during my childhood. Resting before the main window offered a spectacular view of the entire camp. A large stone fireplace opened centrally from against the far wall, and behind from where we now sat. The entire cabin had been constructed of logs, which professionally seated and sealed, provided a comfort and beauty beyond anything that I would have expected. Added to this were the expensive, though faded emerald draperies, a lovely 1930’s Crosley console radio and numerous antique lamps. I had taken immediate notice that though they were quite old, they had all been electrified. “These are electric lamps?” I asked pointing.
“Of course--,” Frank scoffed, “What did you think we were, cavemen?”
Rich had appeared rather impressed with the lamps, but not quite as much with Frank’s blunt and rather rude comment.
“Alright gentlemen--,” Frank drew folded pages from a coat pocket, and sorting through them, sighed deeply, “As you may or may not all know, when I spoke to your associate, Mr. MacDonald, I explained that this property was an investment. And that I plan to tear all these old buildings down and turn the place into a camp-ground. As you can see, it’s a prime location, and water-front property.”
“Aren’t you concerned about compe
tition from the Harrison Hot Springs hotel?” Scott asked quite innocently.
“Actually—not in the least--,” Frank thought briefly, “That place is a high-end luxury palace. Mind you—it’s worth its weight in gold. But we’re offering a totally different experience out here. We’re sitting between Harrison Hot Springs, and are just a hop, skip and a jump into the town of Harrison Mills. It’d be tough to find a better location. I can fix up the canteen, bathrooms, dock and boathouse. We can offer folks terrific fishing, boating and most of the old wood from the shacks can be used as firewood. You just can’t beat an opportunity like this, now can you?”
“So, what is holding you back?” Red Cloud leaned deeper into his seat and just stared.
“Well now--,” Frank grinned devilishly, his eyes glittering in the fading light, “Over the years, and like all working camps in treacherous country, accidents do tend to happen. And on occasion--,” He shrugged and. leaning back into his seat, stared blankly as he said, “People die….”
There was a tension so thick in the room that you could have cut it with a butter knife. None of us had uttered a single word, just sat there looking at the old man and waiting. Clearing his throat, he glanced over his shoulder and back toward the window and setting sun. It was as though the approaching darkness now drew a veil of uncertainly upon the old man. He suddenly began shaking his left leg, his eyes nervously darting between us as he grumbled, “This camp—and that part of the lake, have something of a reputation around here. Now, I’m not expecting any miracles, and I won’t try to pull the wool over anyone’s eyes. But, what I need from you gentlemen is simply stating that you spent a relaxing, pleasant and uneventful weekend here.”
“Please don’t take this wrong--,” Rich sounded almost facetious, as straightening in his seat, he looked to Frank, “But I get the feeling that you’re not too sure about this place either.”
Tightly gripping the armrests of his chair, Frank stiffened in his seat, and glaring around at us like a hunted animal, grimaced, “There’s no living—or dead thing that ever scared me, son. But, I’m not like some folks who get worked up over things that go bump in the night. That’s why I needed you fellas here. People won’t listen to an old man, but they’ll take the word of a reputable magazine, like yours.”
“That’s very kind of you to say--,” Rich chuckled with the compliment, “But, there’s a lot of people that just think that we’re a bunch of nuts.”
“And to some extent that may be true--,” Red Cloud had peered over at Rich, “For some of us, anyway.” There were moments when Rich’s sense of humor did not appeal to Red Cloud, and it was apparent by the dark reflection in the old man’s stare that this had been one of them. Scott, having noticed this, slapped a hand to his knee, and breaking the tension of the moment, just laughed, “So, all that we need to do is just enjoy the weekend, and then print an article about this terrific camp-ground.” He shrugged and looked around the group, “That doesn’t seem like such a big deal.”
“What if there is a problem—out there somewhere?” Red Cloud frowned.
“Then we try to resolve the issue and find a rational explanation.” I looked between my friends, “That’s what we came here to do….”
“Exactly--,” Frank grinned through yellowed teeth, his eyes glassy as he looked to Rich, “I’ve got my bag in the truck. I’ll be roughing it with you boys. But take my word for it. You best unload your gear and get set up before dark. You’ve never seen blackness until you’ve spent a night in these hills….”
I suspected that there were far worse things here than just the night, and sensed that we would soon find out. I felt something cold creep into my stomach, curdling as I moved to follow my friends out of the cabin
….
Chapter Three
Between the four of us it hadn’t taken long to unload the coolers and supplies into the cabin. As Scott and Red Cloud began organizing everything, Rich had agreed to accompany me on a walk through the camp to take some pictures. But as we had departed, Frank had quickly followed, insisting that he give us the guided tour. I got the immediate impression that he wasn’t comfortable with us wandering around unsupervised. The reflection of doubt in Rich’s eyes only serving to confirm that his trust in Frank was limited.
There was a cool breeze coming from off the lake. It carried the scent of cedar and pine as the gusts played in the branches of the immense and surrounding trees. The path had been cut deeply, leaving tall mounds on either side of us. Adjacent to the road one could see numerous rows of little cabins. They extended for several hundred yards in either direction, and then downward for another hundred, ended shortly before the dock. Uncovering my camera, I paused to snap several photographs.
The sun’s final rays drew long and deep shadows that, creeping like dark claws from under the old structures, extended from all about us. The old shacks seemed to take on an entirely new and even haunting perspective. A sudden sound drew our attention to where one of the cabin doors slowly swung open and closed, squeaking upon rusted hinges in the gentle breeze.
There was a haunting and familiar sensation about the place. It was a stillness that now reminded me of the abandoned and burned out mill at Road’s End. With exception to the odd whistle of the wind in the woods, there wasn’t a single sound of a bird. Not even the usual soft chirping of the crickets’ song by dusk.
“Not a single sound--,” Rich had seemingly drawn upon my thoughts as he looked about, “Just that big old raven at the top of that pine.”
Looking up and shielding my eyes with a hand from the sun’s failing rays, I saw the enormous black bird as it seemingly gazed back down. As the sun drifted behind the distant glaciers I thought to have seen just the faintest red glint in its eyes. “And, now that I think about it?” I looked to my friend, “That’s the only other living thing that I’ve seen around here—with exception to us.” I peered back up and into the branches, squinting as the bird had seemingly just vanished. Ordinarily this would not have bothered me. But, for some reason it had.
“I’m going to rip all these shacks down--,” Frank motioned to either side of the path as we walked, “And level it all out so folks can park motorhomes and trailers here.”
It was obvious that Rich had very little interest in the man’s intentions, but for the sake of conversation, said, “Do you think there would be any chance that we could get the old generator working? It would be nice to be able to use those lamps in our cabin, and maybe even that radio?”
Without a second thought Frank nodded, and with a wave proudly announced, “The lamps and radio all work, and the generator still runs like new. I’ve been coming back here, sort of keeping an eye on the place for my brother. Well, until he died last year.” He paused in thought, squinting as he looked over at me, “He came down with a case of pneumonia. Old bastard never did take care of himself. Truth of the matter--,” He shrugged, and smirking, said, “I kind of inherited this place. It’s sort of sentimental, so I figured I’d fix it up, keep the memory alive.”
As we reached the bottom of the path I halted before the docks, snapping several shots of the boathouse and accompanying structures. I’m not certain as to whether I was becoming paranoid or simply did not like the man. But I sincerely doubted that there had ever been a single sentimental bone in his body. The question now was exactly which memories he was pertaining to…?
“I understand that the lake claims several lives almost every year.” Rich had plucked the thoughts from my mind again. Staring out as the sun glistened upon the dark waters, he said, “And that this camp had a lot of accidents and deaths….”
“All logging camps suffered their losses, we all took our chances.” Frank appeared paranoid and even angered by the comment, “As for the lake? It’s fast, ice cold, deep, and the tides are powerful. If you ask me, I’d say that anyone asinine enough to get into those waters for a swim deserves whatever happens.”
“Is it the lake’s reputation that started the rumo
r about the camp being haunted?” The words had left my mouth before my mind had even completed the thought.
His eyes narrowing as he contemplated briefly, he cursed, swatting a hand toward the shoreline as though to strike a blow, “The damn lake took more than the camp ever did. Folks just don’t talk about it as much. Shit, one summer, not sure of the exact year now—we lost seven or eight kids to those waters….”
There was something in his fleeting glances that bothered me. It was as though he simply could not make eye contact during that final statement. I wasn’t certain as to whether the loss of life had troubled him, or just sharing the information. At any rate, he had all the appearance of a cornered animal upon the borders of “fight or flight.”
“People love to gossip.” Rich intervened, “They’re quick to turn a mole-hill into a mountain, given the time and opportunity. Especially in these smaller communities….”
Realizing to have touched upon a sensitive subject, one that had drawn a veil of anxiety between us, I forced a smile and, looking out and over the lake, breathed in deeply of the fresh air, “But all things aside, you certainly are right, Frank. You truly could not have found a more beautiful or better location for a camp-ground.”
He had just looked at me at first as though searching for a hint of sarcasm. And then, deciding upon my sincerity, swiftly motioned for us to follow, “Folks around these parts have always been scared of what they can’t see. Hell, most of them jump at the slightest shadow in the night.” He stopped at the front door to the shed and looking back at us, said, “Hell, they even believe in that damn Bigfoot legend.”
“We saw the Bigfoot statue in the campground just past Lori’s Diner.” Rich followed Frank into the shed, “It seems to be an ongoing theme around here.”
“On-going theme my ass—it’s a load of hog-wash.” Frank started the generator, patting the old machine as it roared to life. Laughing, he pointed a bony finger as he shouted over the noise, “There never was any such thing. The story started because some young native girl got herself knocked up. She was too ashamed to admit that it was a white man that done it, so she made up this monster rape nonsense. But the story was so good, and attracted so many damn thrill-seekers and tourists, that it caught on like wild-fire. Next thing you know, everyone is seeing the damn things, all the way from these forests—to the state of California and beyond.” He halted in thought, chuckling, and looked down as he peered back at us, “But, you boys ever notice that with all the supposed sightings, except for one hokey and obviously fake film, nobody has ever gotten an actual photo of the thing?”
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