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Phil & the Ghost of Camp Ch-Yo-Ca
Copyright © 2014 by John Luke Robertson. All rights reserved.
Cover and interior illustrations copyright © 2014 by Jeff Gregory. All rights reserved.
Cover background pattern copyright © by wawritto/Shutterstock. All rights reserved.
Designed by Jacqueline L. Nuñez
Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007, 2013 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
Phil & the Ghost of Camp Ch-Yo-Ca is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the authors’ imaginations.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Robertson, John Luke, author.
Phil & the ghost of Camp Ch-Yo-Ca / John Luke Robertson ; with Travis Thrasher.
pages cm. — (Be your own duck commander ; [2])
ISBN 978-1-4143-9814-3 (sc)
I. Thrasher, Travis, 1971- author. II. Duck dynasty (Television program) III. Title. IV. Title: Phil and the ghost of Camp Ch-Yo-Ca.
PZ7.R5465Phi 2014
[Fic]—dc23 2014024616
ISBN 978-1-4964-0004-8 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4143-9837-2 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4964-0005-5 (Apple)
Build: 2014-09-12 04:07:17
This book is dedicated to Papaw Phil.
Papaw, thank you for passing down your love of the outdoors and adventure to me. Most important, thank you for showing me that real men love God, value their families, and support their country. You are a true hero.
CONTENTS
Warning! Don’t read this book straight through!
This Is Who You Are
The Guest
Falling Si
The Shadows That Follow Us: A Note from John Luke Robertson
You’ll miss out on all the fun if you do.
Instead, start at the beginning and decide where to go at the end of each chapter. This book is perfect for an evening around the campfire. There are lots of stories in it—some scary, others not so much. So grab some marshmallows and a chocolate bar (don’t forget the graham crackers!) and follow the directions on which page number to go to at the end of each chapter. You’ll be flipping around a lot, but that’s part of the fun.
If your ghost story gets too scary, though, just start over at the beginning and choose a different path.
The great thing is, you are the main character. You make the decisions.
And right now, you get to be the original Duck Commander.
So put on your spider-stomping boots and get ready for a camping experience like no other.
Just make sure you don’t meet up with a monster in the woods.
Also, you might want to avoid the lake late at night. There are strange things happening around there.
THIS IS WHO YOU ARE
BEFORE WE BEGIN, THIS IS WHO YOU ARE.
Your name is Phil Alexander Robertson.
You are the first official Duck Commander. And it’s true, you know. You really do command the ducks. With the help of some calls you invented that sound exactly like real ducks, as well as some blinds and guns.
You grew up in a log cabin near Vivian, a small
town in rural Louisiana. You and your six brothers and sisters didn’t have much in the way of luxuries. Money was scarce, so you hunted and fished and lived off the land to survive.
You are married to Miss Kay and have four grown boys: Alan, Jase, Willie, and Jep. Early on you decided to make a living off what you love: hunting and fishing. That’s how you ended up creating the Duck Commander duck call and how a small family business took off.
You live in West Monroe, where the Duck Commander factory and business are currently located. You love your Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, your family, and hunting ducks. You believe hunting is your God-given, constitutional right to the pursuit of happiness. Hunting is what makes you happy, happy, happy.
You are about to embark on a very different kind of hunt. But you’re ready.
You’ve always been ready for a great adventure.
THE GUEST
THERE’S NOTHING LIKE THE FEELING of sitting down in your favorite reclining chair on a Sunday night after eating Miss Kay’s fried round steak with white sauce and then watching a little Jason Bourne. With your family around you, playing games in the background and laughing lots. That’s really the definition of . . .
Yeah, you guessed it. Happy, happy, happy.
So when you hear a knock on the door that Sunday evening, you can’t help but be curious. The family is all here, and none of them knock, anyway. The mean game of Egyptian Ratscrew going on at the dinner table pauses temporarily. Miss Kay answers and acts like she was expecting the guest.
Turns out it’s Isaiah Bangs. Isaiah is the director over at Camp Ch-Yo-Ca, a popular Christian camp located in the piney woods of northern Louisiana near West Monroe. It’s a place where many campers have discovered Jesus. A place where many have also discovered love—like Willie and his wife, Korie, who met there when they were just kids. Isaiah is probably Willie’s age, somewhere around forty. He’s young at heart, and that’s why the campers love him. He’s got a big smile and big eyes to match. When he tells a ghost story, everybody listens.
You know Isaiah’s a big talker, and it could take him up to half an hour just to make it the ten yards from the door to the couch by your chair. But tonight Isaiah heads straight for you. He must have something on his mind.
“Evenin’, Phil.”
You give him a nod. “Haven’t seen you in a while. Busy summer at the camp?”
“Yes, sir. And that’s why I called Miss Kay to ask if I could stop by.”
You nod again and rub your bare feet together. “Did you eat?”
“Oh yes, thank you.” Isaiah gives the younger kids a quick glance. “I was wonderin’ if we could maybe talk outside.”
“Sure thing.” What’s up with him?
As you slip on your shoes and head for the door, Isaiah hangs back at the kitchen table. “Hey, John Luke—you mind coming with your grandfather and me? Got something to discuss with you guys. About the camp.”
John Luke stands up to follow you.
“Yeah, take him, ’cause he was winning,” Willie says.
“I don’t want to have to sit next to Willie,” Jase shouts.
The joking and hollering continue while the three of you step into the fading light of the summer evening.
John Luke pulls out his smartphone in response to an annoying beep. You sigh. These new phones are like short leashes on overactive dogs.
While John Luke texts away, you head over to your shed to put some equipment away while Isaiah walks alongside, talking to you.
“They’re going to be calling off this coming week of camp,” he says.
You meet his eyes, surprised. “Since when? What’s wrong?”
“We just made the decision. Counselors are calling parents, telling them not to bring their children. The kids are going to be heartbroken, but we have to do it.”
“Why?�
�� John Luke asks, joining the two of you. “I was planning on working there all next week.”
“I know, John Luke. That’s why I’m here. I need both of you to help.”
“How so?” you ask.
“During last week’s camp we had multiple complaints—three to be exact—of something bothering the campers. All three very different kids, so it’s not some prank they’re doing for fun.” Isaiah looks serious, as if one of his four children were involved in an accident.
“Complaints,” you repeat. “What sort of complaints?”
“All of them said they saw some kind of ghost.”
You have to let out a laugh. “Oh, you know the fun we have with the kids.”
“Yeah, I know,” Isaiah says. “I know the tales well—have told a few myself. But these stories . . . something’s going on. We’ve alerted the police. There’s not a lot we can tell them, though. Nobody’s been hurt or attacked. But the kids leaving camp yesterday and today were pretty freaked out.”
“What happened?” John Luke asks.
“Two of the kids—a boy and a girl—saw something at night. And another boy reported an ‘encounter’ in the middle of the woods.”
“You kids with your love of being spooked,” you say to John Luke. “Someone’s always spying in the woods.”
Isaiah doesn’t smile. “Our fear is that someone might actually be spying. You know. In a not-so-good way.”
“Exactly what sort of encounters are you talking about?” you ask.
“The girl saw something—a spirit or a ghost, she thinks—sitting at the end of her bed. In another cabin, a boy said a figure was standing inside, by the window. And the kid in the woods was chased by some kind of beast that jumped down from a tree.”
You’d usually be smiling by now, but you notice Isaiah’s still not grinning at all. So you just nod. A slight breeze stirs the grass, making the hot and humid weather slightly more bearable. You clean your teeth with a toothpick while you study Isaiah.
John Luke looks serious. “Ghost stories are supposed to be fun. They’re not supposed to become real.”
“So what would you like us to do?” you ask.
“I’d love John Luke’s help—yours too, if that’s okay.”
“My schedule is pretty busy this week,” you say, trying not to laugh, “but I think I might be able to find a little free time.”
Isaiah nods. “I know this is a strange request, but I just . . . I was wondering if you guys could spend a night there. I have to leave tomorrow morning for a funeral down in New Orleans and will be gone until Wednesday. Two of my counselors have already left. And, John Luke, you were going to be my third.”
“I can do it,” John Luke says. “I was gonna be coming out tomorrow morning anyway.”
“Yes, but . . .” Isaiah pauses for a moment. “I was hoping for tonight so I could go home and pack for my trip.”
“And what do you need?” you ask. “Some Ghostbusters? Want us to bring our guns?”
Isaiah shakes his head. “Something’s going on. I just don’t know what.”
“Then John Luke and I will check it out.” You’re always ready to help out old friends, even when their requests don’t make a whole lot of sense. But this favor comes with a bonus—some one-on-one time with John Luke, which you haven’t had in a while.
The camp director sighs with relief. “That’s great. It’d be best if you could go over there tonight, but, well, if you want to stay home until the morning, that’s fine.”
He waits for your reply. You can tell John Luke is ready to leave as soon as possible.
Do you hop in the car and go to Camp Ch-Yo-Ca right now? Go here.
Do you head to Camp Ch-Yo-Ca tomorrow morning so you can sleep in your own bed? Go here.
THE CABINS
IT SEEMS LIKE A GOOD TIME to take your stuff to one of the cabins.
The question now is which one you should stay in.
“What do you say, John Luke? We have our pick, don’t we?”
“Yeah.”
You gaze at the five different cabins where the boys normally sleep. You’ll check the girls’ cabins in the morning.
“That’s the cabin Isaiah said the kid saw something in.” John Luke gestures toward it. “We could sleep in there.”
“Where do the adults stay?”
“The director’s cabin.” He points to a sixth cabin that looks the same as the others. It appears to be empty.
“Is that one any nicer?”
“Yeah, a little. And sometimes the crew stacks extra mattresses in there to make the beds softer.”
“Let’s stay in there!”
“But we didn’t hear anything about ghosts showing up in that cabin.”
You doubt you’ll see a ghost regardless of which cabin you pick, or even if you stay outside under the stars.
Hey, there’s a thought. “We could spend the night outdoors. I brought bug spray.”
John Luke smiles. “Could be fun.”
“It’s a nice evening. We could talk for a while. Get some rest. Wake up new men.” For you, this is more about bonding with John Luke than finding ghosts anyway. “So what do you say?”
Do you spend the night in the cabin where a ghost was spotted? Go here.
Do you choose the director’s cabin? Go here.
Do you sleep outside? Go here.
DUCK DUCK BOO
YOU OPEN THE DOOR but don’t see anything. But that’s impossible because something was knocking just a sec—
Wait a minute.
You look down and instantly know what’s been making this racket at the entrance to the cabin.
It’s a duck, and it’s staring up at you.
“Go on, get!” You try to shoo it away with your foot.
But the mallard just stays there, gazing at you.
It studies you like you’ve done something wrong.
“Come on, get out of here.” You bend over, trying to wave it into the wilderness.
This mallard, however, doesn’t want to budge. Instead it bites your hand. Actually, it doesn’t bite but rather snaps at you with its beak. It’s not the first time this has happened, and it doesn’t really hurt.
Then the duck does it again, and this time you feel something sharp against your skin.
“Ow! Get out of here.”
You think about kicking it, but due to the publishing regulations established in 1475, no animal may be unjustly harmed or booted out into the darkness for the sake of great literature or even somewhat-amusing fiction. So you simply guide it away from the doorway with your foot.
You close the door and go back to bed.
About half an hour later, the tapping starts up again. And just like last time, you have barely fallen asleep, so this really annoys you.
You return to the door and find the duck there again. Regarding you with an unflinching gaze. You’ve never seen a mallard stand still for so long and look at you like that.
You stretch and glance around. Am I dreaming?
But the balmy night air. The noises of the forest. The sound of John Luke turning on his mattress. You’re awake. Wide-awake.
You reach down and pick up the duck, cradling it in your arms so it won’t move. Then you head to the woods behind your cabin and set the duck on the grass.
“Okay, go on, buddy. Go find your brace of ducks. I’m sure they’re somewhere around here.”
The mallard just stands there, still staring at you, not moving. Something’s clearly wrong with it. But you’re not gonna check it over nor bring it to the vet. What kind of Duck Commander would bring a duck to the vet?
You hope you can end this little story nugget right here. You walk away and assume you’ll never see the duck again.
Oh, but that would be too normal, wouldn’t it?
Goodness knows you only want to sleep. It’s around one in the morning when you return to bed.
Sleep almost finds you. You’re so close. But then . . .
Tap-
tap-tap.
Not again.
Tap-tap-tap.
This is almost enough to make you curse, but you’re not a cursing man. You gave that up when you turned your life over to God. But this duck sure is trying to provoke your tired soul.
You sit up and shake your head.
It’s time.
The duck had its chance. Twice now.
You open the door and come face-to-face with the mallard. But then you see another and another and . . .
There have to be about a hundred of them, all standing in front of your cabin. All facing you. All glaring at you.
Hundreds of ducks looking you straight in the eye as if you’ve done something wrong.
Hundreds of angry ducks.
Do you wake John Luke and get out of here? Go here.
Do you deal with the ducks right here and now (even though it’s not duck-hunting season)? Go here.
HUNGRY
EVEN THOUGH MISS KAY ENCOURAGES YOU to head to the hospital with John Luke, you decide to stay home until morning. You don’t need to be rushing to the ER in the middle of the night. There’s no reason. You got some deep bites from an animal, sure. But you’ve had worse. Miss Kay helped you clean it up and get it bandaged, and you feel normal now. Just a bit warm.
“I don’t want your arm to get infected,” Miss Kay says.
“Oh, I’m fine. I don’t want to wake up John Luke.”
You convince her to head back to bed, and you take a seat in your recliner. “I’m gonna read for a while and see if I get tired.” It’s a little after two, but you’re still wide-awake. This is the problem with being woken up in the middle of the night.
You pick up a history book that you’re halfway through. As you do, you can feel yourself shivering.
That’s weird. It’s not that cold in here.
You focus on the text, and suddenly you can see the individual dots of ink that make up each letter. Your heart begins to slow, and now you’re feeling tired. So tired that it’s hard to keep your eyes open.
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