Also, you have this weird craving for meat. Like a big, juicy steak. A rib eye. A New York strip.
Or maybe a plump pork chop. Or how about some ribs?
Your mouth is watering.
And you have no idea why because you had a big Sunday night dinner.
You blink, and everything turns red. The pain in your arm is throbbing, and you feel like you might explode.
It might be time to go to the hospital. But when you stand, you notice something really strange.
No, it’s beyond strange. It’s cuckoo land.
Your bare feet are . . . not feet anymore.
They’re paws. Wolf paws.
You’re changing before your very eyes. Your hands, your arms.
The full moon . . . the howling in the trees . . . the big creature biting you . . .
You know now what all this means.
So werewolves do exist. If only you could tell the boys. You bet they’d love to go hunting after them.
Maybe in a short time they’ll be hunting after you.
You let out a roaring cry and know the end is near.
In fact . . . it might already be here.
Am I a wolf yet? You stumble into the bathroom to examine the situation. Yep, fur covers your arms and legs . . . and feet. Your feet—uh, paws—are really furry, in fact. But that’s it. Man, I always thought turning into a werewolf would be a lot more interesting than getting hobbit feet.
THE END?
Start over.
Read “The Shadows That Follow Us: A Note from John Luke Robertson.”
A QUILL OF JOHN LUKE
YOU STAY ONSHORE as John Luke rolls up his pant legs and wades into the lake after the floating feathers. It takes him a while to retrieve them, but he manages to avoid getting completely wet. Soon he’s holding all four in his hands.
As he steps onto the beach, the strangest thing happens.
You get a whiff of something really bad. Like death bad.
“John Luke, you smell that?”
“Yeah. I think it’s these.” He holds the feathers as far from his body as possible.
You go over and smell the feathers in his hand. They reek worse than anything you’ve ever experienced.
“What’s wrong with those things?”
John Luke jerks his head back even farther from the feathers. “Ugh. The feather we found in the gym didn’t smell.”
“Chief Stinkum.” You raise your eyebrows.
He laughs but examines the feathers suspiciously.
You don’t find any other feathers in the area, so you head back to the cabins. For some reason John Luke keeps sniffing the plumes in his hand, then holding them far away again.
“Do you like that smell?” you finally ask.
“Only three of them stink.”
“Okay. Throw them away.”
“But don’t you see, Papaw Phil? Three of them stink. One doesn’t.”
You stop as John Luke holds the feathers up, three in one hand and one in the other.
“It’s the legend! Of Chief Stinkum’s four sons. These three smell horrible, but this one doesn’t.”
“So did someone at camp spread stink sauce all over those three? To have some fun with us?”
John Luke shakes his head and peers into the trees and bushes as if someone might jump out. Perhaps the Lone Ranger and Tonto. Or maybe General Custer, preparing for his last stand.
Or maybe a guy ready to put the two of us in white straitjackets.
“Well, you keep those sealed up tight, John Luke. Something to remind you of the camp. Or a really bad outhouse.”
You turn to John Luke when he doesn’t reply. He seems to be in some kind of trance.
“You okay, John Luke?”
He nods but doesn’t say a word.
Later that night, after falling asleep in a bottom bunk across from John Luke’s bed, you’re awakened by a strange sound.
Someone’s yelling outside the cabin.
You sit up and call into the darkness, “John Luke, you hear that?”
He doesn’t respond.
The voice outside keeps wailing. “Heyyyaaaa heeeyyyyyyyaaaa heeeeyyyyyyaaaahhhh.”
It sounds like someone trying to do a chant. Except they’re really bad at it.
Like those pale imitation duck calls compared to Duck Commander calls.
You pat the bed across from yours, expecting to find John Luke and shake him. But the bed is empty. The blanket is pulled back.
“John Luke?” you call again.
The heyyyaaahh sound outside continues.
You stumble around until you locate the light switch. But John Luke is nowhere to be found.
The chant changes wording a little but remains loud as ever. “Oh-way oh-way way-oh!”
This is crazy. Someone’s outside your door pretending to be a warrior or rain dancer or something. Except he sounds a lot like Kermit the Frog.
You open the door expecting to find someone you know playing a prank. Maybe one of your sons. Instead you see a fire burning in the middle of the camp with someone else dancing around it.
That’s not someone else—that’s John Luke! Is it really him?
He’s wearing only jeans with his face and chest painted red. The four feathers are stuck in his hair.
“Staaaankkkkk-oohhhhhh wannkkkkk-oooooohhhh.”
He’s got something in his hand, something resembling a spear. But when you get closer to him, you see it’s only a long stick.
“John Luke, what are you doing?”
But he doesn’t hear you. He’s in another world. He stops dancing around the fire and holds the stick over his head.
“Waaaaackkkemmmmm wackkkkkeeemmmmm wooo-eeeeeeee.”
You approach to take the stick away from him, but he catches sight of you and his eyes widen. Then he jumps across the fire—through the flames—and runs full speed into the woods.
“Aaaaaaeeeeee aaaaaaeeeee aaaaaaaaahh!” he screams as he heads into the darkness. “Saaaackkkkkaaaaa blacckaaaaa bbb—”
He’s cut off by a loud and sudden thud.
The chanting is no more.
“John Luke?”
You rush into the woods and find him about fifty yards in. Looks like he ran into a tree and knocked himself out.
You pick Chief John Lukem up and carry him back to the cabin. As you pass the fire, you pull the feathers out of his hair and throw them into the flames. They burn quickly.
John Luke’s eyes open while he’s still in your arms.
“Chief Stinkum?” he asks in mumbled words.
“That’s me. And I’m gonna make you smell real nice. You just take it easy.”
You’ve seen enough of this camp for one night. You decide to take John Luke to the hospital to get his head checked for a concussion.
You’ll also ask if they can maybe give him a shower. Cause woo-hooo. The boy really stinks.
THE END
Start over.
Read “The Shadows That Follow Us: A Note from John Luke Robertson.”
CHASE
JOHN LUKE STAYS BEHIND to keep watch while you sprint toward the woods, where the noise seems to have come from. Well, you don’t really sprint—more like a fast jog. You’re not as lightning fast as you used to be, but you can still run. You feel pretty good about yourself at sixty-eight years old in your boots, camo pants, and T-shirt.
Just don’t trip since you’re running with a machete.
You’d probably tell most people not to run through the woods with a long knife.
Then again, you’ve seen some crazy things in woods like these over the years.
You once met a guy in the backwoods who wore only underwear and planned to live off the land. You and a buddy named Mac had to talk the guy back home. Oh, and this person also had a gun.
Lots of folks have guns around here.
And I’m just carrying a machete.
You stop after running for a few minutes. You can feel your heart racing.
&nb
sp; Then you hear it.
Ch-ch-ch-ka-ka-ka.
It’s coming from your right.
You take a dozen steps or so until . . . the ground beneath you disappears.
You fall about six feet and land on your back.
The last thing you see before losing consciousness is the shadow of a large person. He’s not carrying a machete, however. He’s carrying a long spear.
You try to call out—to say something—but you’re too much out of breath. As the man comes closer, you realize he’s wearing some kind of mask.
He raises the spear.
And your vision fades.
When you wake up, a couple men are helping you out of the pit.
Where’d they come from?
When you reach the top of the hole, you notice flashing lights everywhere. The men place you on a stretcher, but you tell them you’re fine. “Where’s John Luke?”
Then you spot him standing next to the closest ambulance. You’re told he’s the one who called the police after running off a crazy person with a spear.
You want to scold him for following you into the woods, but there’s a more pressing question on your mind. “How’d you scare him off?”
“He had a spear, but I had a rifle. When he saw it, he ran away.”
You finally agree to go to the hospital, but besides a few broken ribs, everything is fine.
You never find out who the guy with the spear was. He doesn’t come around again. But everybody assumes it was the same person who was messing around the camp. The authorities discover several more pits near the camp, exactly the same as the one you fell into. They were intended to be traps for animals, it seems.
You keep the machete, and life at Camp Ch-Yo-Ca goes back to normal again. No more reports of ghosts or spooky noises.
But every now and then, on a quiet evening, you can still hear the chanting.
Ch-ch-ch-ka-ka-ka.
Maybe it’s just something haunting your dreams.
Maybe the animals around your property would know.
THE END
Start over.
Read “The Shadows That Follow Us: A Note from John Luke Robertson.”
FLUFFBALLS
“LET’S CLEAN SOME OF THIS STUFF UP,” you tell John Luke. “Maybe the spiders will leave if we do.”
“Should we call anybody?”
“Let’s just work for a while and see how it goes. We’ll think about who can help us out later.”
You won’t contact any authorities unless you have to—someone might end up talking to the press about this. You don’t want the camp to get a bad name, and ten thousand yards of spiderwebs covering the grounds sure won’t help.
You ask John Luke where some shovels might be, and he leads you to a maintenance shed. You both peel off the thick layer of cobwebs coating the building and grab a shovel apiece.
“We’re going to make a big fire with all these webs,” you say, making your way to the first cobweb-covered cabin. “Maybe we’ll burn some of the spiders while we’re at it.”
But this sounds simpler than it is. The webs simply want to stick to the end of the shovel, no matter how hard you shake it. So after scooping up a big wad of them resembling a massive stick of cotton candy, you use the bottom of your boot to scrape off the stuff. After about an hour of this, you guys have made a nice gooey pile of white.
You get some gasoline and light the webs on fire.
The cobwebs burn slowly and reluctantly. It takes more gas to keep the fire going. You decide to put some wood on it to make sure the flames last.
All that work, and you’ve only managed to clear one cabin so far.
The fire begins to die down again, in spite of the wood. “John Luke, go see if you can find some newspaper. Maybe check the director’s cabin.”
He disappears for a minute.
Then you hear a loud scream.
When you look toward the director’s cabin, there’s no sign of John Luke. At first. Until you spot the flailing arms and legs on the ground.
It’s him.
And he’s got a massive black, hairy spider . . . on his face.
Do you run over and yank the creature off of John Luke? Go here.
Do you grab some gloves and a knife before helping him? Go here.
QUACK QUACK
SHOOTING AT THOSE DUCKS WASN’T THE BEST PLAN. Willie has to come pay your bail and get you out of jail.
“Disturbing the peace?” he asks, shaking his head.
“Did you see all those ducks?”
“I didn’t see a single one,” Willie says. “John Luke thinks you’ve lost your mind. What were you doing firing a gun in the middle of the night at the camp? You almost shot the policeman who was approaching you.”
“I was attacked by ducks! I went to get my gun, and once I had it, they all started coming after me.”
“Uh-huh. You feeling okay? I mean, did you eat anything crazy tonight?”
“I know what I saw,” you insist. “I grabbed my gun and they attacked. It was like Gladiator out there. I was surrounded and had to fight them off on all sides.”
“Gladiator?” Willie shakes his head. “I’m telling Mom that you need some rest.”
“You didn’t find any ducks? Not one?”
“Nope.”
“Then there’s some conspiracy going on because I know what I shot. I got a dozen of them. At least.”
“It’s off-season. You can’t go around shooting ducks, even if they are there. And there’s no way you could hit that many.”
“You sure can when they’re attacking you!” This was clearly self-defense.
Willie stares at you for a very long time.
“They were giving me looks just like that,” you mutter.
“You need some sleep.”
You follow him out to his truck and get inside. “Something’s going on at the camp, Willie.”
“Not anymore,” he says. “Target practice is over. Next time you’ll have to spend the night in jail.”
As he pulls away from the sheriff’s building, you spot them in the grass on the corner.
A group of mallards, all standing still and staring at you.
Watching you as Willie takes you home.
You don’t say a thing about them. Maybe Willie’s right. Maybe you’re super tired and just need some sleep. But then again . . .
THE END
Start over.
Read “The Shadows That Follow Us: A Note from John Luke Robertson.”
THE STRANGER
“LET’S PICK HIM UP,” you tell John Luke, and he comes to a stop. “He looks pretty harmless.”
Some of the weirdest men and women who have ever lived and breathed on this earth have appeared the most normal. So having long hair and a beard doesn’t mean anything. In fact, to you, it seems sorta right. Unless the beard happens to be on a woman, in which case you might have to immediately run and get out of there.
The guy doesn’t rush to your car but walks slowly. “Appreciate you stoppin’,” he says with a thick Louisiana accent that’s got a bit of Cajun in it.
“How you doin’?” you ask the guy as he enters the backseat.
“Good, good. I’m just headin’ over to Cal . . .”
You swear he said California. “What was that?”
“Calhoun.”
“Well, we can take you part of the way.”
John Luke smiles and wrinkles his nose. You know he’s surely smelling what you’re smelling. Some really bad body odor. Major capital boldfaced BO! with an exclamation point after it.
Maybe the man is homeless and hasn’t had the opportunity to take a bath in a while.
“You live in Calhoun?” you ask.
“Just passin’ through. Originally from New Orleans.”
“Some fine cookin’ down in those parts.”
He mumbles something you don’t quite understand. Then he speaks up in a more intelligible tone. “You’re those Robertsons, right? The duck family?”
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“That be us. This is John Luke, my chauffeur and grandson.”
“My name’s Otis. Visited you guys’ store the other day. You got a big operation.”
“God has been very good to us.”
“Nice to hear he’s good to someone. ’Cause it sure seems like he loves ignorin’ some folks.”
You turn to look at Otis. “Do you know your heavenly Father?”
“Every now and then.”
It’s an interesting comment. “Every now and then.”
“So you pass him by every now and then?” you ask. “Like a hitchhiker on the road?”
“I got some family issues. They get on me and I get on them.”
“Well, those issues aren’t too big for God,” you simply say. “God loves you, you know that?”
He doesn’t reply, so you don’t push.
After a minute of silence, Otis asks, “You guys really hunters, or is that all for show?”
You turn again. “Think this beard’s for show?”
“Reckon not.”
“It’s real,” you say. “It’s all real. Hunting and fishing’s been a big part of my life. Always.”
“Yeah. That’s cool.”
“Yes, it is.”
You reach the entrance to the camp, and John Luke slows down.
“Well, this is as far as we’re going,” you inform your passenger.
“What’s this place?”
“A Christian camp,” John Luke says.
Otis opens the door. “I ’member going to camp when I was a kid. Got lost in the woods and had to spend the night out there. Scared the daylights out of me.” He shakes his head. “Well, thanks for the ride. Y’all have a good one.”
“You too.”
“Don’t let anything kidnap you in those woods tonight.” Otis lets out a menacing sort of laugh as he continues down the road.
As you drive into the camp and pass the sign, you can smell Otis even though he’s not in the Jeep anymore.
Phil and the Ghost of Camp Ch-Yo-Ca Page 2