The Campfire Cult

By J. Strange

It was the last summer night at Amble Park for the Campfire Club—an outcast group of pre-teens fueled by s'mores and ghost stories—when Marcy discovered the perfectly intact skull of a whitetail buck. It was the same night that she saw Him, a formidable, antlered form that watched her from the windows of an abandoned building in the trees. Since that night, Marcy has been running from that unknowable darkness, traumatized by night terrors, panic attacks, and gruesome hallucinations.

Now, in the care of St. Peter's Center for Mental Health, she's been out of its reach for years, but she's no closer to knowing what that horror was or why it chose her.

When her childhood friend Josh comes to visit, he shows her letters and drawings from their mutual friend Kevin that suggest Marcy's hallucinations aren't hers alone. Kevin appears to be meddling with the occult, and his wife is nowhere to be found. Now Josh wants to bring the Campfire Club back together for Kevin's sake, but with every grim discovery, the seams of their reality begin to come undone.

Marcy must once again confront her fears to end the nightmare whose roots run deeper and wider than they could have ever known.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. Strange
• Release date: Feb 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9780578448077

Book preview

Inspired by nightmares.

I.

His mouth is my mouth, and when I open wide, His words are my words. He is still waters and deep roots. He is the open woods and the closed hands of ferns. When we are astride each other, we are punishing and reinforcing. His breath and my blood. His tongue and my tooth. I am born and He has always been. Where am I without Him? Who is He without me?

This is very poetic, Marcy said, giving the page a languid wave in the air. He sent this to you?

Yeah.

Josh retrieved the letter and gave it a once-over. "Talk about your red flag. Listen to this: What I give to him, he gives back tenfold. A flock of birds. A nest of bees. A wolfess. A stag. Sometimes nothing. Sometimes it’s a waste... And it just goes on like this for two pages. He’s infatuated with something."

Drugs, probably. It’s always drugs. Marcy braced her mug as if it was escaping. Her tone dragged with icy malaise as her eyes wandered. Well, what else could it be? Sounds like a lot of meth talking.

You could be right. It could be drugs.

So, why are you here? I can’t imagine you dropped out of the city and drove all this way for something as small as an opinion. I can give opinions over social media... or e-mail... or the phone...

She had never been so embittered with him before. Friendship ages like a fine wine, but theirs had aged more like a whiskey. He was somewhere between fair-weather and nonexistent for the past ten or so years, making appearances occasionally over the internet like a ghost in the attic. Usually only to boast about a published paper or his relationships with his boyfriends. However, staring at him over the rim of her mug with a punishing gaze, he almost seemed like her kid friend again. The sun moved out of his glasses, and his eyes were somewhat doleful.

I was hoping to get us all back together, he said, his voice dropping with each syllable. I wanted us to be the Campfire Club again.

He leaned over the linoleum table, closing up the intimate space between them, and planted his hands down flat to give credence to the importance of his words. I reached out to Sam and Amy first. They were easy to find; they’re both online. Kev was harder. I had to ask Sam, and Sam said he’s out living in the Grave.

A flame lit up in Marcy at the mention of the Grave, which was a name they had used for the desolate, dark foothills of Amble Recreational Park. That place never seemed to take sunlight with its woods always damp, gray, and morose. It was governed by a seemingly permanent shroud of cloud-cover and a dead, wet smell akin to rotten hair and wood. The living was cheap, for sure, because the plots of land were prone to burping up dead bodies every now and then. It was a killing field that no one talked about.

Josh continued, He’s got a trailer out there on some dirt road. Sam doesn’t know if he works or if he’s just biding his time or what.

That sucks, but it makes sense. Wasn’t he married?

Was. Briefly. She left him. Don’t know why.

Poor dude. No phone number? Nothing?

No—let me finish. So, after I talked with Sam and Amy, I tried researching where he might be. I didn’t need to, though. I got this letter in the mail just a few days after. Look at his handwriting, Marcy.

She did. It was deep in the paper, like Kev had been bearing down into the fibers with as much pressure as the lead of his pencil could take. It contrasted the calm and intricate wording, which ran down each sheet with near perfect alignment. This was a marriage of controlled chaos and art. Kev wasn’t exactly known for prose back in school, either. He was a mild-mannered kid who never stuck his nose in anyone else’s business. He loved his leather jackets, aspired to get his ears pierced, and had a knack for drawing. That was the extent of his creativity. But people change, and Kev wasn’t immune to time.

Or, of course, drugs.

Marcy took a long pause over her coffee, but Josh didn’t let her linger for long. So, why am I here to see you?

He turned to his messenger bag and reached down inside like a magician preparing to withdraw a rabbit. Out came another sheet of paper. He placed it on the table and drove it toward her with a finger. He didn’t just send me the letter...

She hesitated to look, and when she took it all in, her gut cinched. It was a meticulous pencil drawing depicting the very thing that had been crawling up the insides of her mind for years. A fiend with a stag skull, charred to darkness and cloaked in a shadowy material that seemed to encircle it completely. Two upturned antlers curled from its head like a crown of stingers. Its masculine, vaguely human arms were outstretched in an inviting yet commanding way with hands swollen and rotten black up to the elbow with ichor and old blood. And even though this was just a pencil drawing with few details, she knew what it was because she had seen and experienced its visceral presence. Her face felt hot all at once, and she carefully put down the mug. That’s something.

Isn’t it? I was shocked too. It looks just like the thing you’ve said you’ve seen, right? Are you still seeing it?

Marcy was suddenly aware again, and she wrapped her arms around herself. Yeah, I do. Not as much anymore, but there aren’t a lot of places here to see it.

"How is the Center treating you? Is it Cuckoo’s Nest or what?"

The ignorance in his tone was resounding, and she punished him again with a look. It’s better than being out there... alone... with it.

But this is sort of validating, right? It’s not just you.

Yeah, Josh. Being on par with someone on meth is pretty validating.

I’m not sure he is on drugs. He had the sense to sit down, write this letter, draw this thing, and then mail it out. I think he knows something. He was taking turns looking between the letter and the drawing now, tilting his head every which way and pushing up his glasses.

Marcy wanted Kev to be on drugs. It was the most comforting answer. To think that this thing was real or shared or anything at all was making her chest tight. The very notion that whatever it was had a life linked between her and Kev—like a spider web with it sitting precariously in the middle and trapezing back and forth—was terrifying. How on Earth could she sleep tonight?

Thanks for the nightmares. I’m going to have my doctor prescribe me something before bed, she said.

Nurse Ratched? he mused, stuffing the letters and the drawing back down into his bag.

Not funny. You never told Kev about why I’m here? Nothing?

No. I haven’t seen Kev since he dropped out of college and moved back to Temperance.

And Amy? Sam? They never mentioned anything to him?

Amy and Sam don’t even know you’re here. That’s why I’m saying we should get everyone back together. Maybe it could do Kev some good. You too. We could be one big, happy Campfire Club again.

I need to talk to Kev, I think.

Josh scanned the room and messed his hair nervously with one hand, Do they let you leave? Just like that?

I’m here of my own volition. I just have to make sure they don’t drop some other deranged derelict in my room while I’m gone. This place is always at capacity, she said.

As if on cue, a wraith of a woman, half-naked, stomped through the lounge followed by a nurse waving a pair of cotton pants with exasperation. Josh let loose a chuckle and then restrained himself. This place is like primetime. If I were you, I’d just be sitting out here all day watching the loonies polish the linoleum.

Marcy shrugged, They’re not so bad, I guess. My next-door roommate thinks he’s in the running for President of the United States. He wears a three-piece suit almost every day and recites speeches in front of any reflective surface. One time, he stood in front of the receptionist and waxed poetic about the state of the nation with his hand in his lapel until she agreed to vote for him.

That about did it. Josh’s face opened up with a hysterical sound and went red as he descended into uncontrolled spates of laughter. For the first time today, Marcy smiled. Friendship, like whiskey, goes down pretty smooth after all.

***

As predicted, it was hard for Marcy to sleep that night. Her head swam with memories of the Stag Man, from her last experience to the very first recollection she had of him. She had attributed his existence to fantasies run rampant (too much Dungeons & Dragons or too many books and video games). For almost two years, she never even uttered what she had seen to her parents. They weren’t entirely knowledgeable as to why she was where she was or where her anxiety and depression had stemmed, but Marcy knew. It grew up inside her like a rotten nettle in the Grave, and she let it. There was no need to pull others into her hysterics. But despite her discretion, Kev was already there.

The Campfire Club met every weekend in the summer off the campgrounds of Amble Park, so long as the grown-ups agreed (and they often did). They only went as far into the woods as the bratwurst and burgers would waft, but they stayed beyond the tree line enough that no one could even see the flames of their fire. That was typically on the backside of an abandoned concrete building that had succumbed to the woodland. They knew little of the history of the structure, and nothing telltale remained inside. Not that they ever ventured in. That was strictly forbidden ever since Josh managed to get a splinter of glass up his thumb. His parents were considerably upset about that, and so the Campfire Club agreed that the building was far more troublesome than interesting. Still, it served as an excellent shield between the campgrounds and the deep woods, so they’d made it their private meeting ground. There was some speculation among the kids at school that it was a former couples resort but that quickly spiraled into ridiculous, sometimes spooky, ideas. The answers varied depending on who you spoke with, but so far, it had been a warehouse, a criminal fortress, a Satanic church, a not-so-Satanic church, and an old hospital haunted by patients who perished from madness. None of those were true. As it turned out, the building was indeed an old couples resort that boasted of private access to Amble Lake and a ton of other amenities. It never panned out, and now it was theirs. Finders keepers.

Marcy was barely twelve years old when they had their final meeting of the summer. They joined up with their bellies full of popsicles and root beer and other summer delicacies. Sam brought marshmallows as always; Josh brought the grahams and chocolate; and Marcy brought the ghost stories. Kevin and Amy sometimes brought interesting things like glow sticks or stickers or whatever passed the time. When the meeting proceeded, Marcy would throw up her hands and say, All to session for the Campfire Club! Then the s’mores and stories would commence in no particular order. Sometimes, they would carry on far enough into the night that the campfires at the lake would be out or someone’s mom or dad would come hollering into the trees after them.

The final meeting of the summer before school started was always bittersweet. Although they would see each other in school sometimes as soon as that coming Monday, they knew they wouldn’t see the campfire for another year. They used that as an excuse to build up the fire as big as they could without causing an alarm over the trees or making the site uncomfortably hot. It was while Josh and Sam were fanning up the fire that Marcy came stomping through the dark. She held a prize over her head triumphantly, looking pleased with herself. Josh and Sam squinted, trying to make sense of the vague thing in the firelight, but Kevin stood up at once.

What on Earth, Mar— he said, his eyes big.

Behold! Look what I found! she exalted, hoisting it up higher while rocking on her toes.

Amy came up from behind, having followed Marcy’s path, and rolled her eyes. "Boo! You found a deer skull."

Not just any deer skull. It’s completely intact.

Kevin went to take it from aloft her head, and she twisted away, No. Not yet. It’s my skull. I’m going to use it for tonight’s ghost story.

Nobody’s afraid of deer heads, Mar, Kevin snarked, returning to his stump with mock injury.

That’s a good one. I’ve never seen one that big and all together like that, said Sam. Must have been munched by wolves or something.

He leered over the fire at it curiously as Josh made his way around to examine it himself. Marcy held it out in front for Josh to admire. It was as Sam said, a perfectly intact buck skull. It was perfectly symmetrical with antler tines that stuck straight up like candlesticks. They glowed with an amber allure in the firelight.

We can pass it around later, Marcy asserted. That way everyone can look at it. Now sit down so I can tell you the story of the romance resort.

Amy batted her eyelashes and cradled her hands, You mean like the one right behind us? How romantic! Her voice turned upward with hyper-feminine inflection.

Marcy wrinkled her nose at the sound of it. Yeah. That’s the exact one. Except this wasn’t just any old romance resort. Nobody left there alive. It was a few years ago on this very night that the last guest of the resort disappeared.

They all looked hooked in. Sam didn’t even acknowledge the smear of chocolate on his lower lip. Marcy balanced the skull on her knees, and it cast spiny shadows up her face as the fire popped and flickered. Occasionally, a spray of embers sailed up into the canopy, and their eyes would wander up and follow them until they disappeared. Josh smacked a mosquito on his shin, and Marcy turned to him.

It was a man like you, Josh... and a woman like you, Amy... that arrived at the resort. They were glad to be out in the wilderness, away from the city. They needed that time to do, you know, adult things...

They were doin’ it, Sam interjected, making an obscene gesture with his fingers. Kev snickered, and Marcy’s eyes fell on him next.

And it was a man like you, Kev, that owned the resort. He was very proud of his business and even prouder of what he got away with. Even to this day, the police aren’t sure they can consider him a suspect...

Sam scoffed, "So, then how do you know—"

Marcy shushed his criticism. "Ya see, this man was a particular kind of sick. He would spend his nights looking in on them in their rooms through holes in paintings and vents. When he found a couple he liked, he would target them... for death."

As if by the emphasis of the word, a flash of heat from the fire hit her face. Something wasn’t right.

Perv, Sam said as he smashed down his s’more, effectively coating his fingers in hot mallow. He probably dumped the bodies in the lake.

Amy cringed. Don’t say that. I swam in that today.

If he was smart, Josh asserted, he would have burned the bodies instead.

But it’s Mar’s story... said Kev.

Marcy’s palms washed over with sweat, and her stomach seized up into her throat. She did something wrong, and two eyes were bearing down on her for it. She knew this because everything inside told her.

I’m watching you. Look at me.

She swallowed the contents of her stomach, completely unaware that her shoulders were slowly moving up to her ears. To everyone else, she looked like she was sinking inside herself. She turned her head up toward the ruined building with immense caution to witness what stood staring. In an upper floor window, in near perfect darkness, was the shape of a man. Except he couldn’t be a man. Shadows from the moon and the casted firelight threw spikes across the back wall inside the building, like it had a headdress of antlers. It had no legs but instead an ephemeral skirt of smoke that waved about in the still air. The only evidence of its humanness were two arms that seemed to come from the dark and spread open, filling up the window, as if commanding her to behold it.

She couldn’t. She turned back to the campfire and stared into it vacantly.

Sam chucked some bark into the fire. Well? Is that the story? The end?

Kev noticed the change of color in her face. You going to be sick, Mar?

Knock it off, Amy hissed. Marcy, if you need some water—

It’s fine. I’m fine. The heat left her, and her stomach calmed. She closed her eyes and allowed the adrenaline to wash out of her. When she opened them, she placed the deer skull at her feet. I’m sorry, I just... forgot the story. Too many s’mores, I think.

Josh had an eyebrow quirked. He shoved a raw marshmallow into his mouth and exchanged glances with the lot. Cool. I’ll tell my story, then.

Marcy allowed it, and she feigned interest the rest of the night. Usually, in a circumstance like this, any kid would have pointed out the creepy anomaly with the slender, dark deer skull face in the window. There was a compelling feeling not to. It was a funneling, overwhelming sensation that encompassed her much like the dark of the trees to her back. It squeezed in on her, and it was punishing. Denying its existence was favorable to announcing it.

That is what she did that school year. She denied what happened but doing so didn’t make her feel better. There was a change in her. Normally outspoken, she had become quiet. She spent more time examining her surroundings and the people in them with intense speculation. She went to bed earlier because her parents kept the house too dark at night. She didn’t look to the trees, and she didn’t venture out after dark. There was a constant feeling of being set apart from everyone else, and the residual terror that the figure in the window had cast into her lingered. It felt as if it was still there, gazing in her classroom windows and into her bedroom. It watched her wherever it could and especially when she was outside the safety of her home. The feeling did gradually ebb away with the constant encouragement of her friends but not without leaving an indelible mark in her mind. It seemed that with every resurgence of her confidence or doubt, there’d be a new shadow in the dark or fiery blinking lights in the space just above her windowsill. I’m watching you.

It wasn’t until college when she saw it again. It was a late night in October. She remembered because the leaves on the elms on campus had a way of blowing into the dormitories. She didn’t know why she remembered that specifically, but it was earmarked in her brain. She had been standing in front of her dorm door. One hand was clutching a laundry basket and the other was looping through a ring of keys passively. The hall was entirely quiet aside from the aggressive hum of a fluorescent light, and in between keys, she suddenly felt self-aware. There was a pang of nausea and the blood washed from her ears, generating a hiss in her head that competed with the light’s hum.

Each end of the hall was banked in darkness, as they had always been. The sort of inky blackness that reveals nothing and is a constant discussion during campus safety meetings. There had never been anything to fear in that darkness until this moment, and it stared into her oppressively. The sensation of it curdled the spit in her mouth and dried her eyes, which stared unblinking at the fissures in the door’s paint in front of her. Without knowing why, there was an impulse to look and witness the thing orchestrating this compulsion. First to the right, and there was nothing. Then, to the left, where there was something. What it was seemed to convalesce from the dark, molded into form by the black. Its face was a crude impression of a stag skull bearing two malformed antlers that curled out from the crown and up under what would have been its jaw. Its torso bore a human semblance with a strong, masculine form, but it was putrid with brackish gore and filth from its breast bone to its navel. Its legs seemed lathed down to nothing, and a shadowy figment swept around it like an unholy aura. Its palms stretched open, an invitation to behold it, presenting the crusted grime that climbed up to its elbows. And for the first time, it took motion. By each dilation of her pupils, it moved up the hall toward her. Its movement was unnatural, a smooth and stride-less glide across the linoleum.

It was in no hurry. She wasn’t going anywhere.

As horrific as it was to witness, the screaming in her head was more so. The flushing of blood from her ears slipped into the violent beating of bees’ wings. The death throes of a rabbit in the woods. Feathers everywhere. Distressed crows circling, turning into falling pinecones and dissolving into the foggy tree line. A den of wolves, eyes glowing in their burrow, staring out with trepidation. A woman, naked, running through brambles and screaming at the end of her lungs drowned out by the voices of mountain lions. Heads upon heads upon heads of foxes staked to fence posts with anxious grins and swarms of flies in their mouths. The rotten limbs of children sticking out of woodpiles while a house cat washes its face nearby.

The apparition came closer and closer, and the reverie grew darker and darker in her mind. As its intensity reached its cusp, she was little more than a thrashing thing inside her own body. There was a fraction of a second where she felt what must have been its hand driving its fingers into her face. It could have also been her own hand trying to physically remove herself from inside her own head. Regardless, the end result was that she awoke on the floor in the aftershocks of a seizure.

The sound of bees melted into agonized groaning. Everything in her wanted to heave and reject the waking nightmare that was still leaking out of her in streams of spit. Instead, she gave herself a moment to recuperate and collect her laundry.

She didn’t leave her dorm room for several days.