Campfire Tales

By Adam Carter, Brian Devitt, Theresa Duck and 6 more

Remember all those camping trips in the woods? Sitting by the bonfire, trying to out-scare your friends with creepy stories and other tales? 

Let Campfire Tales inspire a few tales of 
your own for your next camping trip.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chipper Press
• Release date: Jun 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9781643900742

Book preview

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. All characters appearing in this work are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the written permission of the publisher.

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Attention: Permissions Coordinator

Chipper Press

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Union Lake, Michigan 48387

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© 2019 Chipper Press, et al

Published in the United States by Chipper Press

An imprint of Zimbell House Publishing

http://www.chipperpress.com

All Rights Reserved

Trade Paper ISBN: 978-1-64390-072-8

.mobi ISBN: 978-1-64390-0 73-5

ePub ISBN:978-1-64390-074-2

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019905527

First Edition: June 2019

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Chipper Press

Union Lake, Michigan

Acknowledgments

Chipper Press would like to thank all those that contributed to this anthology. We chose to showcase ten new voices that best represented our vision for this work.

We would also like to thank our Chipper Press team for all their hard work and dedication to these projects.

Cat’s Tail

Adam Carter

W e are on Hickville Island, and the tribe has spoken. I hope I get voted off. Jake tosses a copy of the local newspaper onto the yellowed laminate countertop before him.

Lower your voice, his father hisses between sips of coffee.

Jake rolls his eyes and slouches further into his booth. Okay, Mark.

Jake has taken to referring to his father by his first name, following the move-in of Jake’s mom’s boyfriend. Boyfriend insisted that Jake call him David, so Jake figures he might as well treat everyone equally. Plus, he knows it drives his father crazy.

Mark picks up the paper and scans The West Valley Gazette for the article that drew his son’s ire.

Alleged Sighting of the

West Valley Witch

Brant Parker claims to have spotted the infamous West Valley Witch while hunting near his farm on Graves Road last weekend. It looked like a big black cat. Only it had blood-red eyes. Like a demon. I’ve never seen anything like it, Brant said in a telephone interview. The witch, a West Valley legend often claimed to have taken the form of a cat, has been seen in the area for as long as residents can remember. Some claim the story dates to 1812 when the town was originally founded.

-Continued, page 3.

Mark stifles a laugh. At least they have some local culture.

Culture? Jake says, This place doesn’t even have its own stoplight.

Mark shakes his head. Easy, now. Pride goes before a fall.

Jake feels like he has already fallen. Spring Break was supposed to get interesting now that he is a freshman in high school—no more Disney World fairyland crap. His friends are all off with their parents to places like Miami, Tahoe, even Cabo San Lucas. But his father has visitation this year, and of course, he can’t afford a trip like those. Instead, they are headed to the Smoky Mountain National Forest. Everyone blamed the recession for his father’s unemployment, but it doesn’t seem to Jake like his friends’ parents have any problems.

Have we decided what we’re having? the waitress asks, derailing his thoughts. Jake is surprised to see a petite brunette with a Jamie nametag standing before him. He would call Jamie a cougar if his friends were there to catch the joke. But his friends are in nicer places, just like cougars work at Nordstrom’s, not greasy spoon diners.

Ribeye. Rare. Baked potato. Butter and sour cream on the side, Jake says.

Mark winces but holds his tongue. I’d like to try the catfish special, please. The waitress smiles at him, then shuffles away, menus in hand.

Mark gazes out the window. Don’t see views like this in Chicago. Do you?

His father has been waxing on about the majestic beauty of the Smoky Mountains of his youth for weeks now. Instead of being impressed, Jake is horrified by the terrain, which is nothing more than some massive backwoods hazard to him. On the ride in he couldn’t believe they were driving on roads blasted into the sides of mountains, with nothing but a thin metal barrier to prevent the car from careening off the side. Sheer rock hung overhead for hundreds of feet, ready to come tumbling down at any moment. Lurching curves bent back haphazardly upon themselves, like an unkempt garden hose. But, worst of all, were the trees. Trees as far as the eye can see. From above, it looks like mold has infected the valleys. No wonder civilization gave up on this place, electing to span roads across it rather than settle the spoiled earth.

Mark catches Jake’s eye. Look. This is just a little detour. Hopefully, by the time we finish dinner, the mechanic will have figured out what’s wrong, and we can make the cabin by sunset.

Jake can’t even muster a response. The broken-down car was the final straw. Jake would have preferred to just stay in Chicago, even if it is still snowing there. He said as much when his father told him about the trip. But his father insisted that they needed to get away from the city; to spend some quality time together. On the drive, he even hinted at moving back to Tennessee. The idea repulses Jake. Who would willingly return to this place?

The waitress brings their meals, and the two eat in silence. Jake dribbles a trail of au jus across the countertop as he picks at his steak. Mark works more carefully with his meal, separating flesh from bone. When Mark finishes his plate, Jamie returns to offer Jake a takeout container. Jake nudges his plate aside without response. She looks to his father.

I’ll take it for him, he says.

Outside the diner, ominous clouds swallow up the sunlight, making the town look grainy. Jake trudges behind as they return to the service station. There, they are greeted with news Jake finds gloomier than the weather. The car needs a new alternator. The mechanic says it isn’t a difficult fix, but the part must be ordered.

Probably a day, maybe two, he says. Mark exhales deeply, running fingers through his already thinning hair. Jake curses under his breath. He knows the cabin his father booked in the National Forest likely won’t be much better, but at least it’s a tourist destination. There might even be some girls his age there, dragged along by equally thoughtless parents. Instead, he’s stuck in a ghost town.

Can you recommend a place nearby where we can stay on the cheap? Mark asks.

Everything around here’s on the cheap, the mechanic says. There’s a motel just on the other edge of town. Nothing fancy. Mostly used by fishermen. They’ll be able to set you up though. Just head down to 9th and hang a right. Can’t miss it.

When they get to the motel, Jake realizes that ‘nothing fancy’ was an overestimate. A worn deck with no railing wraps around a sparse row of dilapidated rooms. A horde of green flies swarms the dumpster near the motel entrance. Most offensive, though, is the smell—a pungent blend of bait and fish gut that reminds Jake of the stench of a back alley when Taste of Chicago is going strong on a hot July day.

You’ve got to be kidding me, Jake says, although somehow the place doesn’t come as a surprise. His father has gone from owning a brownstone condo off Lakeshore drive to sharing a duplex on the Southside, to this. Jake can’t imagine how it could get worse.

Bear with me, son. Hopefully, it’s just for the night. Mark steps into the motel office as Jake waits outside. He returns shortly, waiving a key in his hand. He guides Jake down the row of rooms and escorts him into the door at the far end.

They say there’s less smell down here, Mark says, forcing a smile. As they enter the room, the sound of raindrops echoes off the tin roof above.

At least we beat the storm, he says.

Jake doesn’t answer. Instead, he tosses his bag onto a poorly upholstered chair and flops on the nearest bed. Mark takes the other, first giving his pillow a fluff. They both stare at the television in silence for the next hour, while the weather rages outside. It reminds Jake of how it was right before the divorce. After his father was let go from the accounting firm, he spent hours at home, lying around, watching the History Channel. Jake’s mom would come home from work and ask if he had any job leads. After a few months, she stopped asking. Then, she stopped coming home. She said she was working late to make ends meet, but even Jake had had his doubts. When she finally admitted that she had found someone else, his father didn’t even put up a fight. Jake watched his father flip to the back of the papers drawn up by the lawyer her boyfriend had paid for, watched him sign them without bothering to read. With one illegible signature, he gave up the brownstone downtown, the BMW, and custody of his only son. Jake wanted to know why his father hadn’t hired his own lawyer, why he hadn’t fought it out. His father’s response had the ring of a History Channel quote, sometimes, the greatest victory is the battle not fought. Jake thought it was a chicken crap answer.

Hey. Why don’t you run down to that little grocery we passed on the way and grab some snacks? Mark says, attempting a peace offering as the storm outside wanes. Jake snatches a bill from his father’s outstretched hand and heads for the door, ignoring the thank you? that follows behind him.

Once outside, Jake discovers that it’s a five-dollar bill. Wow, we’ll have a real feast with this, he mumbles, stuffing it in his front pocket. As he rounds the corner to the grocery, he spots a group of boys outside. They are around his age, but rather than the boat shoes and Polos Jake is accustomed to, they wear Dickeys and flannels. Jake examines a lifted Jeep nearby, making a point to avoid eye contact.

Before he can find something else to feign interest in, a creature bursts from the woods. Jake raises his hands to his face as a scream slips from his mouth. The thing before him freezes in the road, all feral eyes and bone spears through Jake’s finger-clouded view. Just as Jake is about to make a run for it, the creature sprints across the street and reenters the forest. Laughter erupts from the kids ahead.

Hey, buddy, it’s just a deer. Nothing to get worked up about, calls out a tall, slender boy.

Jake glares at the boy behind the voice. Yeah? Well, I’m not from bumfuck nowhere, so I guess I’m not used to wild animals roaming the streets. He wipes cold sweat onto his slacks as he tries to steady his hands.

The group of boys talk in a low murmur. Then, they walk over to Jake, the thin boy in the lead. So, where ya from then? asks Slim.

Chi-town. Jake lays his accent on thick.

Chicago, huh? What brings you to West Valley?

Jake’s face grows hot as his father’s broken-down car stalls, like the car itself, in his mind, but his hands ball into fists.

I saw the movie Deliverance and thought I’d go down to Georgia to find some real-life inbreeds. Turns out, you don’t have to go that far.

Jake steels himself for a fight. He doesn’t particularly care if he loses. He’s been down that road before. Slim gives him a hard look, sizing him up. But before he can respond, the youngest in the group tugs at the back of his shirt.

Come on, Parker. This kid ain’t got no sense anyhow, he says.

Slim’s given name sparks a memory with Jake. Parker? Any relation to the Parker who saw a witch? Parker stiffens, and Jake knows he’s hit a soft spot. Yeah, us Chicagoans actually read the news, although you sure have a different type of news down here.

If my dad says he saw something out there, you best believe he saw something. You calling him a liar? The words barely escape Parker’s clenched teeth.

No, of course not. Who doesn’t believe in witches? Jake shifts his weight to his back foot, certain that Parker is done talking.

You’ve got no idea what you’re talking ‘bout! shouts the young boy, throwing everyone off guard. This place’s been haunted for as long as anybody remembers. His freckled cheeks redden as the boy’s high-pitched voice nears a shriek. My great-grandma told me a witch used to live in the forest just outside of town. Her curses made the milk sour, crops go bad, even killed babies in their sleep.

The longer he goes on, the more uncomfortable his circle of friends grow. All except for Parker. Parker seems more interested as the story goes on.

The townsfolk finally decided to put a stop to her. They boarded up her cabin, but she slid out through the keyhole. When she hit the ground, she turned into a black cat and ran off into the thicket. They torched the cabin, but they never caught the witch.

The story pours out the boy in a single breath. But he falters once he is forced to come up for air and realizes everyone is listening. Parker comes to his aid.

Whatever made her able to shift must ‘a burnt up in her cabin. So, she’s stuck as a cat. But she still stalks these woods, and bad things happen out there.

A hush falls upon the group, but Jake thinks he can spot a con when he hears one.

That’s one hell of a story. How long has your mama been feeding you that? Jake asks. The young boy glares back at Jake. But Parker is now composed.

You wouldn’t stand a chance out there, Parker says, nodding in the direction of the woods.

Are you kidding me? Jake says. I was born and raised in Chicago. There’s nothing in those woods that can compare to my streets.

Then, prove it, Parker says. A hundred bucks says you won’t go into those woods by yourself. A hundred if ya make it back, anyway.

Jake was left alone in the woods once before. He was a cub scout, another byproduct of his father’s southern upbringing. His troop had left the city one weekend to go camping. As day turned to dusk, the troop leader said that the last merit badge would be earned in a snipe hunt. The troop would take a burlap sack and wait near a tree while their parents scared the snipe out of hiding. The troop’s job was to catch the snipe in the bag, then beat it with sticks before it could escape.

The boys had gone along with the plan, eager to demonstrate their courage. The troop huddled in the cold once their parents were gone. Everyone had appeared confident before the parents left, but it soon became apparent that no one knew how big a snipe was, or even what one looked like, for that matter.

They’re a kind of chipmunk, one boy claimed, but others said they were larger, and had claws. Jake, being the newest troop member, soon found the sack in his hands. The other boys picked up nearby sticks and promised Jake that they would beat whatever it was to death before it could bite him.

Jake’s hands clutched at the edge of the sack as he waited for the animal to charge, but nothing came. Soon, the troop began to talk. Maybe their parents were lost? Maybe something had happened to them? They had just about decided to make their way back to camp when Jake felt something grab him from behind. His scream far outlasted the quick starts of the boys surrounding him.

Their parents had been hiding in the surrounding brush all along. It was his father who grabbed him. Once the fierce pounding in his chest slowed, Jake shrugged his father off and moved away from the others. The others tried joking with him, but Jake insisted on being alone. Tears streaked his face as he had used the dark night to hide the wet on the front of his jeans.

I’ll go, Jake says. You’re full of crap. There’s nothing out there.

Parker pauses for a moment, seemingly indifferent to the whole situation. Nah, not just yet. I wouldn’t expect the witch to be out ‘til midnight at least. Why don’t you meet us back here then? We’ll bring the supplies.

Jake hesitates. Midnight? I’ve got better things to do than chase fairy tales all night. He starts to walk away.

Parker calls after him. Oh, I understand. I’m sure there’s a lot going on at the fish rot motel. Or, maybe you’re chicken?

Parker had Jake at fish rot motel. Chicken was just icing on the cake.

Midnight. I’ll be here. I’m not scared of nothing.

Jake storms into the motel room, slamming the door behind him. Mark looks up from the television and raises an eyebrow.

What happened to the snacks?

Jake tosses the crumpled bill in Mark’s direction.

Place was closed, Jake says as he climbs into bed. His father tries to make small talk, but Jake ignores him, absorbed in his own thoughts. Eventually, a question slips out.

Where do you think that stupid witch-cat story came from? I mean, what could really be out there? Jake says.

His father pauses to consider the question, a habit that drives Jake batty. Finally, he replies.

I’m not sure. But it does remind me of a special I caught last week on the History Channel. It was about the Zuni Indians. They have a saying: after dark, all cats are leopards. As Jake contemplates the saying his father turns to him, wide-eyed, wiggles his fingers in the air, and whistles Ewww-eee-ooo. Jake pulls his pillow over his eyes.

His father, like clockwork, does lights-out at eleven. Jake lays still, pretending to sleep. It isn’t long before he hears his father’s familiar snore. Jake realizes he was fortunate to choose the bed closest to the door. He eyes the digital clock on the nightstand until it reaches a quarter till midnight, then pulls the sheets aside and sneaks out.

A full moon illuminates the streets of West Valley, giving an eerie glow to the otherwise mundane features. Jake thinks about skipping the meeting with Parker and heading back to the motel. After all, he will never be back to this podunk town. Then, he remembers what the mechanic said, a day, maybe two. Backing down, then running into Parker tomorrow, is out of the question.

Once he turns off 9th Street, Jake spots Parker and his crew huddled in a tight circle. Their whispers form puffs of smoke in the cool night air. When Parker motions in Jake’s direction, the conversation ends. The bells from a nearby church strike midnight.

The witching hour, Parker says. You’re just in time.

Jake’s looks at the other boys, avoiding Parker’s gaze. So, what’s the deal?

Simple, Parker says. All you have to do is hike about a mile down this trail. As he explains, Parker turns on a flashlight and shines the beam on a sparse path leading into the woods. "If you don’t see the witch, no problem. Just