OCTOBER 2, 2017

Alex tapped the chain link fence with the long metal snake hook he’d brought with him. Nothing happened. Alex nodded, and tossed the hook out of sight behind a patch of tall weeds. It was about what he’d expected, but he wanted to be sure. The winding fence stretching all around Camp Matanto was old, and not well maintained. Some days it was electrified, some it wasn’t. For the past two years, wasn’t usually happened to be the case. On the off chance that it was, sparks flew, and the big rubber handle on the end of the hook kept Alex’s hand from sizzling extra crispy. And then he walked home.

Since it wasn’t today, though …

Putting his fingers in the links, Alex climbed up the fence, stopping up on top to take a quick look around. The sections of the fence by the old counselors’ cabins and the pool didn’t have barbed wire topping them anymore. Alex was by the cabins, closer to the dirt road leading to County Highway 323. No Jeeps, no rent-a-cop security. Good. He jumped off the top, down inside the fence, the crimson and lemon colored leaves of the fall scattering as he landed. He took a bottle of water out of his backpack, took a swig, and then briskly headed through the thick cluster of trees towards the cabins.

Alex felt like taking the 1984 tour that particular Monday morning. The 1985 tour was way more interesting, and the 1988 had some spectacular spots, but he was in the mood for where everything started. Besides, he’d taken them all before, many times. He knew he probably could do them all blindfolded, start to bloody finish, each and every one. None of them ever got boring, though. He supposed they would someday. But he hoped not.

The trees gave way to a row of bushes, all thorny and brambly. Alex pushed past them. The down-lined denim jacket he wore was a touch too warm for a pleasant autumn day, but perfect for avoiding deep scratches. Past the bushes lay a clearing, filled with small wooden buildings, all white with ugly green trim, the paint cracked and faded with time.

The first building Alex approached was the equipment shed, where everything started. Walking by it always gave Alex chills. Where it all fucking started, he thought … and he stopped and closed his eyes. He could practically smell the finely-honed metal of the axe, the oil used to sharpen it as well. And he imagined he could smell the tang of blood as it flew through the air.

When Alex opened his eyes, he looked up towards the roof of the shed. The front of the tiny building was mostly dirty but white, but if anyone bothered to look closely under the eaves, rusty spatters of Jeff Peterson’s blood were still plainly visible. The cleaning efforts of Camp Matanto’s maintenance crew in 1984, apparently, left a lot to be desired. Then again, if the police reports of the first massacre were to be believed – or the three books written on the subject, or even that shitty direct-to-DVD Kickstarter documentary – there was a hell of a lot of blood to be cleaned up back then.

Alex had read and seen them all. Many, many times.

His heart pumping a little faster, Alex jogged on down to the first counselors’ cabin. Most of the other cabins were boarded up and locked, but not Cabin C. Not anymore. Cabin C was the place nearly all of Camp Matanto’s illicit visitors wanted to see most, along with the mess hall kitchen and the pool. Alex couldn’t even imagine how many bolt cutters and crowbars and claw hammers had found their way over the camp’s fence over the past two decades and changes, all relentlessly ripping down the barriers trying to keep intruders out of the infamous cabin. It had only been maybe a year or so ago that the Martins – the reluctant, somewhat unwilling owners of the place – had finally stopped trying to seal it off.

Boards creaked loudly as Alex walked up the cabin steps. Inside, it was exactly like the last time he’d been there, stark and barren, just ten dusty beds inside, five along each wall, tons of footprints tentatively going towards the back corner before circling back in a hurry to the door. Alex took his time going to the corner, staring in rapt interest at the last bed that sat in the shadows there, sheets and blanket still in a half-crumpled heap on top of it. Both the bed and the floorboards between it were an ugly, rusty hue, the same hue of the splash marks along the back wall. Alex could see the ragged rips in the mattress as well, all in a line – thwack, thwack, THWACK – along with some bugs skittering along the exposed stuffing of the mattress.

That’s where Amy Jenkins and Brad Conway bought it, Alex thought. Right fucking there, right as they were fucking there. First Brad, then Amy. Alex frowned at that. He’d never been satisfied with that order as a solid fact. That wasn’t in the official police report, although Walter Tarrant’s book Dance with the Devil stated it with confidence, and the documentary Matanto Bloodbath not only stated it with confidence, it claimed that Amy and Brad were doing it doggystyle when the Devil snuck up behind them with his axe.

Alex sighed. How the fuck would anyone know that? he thought. Not like there were witnesses or anything. Only one who saw what happened and lived was the Devil, and it’s not like he’s talked to anyone. Like, ever. Still, there was something fascinatingly creepy about that notion. Two horny teenagers going at it like wild weasels in heat, then the flash of a blade as it took off Brad’s head. Alex wondered if Amy felt Brad’s head bounce off the small of her back before looking over her shoulder and screaming, and before the blade flashed again and decapitated her, too.

Not that Amy and Brad were the last teens to fuck in the cabin. At least not if you believed a quarter of the rumors floating around Rumley Regional High School, anyway. One of the big dirty thrills for the students there was to sneak into Cabin C and have sex there, preferably on a night with a full moon, even better at Halloween or during the anniversary of the first massacre. Alex suspected that most of the claims were total bullshit, but enough selfie pics and videos had made the rounds that he knew a few of his classmates had actually done it. Shit, Ryan Mauser said he and his girlfriend Natalie had actually done it on the bloody bed itself, and while Ryan didn’t exactly offer digital proof of his claim, the gleam in his eyes as he’d bragged about it in the locker room last fall sure convinced Alex that it was true. Which, when Alex thought about that, was really kind of vile.

And strangely arousing as well.

Alex slipped his backpack off his shoulder, unzipping it to pull out his new digital camera. He’d gotten some shots of the bed before, but just crappy ones, nothing better than anything he could get online or from his books. He took a couple of steps closer to the bed, crouching down on his knees, taking some shots before a new idea occurred to him. He lay down on his stomach, shooting up from the floor at the bed. From there, he could see that a whole bunch of the axe strikes from nearly thirty years earlier not only had cleaved through flesh and bone and cheap mattress, but through the cot springs as well. One strike even cut deep into the pine floorboards beneath the bed as well.

“Awesome,” Alex murmured. He got up, taking a few more shots before tucking the camera back safely away. It was already shaping up to be a great visit. He headed back outside, cracking his knuckles as he bounded down the stairs, thinking of where next to head. The pool seemed the obvious choice, but maybe it was too obvious. That was the place everyone already knew everything about, and Alex had gone there every single time he’d hopped the fence before. The boathouse by the lake, though … he’d only been there once, and only briefly, since it was a bitch and a half to get to. It was the spot nobody really knew much about, even though that was where the survivors had been found. So maybe –

Crack.

Alex’s shoulders sagged as he heard the twig snap behind him. He looked down at the dirt path, and at the long, broad shadow now looming next to his own. If this had been his first time over the Matanto fence, he would’ve been sprinting back up the path, not daring to look back, sure that whoever was behind him was wearing a rubber devil mask and holding a big shiny woodcutter’s axe. He wasn’t that naïve or jittery anymore. Two years of lurking around the deserted campgrounds had taught him that while the place was creepy, the Devil was a fairy tale.

With a sigh, Alex turned around, putting his hands behind his head. He knew the drill. A large black man stood there, big arms folded over his chest, a sour expression on his face. Alex was mildly surprised, but he didn’t say anything. For one thing, the man looked bigger – and wider – than any of the security rent-a-cops he’d infrequently seen patrolling the grounds of Matanto before. Like, way bigger. Pro-wrestler-eating-steroid-sandwiches-for-lunch sorts of bigger. For another, the man wasn’t wearing the usual cheap blue polyester police wanna-be uniform that the security dudes typically wore. This hulking man wore neat black coveralls, which two small patches above the right breast pocket. COMSEC, the top patch helpfully proclaimed, while the other patch below it read JAMES in crimson stitches.

“You lost?” the man presumably named James asked. “Couldn’t find the main road, which is about a mile north of here?” He jabbed a finger in the air, pointing up past the rest of the cabins to the main gate. “Trip over the fence looking for it? Or you just want to admit trespassing and skip the dog ate my homework shit?”

Alex opened his mouth. Some wise-ass crack crept to the tip of his tongue, and then he closed his mouth. What he wanted to say was the sort of thing that usually meant getting his ass kicked in the parking lot at school. Or stuffed in a garbage can. Or both. And if that was what a bully like Ryan Mauser could do to him, a ‘roided-up senior jock, he imagined that what the mountain of a man named James could do. Unsurprisingly, he imagined it was worse.

“No, I’m trespassing,” Alex said, when he finally opened his mouth again. “Just, um, looking around the place. Y’know, because it’s haunted.” He jammed his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on the heels of his sneakers, staring at the ground. His aunt who was a cop told him once that when talking to anyone in law enforcement, it was important to tell the truth … but not to say much. He hoped that would work with James.

“Wow, that worked,” James replied. He rubbed one of his graying temples. “That always sounded good in my head, but I didn’t think it’d work. So. Well, then.” Another rub of the temple, longer this time. “Wanna make this easy and just walk with me to the gate? You go home from there, no harm, no foul?”

“Sure.” Alex said. “Works for me.” Not that the thought thrilled him, but it beat a phone call to the police station for trespassing. Or worse, the sheriff’s office.

“Cool, that’s cool.” James cocked his head, staring at Alex’s backpack. “You hop the fence before?”

“Yeah.”

“Ever get caught?”

“Nope?”

“First time for everything, then. Need you to empty your pockets, then unlock your phone and hand it over, then unzip the bag. Gotta check everything. No souvenirs.”

“No souvenirs,” Alex repeated, his heart sinking a little in his chest. He fished his phone out of his pocket, tapping its password with his thumb as he handed it over to James. As the big security guard skimmed through the photos on the phone, Alex unslung his bag from his shoulder, trying vainly to think of a way to hide his camera.

He couldn’t.

“So far, so good,” James said, swiping through the pictures with a thick finger. “You’re clean. Gotta say, I’m a little surprised, most people take – oh.” Looking up from Alex’s phone, he saw the skinny teenager holding out his camera. “I see.” He plucked the camera out of Alex’s hands, and without another word, ejected its memory card, tucking the tiny chip into the coverall pocket just below the JAMES patch.

“I’m not getting that back, am I?”

“Not a chance.” James patted his pocket. “Unless you got a million-dollar lawyer. You got one of those? Maybe your dad’s one?”

Alex shook his head. “My dad’s a chemical engineer. And he lives out in Arizona.”

“Well, then, I guess not.” James pointed down at the wide path winding its way to the mess halls, the one leading towards the main gate and away from absolutely everything Alex desperately wanted to see. “Shall we go?”

“Depends.” Alex drummed his fingers along the side of his leg. “What if I run?”

“Now here it was I thought we had what folks call a mutual understanding,” James replied. He chuckled softly. “I was gonna let your skinny ass go scot-free, no muss, no fuss, just no pictures. But if you insist on running, you better hope you’re quick enough to outrun my taser. If you are, then I guess you get away. If you don’t, you wind up in a world of hurt and I call the sheriff’s office to come arrest you.”

“Oh.” The drumming stopped. “Just wondering. Hypothetical.”

“That’s what I thought.”

The two walked in silence down the dusty path, Alex with his hands jammed in his jacket pockets, staring down at the ground. Leaves swirled along the ground in spinning patterns, the morning breeze growing stronger and colder. It felt good against Alex’s face, which felt like it was on fire. His eyes stayed focused on the leaves and the toes of his sneakers, not daring to look at anything else, not wanting to look around and see all the places he wanted to see. He knew if he turned his head just an inch to the left, he’d see the dining hall. He’d see the basketball court and its infamous fence, the showers, probably even a glimpse of the head counselor’s office …

… and he’d try to make a break and run to see them. All of them.

Because Alex was getting the sickening feeling that he’d never get to see any of it ever again.

“What happened to the other guys, anyway?” Alex finally asked. He had to say something, otherwise he thought he’d wind up screaming instead.

“What other guys?”

“Security. It used to be like half a dozen really old guys, wearing the blue uniforms and the black ties. Freddy always was on days every Wednesday. I think he was pushing ninety. If he wasn’t asleep in the guardhouse and actually ran into you, he’d let you go without calling the cops if you gave him a couple of bucks and a tuna fish sandwich from Ollie’s.” He awkwardly glanced over his shoulder at his bag. “Does a sandwich and ten bucks get me my sim card back?”

“Tuna fish gives me hives,” James said. “No thanks.”

“So what happened to Freddy, then? Where should I take his sandwich?”

James shrugged. “Over the mountain to the Mount Airy Casinos, I guess? That’s where I think most of those guys went when they got their buyout. Wasn’t much, or so I heard. But the new owners wanted guys watching the property who couldn’t be bribed with deli meat.”

Alex blinked. “New …”

“… owners,” James finished. “Guess the old ones finally got tired of owning this creepy-ass place and get a couple of bucks for it. So they sold it to the guys who sign my paychecks. Speaking of new security, you probably won’t be able to sneak back here pretty soon.”

“Why’s that?”

“The electric fence around this place, with its piece of shit generator?” James jerked a thumb back in the direction of the main mess hall, at the squat little building falling apart behind it. “Going away. And getting replaced with a new one, along with more state-of-the-art security. Should have double the regular guards around here by the end of next week, too.”

“Oh.” Alex hitched his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans, not knowing what else to say. He felt like he’d just been punched in the stomach. “So … um, what’s happening to this place?”

“The stuff that’s here? All of it’s going.” James briskly dusted his massive hands together. “Gone. Say bye to this nasty camp, it’s history. Not sure what’s replacing it, but from everything I’ve heard, it’s got to be better than what’s here now.”

“Yeah,” Alex said dully. “Better.”

More marching along in silence, the dirt path giving way to loose gravel as it turned to climb over a low, shallow hill. The gatehouse, Alex thought, we’re here. Already.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuckity-fuck fuck a duck.

“Well, here’s where we part ways,” James said. “See you around. The town, I mean. If I find you on this side of the fence again, I am calling the sheriff’s office, make no mistake about that. And I don’t think you want that.”

“No, sir,” Alex managed to mumble. You have no idea how bad that would be, he added silently.

“And …” James looked one way, then the other, a comically furtive expression on his round face, moving with such an exaggerated slowness that Alex had to bite his tongue hard not to laugh. The teenaged boy found himself glad that he didn’t, though, as James took the sim card back out of his pocket and wordlessly slipped into Alex’s hand.

“Thanks,” Alex said earnestly, “I –”

James put a finger to his lips. Alex shut up.

“You don’t need a million-dollar lawyer today,” James said. “But any of that shit goes up on Instagram, my bosses’ million-dollar lawyers are coming for your bony ass. Fines, jail, whatever. Understand?”

Alex nodded.

“I don’t understand why kids like you want to come here,” James said. “But you do. Me, I wouldn’t want nothin’ to do with a place where a crazy person chopped up a bunch of nice kids like you. Three damn times, no less. But I suppose that’s maybe why.”

“Why?” Alex asked. “I, um … I don’t follow you.” He shoved his memory card deep into the front pocket of his jeans, before James changed his mind and took it back. “What do you mean?”

“Kids just like you,” James said. “Just without iPhones and shit. Dying. Death’s a scary thing, maybe that’s why so many of you hop rusty old fences to check this place out. Try to understand it, even though the secret is there’s never understanding it.” He shrugged. “That’s the best I can figure, anyways. The only reason anyone would come to this shithole besides a steady paycheck is morbid curiosity.”

“I guess.”

“I … guess?” James looked like he’d suddenly started sucking on an invisible lemon. An overripe invisible lemon, covered in sriracha sauce. “Are there other reasons that aren’t insane? Because I’d love to … nah. Fuck that. I’d rather not hear them, actually.” His eyes narrowed at Alex. “That’s why you’re here, right? ‘Cause you were curious?”

“Yeah, sure,” Alex lied. “Absolutely. Curiosity. The morbid kind, like you said.” A total lie, but one he’d gotten used to telling, in one form or another. To his friends, the few of them that knew, and to his mom and his aunt, who had threatened to kill him a year ago if he ever stepped foot beyond the fences of Camp Matanto again. And there was sort of an element of that which was true.

But really, it was because, well …

… it’s the only place where I feel safe in this town, Alex wanted to say. Or wanted.

But he didn’t say that.

Alex knew exactly how weird that sounded, even though that was completely true, too.

James reached into another pocket. A large ring of keys emerged, and one of them found its way into the massive padlock holding the gates together. As James pushed them open, he waved up at the guard house. A shadow behind a grimy window waved back, which surprised Alex, almost as much as seeing four cars sitting in the crumbly parking lot outside the gate. One of those cars even was new and shiny black, with a big fancy logo COMSEC stenciled on its doors.

“See you around,” Alex said, and he jogged quickly through the swinging gate doors, not bothering to look back as he crossed the parking lot. Because he didn’t need to.

He’d be back inside Camp Matanto. Soon, new guards or no new guards.

Of that, Alex had zero doubt.

“Hope not,” he heard James call out, as he disappeared into the woods beyond the fences.

Next Chapter: Chapter Two