Serial Killer Summer (A 3-Day Novel)

Chapter One

I enter camp from the south, taking what had once been known as Chipmunk Trail past the marshy section of shore toward the open beach.

The path is overgrown. At one time I knew it well, and I like to think my feet would have found it anyway, but it helps that it is now marked with large signs proclaiming the trail closed to hikers and warning against trespassing. I sidestep these without much thought. This is the last time I am going to be able to visit this place as it was.

I arrived by shuttle boat a couple hours ago at Maple Island Conservation Area and after grabbing a map in the visitor centre, immediately set off up the eastern side of the island towards the place I had spent every summer of my life from the time I was seven until the year I turned 20.

That was 1992.

The camp did not close because of the things that happened that summer. Improbably, it went on, taking in thousands more children over the following decades, until it fell to financial difficulties and finally closed five years ago.

No, it did not close after that summer. But it went on without me.

When I finally exit the trail onto the beach, I see that the curve of Big Bay is unchanged. The beach has grown weedy with disuse. And there are no sailboats lined up along the shore, no canoes and kayaks waiting in racks for campers to take out onto the water. No docks, no lines of buoys marking the outer limits of the bay, no lifeguard towers. But the physical shape of it remains as it has been in my mind all these years.

I scuffle along the sand toward the giant log staircase that takes you up from the shore to the main camp area. Signs that I am not the first trespasser here include the remnants of an illegal campfire, a few empty beer cans, and a plastic bag from a familiar market on the mainland drifting in the breeze. I see that the boat house still stands. It was never an actual boat house, just a large shack by the water where things like gas cans and extra life jackets were stored, and where simple repairs could be made to the waterfront equipment if needed.

At the base of the staircase, I look up. The wooden arch at the top, from which once hung the Camp Big Spirit sign, is empty but for two dangling, rusted chains. I take the steps with care; the logs are old and beginning to rot, causing the staircase to erode in places.

At the crest of the staircase, I find myself facing Big Spirit Lodge, the former dining hall and main meeting place. The word "Welcome" is still painted above the front door in forest green, though faded now. The windows are boarded up and the door padlocked.

The place is thoroughly abandoned.

But it is not empty, I realize. It's haunted.

It is as though, just out of sight, dozens of children run and play, and if I could only turn my head fast enough, I would see them.

"Okay, everyone! Take your cabin buddy's hand. That's right. It's time to follow the fireflies out to Campfire Rock."

A memory so vivid, I think I can actually hear it. Lisa, my first counsellor. I can recall grabbing my cabin buddy's hand and following, enchanted, through the twilight out to the rocky point where campfires were held on the first and last days of every camp session.

Yes, there are ghosts here. Am I ready to meet them?