Lights Out, Campers

Chapter Four

The van pulls off the road again, but this time, we drive along a smaller dirt road until we approach two wooden poles connected by a sign at the top. It reads,

'Camp Black Lake.'

We've finally arrived at the camp and I'm itching to get out and stretch my legs. The conversation in the van didn't flow the same after the petrol station. It's entirely my fault. I couldn't get what the man said out of my head. He told me to get out while I could. What does he know about this place? Why is he so certain that I am in terrible danger?

When the van stops, everyone scrambles out. The first thing I noticed when I got off the plane in Detroit was the air. It was so riddled with pollution that I never felt like I was breathing fresh air, but out here, it's the opposite. Just the scent of pines and earth. It's pure. Well, I think it is. It's definitely better than Detroit but there's something else lingering in the air. Something worse than pollution. It's calming here, sure, but it's not enough to diminish the feeling of pure dread. Maybe the man got in my head, but for some reason, it feels like there's a big black cloud hovering above us. Something Evil. Like the feeling you get when you're being watched, or the pit in your stomach when you get called in to work on your day off. It's clear something bad happened here. I can almost hear the screams of the children being burned alive in their cabins and it makes me shiver.

I grab my bags from the van and only now realise I have brought significantly less than everyone else. I guess I had the disadvantage of having to lug all of my belongings on an international flight, whereas everyone else was on domestic or drove. Even though it is completely unimportant, I feel a little insecure about it. Did I pack enough? Did I pack the wrong things?

Ugh, shut up bitch. What am I even worrying about? That they'll laugh at me because my bag is too small?

We haul our bags across the main parking lot to the administration building. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't this. The structural integrity of this building is questionable. I suppose because of the fire, I thought they would have rebuilt the entire camp, but this looks like it was ripped straight from the eighties. The wood is dilapidated and the rust on the windows has outgrown the edges by at least thirty centimetres. It is on the brink of collapse. It gives off a spooky vibe that does not sit well with me. I wouldn't be surprised if I saw a ghost stroll past the murky window.

Inside, the office is empty. Judging from the exterior of the building, the interior is exactly what I expected. It's aged poorly, although it's not as run down as the outside, but still it smells faintly of mould. The wooden desk facing the door is chipped and looks like small chunks of the surface have been carved out, probably out of boredom from whoever was sitting there. It must get lonely out here. Really the only traffic you would get is at the beginning and end of summer, but between that, you may as well go home.

Wyatt rings the bell at the front desk but of course, nobody appears. A sinking feeling appears in my stomach. Surely whoever runs this place knew we were all coming. Where are they?

"Hello?", Wyatt calls out to the supposedly empty office.

We wait for a few minutes but we are left alone. This is ridiculous. I hope I didn't fly halfway across the world to have been caught in some scam. They did seem very eager to accept basically anybody who applied. I had one interview with a man named Chris Foster, the apparent Camp Leader, and then I got the email saying I got the job. All it would have taken is one Google search of my name and he would have found the news stories. He would have found out about Amelia and what happened and thought it wouldn't be safe for me to be around children. But for some reason, here I am.