The Camp Site

by Emee Camp

Jason stared at the wreck. There goes any chance I have at making it home for dinner.

Normally, the commute from the office to home took just under an hour. Tonight, after ninety minutes of sitting in traffic, Jason had grown frantic. Checking his GPS, he found a dirt hunting road that wound through the woods and would eventually drop him right at the top of his neighborhood.

The thought of driving through the woods made him uneasy, a lingering fear seeded from his grandmother’s folklore. But (and more terrifyingly) his wife would never let him hear the end of it if he didn’t make it home in time. He’d be in his car. It would be fine.

Speeding over muddy potholes, the model airplane he had bought for his son’s birthday jostled in the passenger seat. His secretary at the real estate company had picked it out and wrapped it for him. As he had left the office that day, she had hastily handed him a tube of glue, saying that sometimes the kits didn’t have enough, and even if it did, an extra tube would allow them to work on the piece together. If the shortcut paid off, they would have enough time to start on the kit tonight.

He had glanced over at the gift to make sure it wouldn’t slide onto the floor. I should petition the city to pave this. Looking back up, his headlights illuminated a large branch that was sprawled across the road.

“Shit!” Jason grabbed the steering wheel and slammed the brakes. The tires skidded in the mud, and he pulled hard to the right to avoid the branch. The vehicle bumped wildly over roots and bushes before jerking to a halt with a loud bang.

Now he stood in the road, surveying the crash, frustration simmering. The sedan had landed atop a small boulder, with the front tires completely off the ground. Should have gone for the all-wheel drive, he thought miserably. He looked around for the branch, remembering how, just before swerving, it seemed to look right at him with gleaming eyes. But now the branch was gone.

He grabbed his phone. No bars. He let out a guttural scream and threw the door shut. After unleashing several more colorful words, Jason opened the trunk, snatched the flashlight from the emergency bag, and started trudging toward home.

With every step, his Oxfords squished in the damp earth, splattering mud along the legs of his suit.

He hadn’t been walking long when Jason heard the rustling of bushes behind him. He turned and aimed the flashlight towards the noise, finding only bushes and trees. Probably just a rabbit or squirrel.

Resuming his walk, his anxiety came roaring back. The memory of his Oma’s gravelly voice telling him, “Never wander into the forest alone. The Waldgeist protects the woods. If it catches you, it will laugh as it eats your flesh and grinds your bones to dust.”

“My brother had a friend who went into the woods one night and never returned. When the police went in to look for him, they swore they could hear laughter but never found the child.”

The story had scared Jason so bad that he had slept with the lights on for a month. Finally, his mother told him it was just an old woman’s way of keeping him from getting lost or being mistaken for a deer by a drunk hunter.

Jason forced himself to think of something else. I wonder who owns this area. It could make a nice little development, maybe even a couple of apartment complexes. As he thought about all the required permits needed for such a project, another sound snapped him back to the present. This time, he swore he heard soft laughter. He waved the light wildly about. One of the bushes about twenty yards away shuddered.

“Is someone there?” he called. Silence answered. It’s just a story, it’s just a story, he repeated, grappling with his fear. A doddering old woman was just trying to scare you. The Waldgeist isn’t real. He picked up his pace. It can’t be that much further.

The rustling grew louder, and the laughter surrounded him. This time, when he turned, a towering, slender figure slunk from the trees like a spider.

Its huge saucer eyes bulged at him, and sick laughter wheezed through rows of sharp jagged teeth. With long, thin limbs made of sticks, it crouched and charged on all fours at him.

Jason ran. Before he could get far, his shoes slipped on the slick ground, and he faceplanted in damp earth. The flashlight spun out of his hands, and the light landed on the creature running at him.

Jason felt in his pockets for anything that could help him. His fingers closed around the tube of glue, and desperately, he threw it towards the creature. It caught the tube in its mouth and shredded it to bits, strings of glue stretching between the top and bottom rows of teeth. Jason scrambled backwards. It was almost on him. Closing his eyes, he braced for the impact.

But it never came. Instead of laughter, there was a muffled cry of torment. Jason forced his eyes open. The creature was right in front of him, furiously clawing at its mouth. It was sealed shut. The two nostril like slits in its log face flared. The creature glared at him before it bounded off into the woods.

Panting, Jason climbed to his feet. He let out a small laugh in disbelief. As he moved to pick up his flashlight, a shot rang out, and a deer slug tore through his chest. Over the shouts of the hunters, the last thing Jason heard as he bled out on the forest floor was wheezing laughter.