Camp Hexon, A Tonight's Terror Original

A reclusive caretaker spends each winter alone at a remote summer camp in northern Maine. But when a stranger arrives asking questions about local legends, missing possessions, and the woods beyond the trails, the life Max Greeley has spent carefully avoiding begins to unravel.

No AI Writing. No AI Narration. 

Intro/Outro: D. Moore

Au Couvenant Alexander Borodin, produced by DL Sounds.

Tonight's Terror. Original horror stories told in the dark. 

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This audio is an original short horror story written and performed by Tonight’s Terror (C.S. Austin). It is not adapted from, based on, or affiliated with any existing novel, audiobook, film, or copyrighted intellectual property. All writing, narration, and production elements are original and owned by the creator unless otherwise credited.

Transcript

Cold Open

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Some people spend their whole lives following a path they never chose. They mistake it for habit or fate. They build routines around it. They call it a personality. But by the time they finally stop and look around, the path back is already gone.

Channel Intro

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You're listening to tonight's terror original horror stories to hear in the dark. Subscribe and share if you're a fan. And now, tonight's story.

Story Begins

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The last of the staff had packed and left, leaving Max standing a little wistfully beside the gate. Camp Hexen would be a quiet place for the next six months at least. Of the twenty-some cabins and other buildings on the grounds, only his little lodge would be lit and heated as summer turned to autumn and then winter. This would be his twentieth offseason as caretaker. He worked the grounds during the busy season too, but his full-time role was winter overseer. Max swung the gray metal gate closed and pulled the chain through the bars. He only left camp once a week after the seasonal staff had gone. It didn't bother him to unlock it each time. Wash the dishes when you wash the dishes, he said. The mangled Buddhist mantra had guided him for years. It kept him focused and made the long hours he spent alone feel meaningful. Turning from the gate, he looked across the vast green lawn that was repurposed as a parking lot on move-in and move-out days. In summer it was crisscrossed a thousand times a day by running campers and teenagers who worked as counselors. In a few days it would recover from the dozens of cars that had rolled it flat, and Max would mow again. Max was tired. The last days of camp were always a sprint, and he was looking forward to collapsing into bed. For now he still had plenty of buildings to secure before the sun went down. Let's start with the boys' side, he murmured, setting off toward the nearest semicircle of cabins. Max talked to himself often when camp was deserted. It was a habit he'd formed during his first winter here. He didn't have many friends. Those he did rarely made the trip to northern Maine to see him. He didn't think of it as talking to himself so much as talking to Camp Hexen. Though the buildings and fields emptied each year, the place felt very much alive to him. He could hear the forest that bordered the camp on three sides moving with the wind. The buildings ticked and creaked as the cool night settled in. From his bed, when the night was very still, he could hear the lake shore, the waves shushing sleepily. There were some nights he heard other things. Max might wake from his sleep and lie still, convinced he wasn't alone. Sounds from outside would find his ear and fill him with a kind of terror he hadn't known since childhood. Max would lie frozen in bed. Unlike the familiar sounds of trees in the lake, these noises felt unnatural. The snatch of a rasping whisper near the window. Slow, lumbering footfalls on the packed dirt leading to the chapel behind his lodge. Long minutes would pass in silence, and Max would soothe himself. Just some bored local kids messing around. He could get up, get dressed, pull on his boots, and chase them off. Or he could stay warm in bed and avoid acknowledging that the noises might be something far worse. By mid-morning the next day, Max had already winterized two cabins and drained the pipes in the girls' bathhouse. He worked slowly and methodically, carrying his tools in an old metal caddy from building to building. In his fifties now, he no longer moved with the same speed he once had, but he still trusted his hands to know the work. The camp was silent, except for the scrape of his rake and the faint clinking of wind chimes the arts and nature kids had made from sea glass and shelves. Empty cabins stretched across the property in neat rows, many of them older than Max himself. Camp Hexen had seen Lean Summers. Some years enrollment numbers had worried ownership enough that rumors about selling the property drifted around among the staff. Still, Max's job had remained steady through it all. Over the years, he'd heard the talk about the camp's reputation, too. Parent complaints online. Former campers said strange things about the place. Max mostly ignored it. He'd worked here half his life and had never seen anything happen to campers beyond the ordinary scrapes that came with growing up. Around noon, he stopped beside the empty basketball court and drank coffee from a dented thermos. Leaves skittered across the cracked black tub. The hoops had already been stripped of their nets for the season. Max sat alone on a bench where counselors usually lined up campers before activities. The silence had a weight to it now. Summer always vanished faster than he expected. That afternoon, Max hauled a ladder across camp to replace a broken floodlight mounted beside the mess hall. The old bulb had burned out sometime during the final week of camp, though nobody had bothered mentioning it until everyone else had gone home. Typical for the madness of closing week, Max thought. He had just climbed down from the ladder when movement near the front entrance caught his eye. A dark sedan sat, pulled off near the shoulder of the road beyond the gate. Beside it stood a man in a dark jacket, hands tucked into his pockets. Even from a distance, Max could tell he wasn't local. He stood perfectly still beside the car, staring through the bars of the gate toward camp. Max rested the ladder against the mess hall and started across the lawn. The man noticed him almost immediately. He climbed into the sedan. A moment later, the car pulled away down the road, disappearing around a copse of trees. Max stopped walking. For a few seconds he stood listening to the fading hum of the engine. Then he looked back at the empty camp around him. Probably a former camper, feeling nostalgic, he concluded. A week passed. The list of pressing tasks dwindled. Max could already feel the long winter settling over the camp. Once the snow came, he'd be left inventing work that scarcely needed doing. Repaint a locker room, refasten loose insulation, reorganize storage sheds that were already orderly enough. Some days he'd strap on snowshoes and make slow loops around the property. A handful of the forest trails stayed clear enough to use even deep in winter. While he'd use them, he'd never stray from them. As he untied his boots on the stool beside the door of his lodge, the phone rang. Max didn't use his cell phone. The landline was more than sufficient for the scant communication during the off season. Hello? Max said. He was struck by the gravel in his voice. He hadn't spoken much lately. Max, it's John. John was the camp's executive director. He'd only been with the camp a few years. Max didn't have much of a relationship with him yet. He'd seen half a dozen directors come and go in his time at Camp Hexham. Hi, John, how are you? I'm fine, Max. You doing all right? How's Camp? Max glanced around the room as if to affirm the answer. It wasn't shocking to hear from John. From time to time he'd call with a special project that had occurred to him. Max always welcomed those phone calls, all the more to keep him occupied. All good here, he said. Good to hear, John replied. Listen, I have kind of an awkward topic to raise. So no project, Max thought with slight disappointment. Sounds interesting, Max said, but John didn't match his tone. Yeah. We've received an unusual number of phone calls and emails since camper pickup day. Dozens, as a matter of fact. Oh yeah? Max said. What about? Missing items. John paused. Max didn't say anything. He glanced around the room again, waiting. Finally, John continued. It's not the normal stuff. Lost watershoes or a soccer ball. It's pretty valuable stuff. Some fancy electronics, jewelry, as well as some sentimental things. Things folks are pretty worked up about. I haven't seen anything around, Max said. Well, the reason I'm calling is that a few staff, and I can't say who, mentioned that they saw you more than a few times, coming and going from cabins while everyone else was out. The staff bunks, too. John's tone was strained. Of course they did. I fixed things while the cabins are empty, Max said defensively. Right, John replied. Then he sighed. That's what I said too. Max gripped the phone harder. Max, I'm I'm sorry, I don't even know why I'm calling. Just an unfortunate thing, I guess. People should be more careful with their things, right? Max didn't speak for a moment. He took a deep breath and gave his boss the out he was looking for. Right. Okay, Max, stay in touch. Be sure to call if anything comes up. Max gave him a clipped in reply. Once the phone was back on the cradle, Max stared at it, thinking over his boss's words. Then he stood and crossed the room to the closet. He slid the door open and looked down at the heavy leather banded chest on the floor. Digging his keys from his pocket, he used the smallest of them to open the padlock hanging from the chest latch. The lid swung open and rested against the back wall of the closet. Max looked down over the dozens of items inside. There were earrings, keychains, tubes of chapstick, smartphones, watches, wallets. Crouching, his hand rested momentarily on a green felt bag cinched with a jawstring. He straightened and took a breath. His eyes settled on a miniature stuffed duck near the top of the pile. He wanted none of these things. If he were ever found out, he knew he could never make someone understand why he took them. The shame came in waves. He let it crash over him in the dim light of the room. With the trunk locked and shoved back into the closet, Max crawled into bed without eating. Penance, he told himself. Three days later, Max drove into town for groceries. The nearest store was nearly forty minutes from camp, a squat little market with warped wooden floors and hunting magazines stacked beside the register. By the time he'd finished loading canned soup, coffee, and frozen dinners into his cart, dusk had already begun settling over the parking lot outside. That's when he saw the man near the front entrance, the same dark jacket. The man stood with his hands folded behind his back, staring at the flyers on the bulletin board without seeming to read any of them. His eyes shifted toward Max almost immediately. Max's stomach tightened. He abandoned the cart and walked straight toward him. Can I help you with something? Max asked. The man gave a polite smile. Up closed he looked younger than Max had expected, early forties maybe, tired eyes, unshaven. Sorry, the man said. Do I know you? You were outside my camp a few days ago. Recognition flickered across the man's face, and he nodded once. Right. Camp Hexen. What were you doing there? The man hesitated just long enough for Max to notice. Detective Broward, he said, finally, extending his hand. I'm looking into a few things connected to the area. Max shook the offered hand automatically. The word detective hollowed his stomach out. For one dizzy moment all he could picture was the chest in his closet. Broward seemed to study his reaction carefully. You stay up there year round?

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he asked.

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Mostly. Alone? Max nodded slowly. Nobody rents the grounds during the off season. Retreats or church groups, anything like that? No. What about the woods around camp? You spend much time out there? Max frowned. Why? Broward shrugged lightly, just trying to get a sense of the place. Max waited for Broward to mention the thefts at camp, but the questions kept drifting elsewhere. You got a card or something? he asked. Yeah, Broward replied quickly. But instead of reaching into his pocket, the man simply turned and strode toward the parking lot. Hey, Max called after him. Broward lifted a hand without looking back. A moment later his sedan pulled out onto the road and disappeared into the dusk. Max stood staring as the clumsy automatic doors shuttered opened and closed in front of him. His grocery cart sat abandoned in an aisle behind him. He stepped back inside and paid quickly. By the time he carried the groceries out to the truck, the parking lot was nearly dark. Back at the lodge, Max unpacked his groceries quietly. The old refrigerator hummed loudly in the corner. A branch scratched lightly on the shingled roof. When he finished, he stood for a moment in the middle of the kitchen as though trying to remember something. His eyes drifted toward the calendar hanging beside the pantry door. A date three days away had been circled there for months in thick black marker. Max walked over slowly. He rested one hand against the wall beside the calendar and stared at the circle. The paper trembled faintly in the draught coming through the old lodge windows. After a moment, he tore his eyes away, switched off the kitchen light, and went to bed. It was early afternoon. The temperature had plummeted overnight and scarcely rebounded as the day wore on. Max was replacing warped boards on the small footbridge behind the archery range when he heard tires crunching slowly over gravel. He looked up and saw the dark sedan rolling to a stop outside the gate across the north field. Broward climbed out before the engine had even fully died. He maneuvered through the gate and walked toward Max. The business like demeanor he'd worn at the grocery store was gone, replaced by a sheepish smile. Max straightened cautiously, hammer still in hand. You find your card? he shouted. The man didn't reply. He picked his way quickly across the uneven ground. Finally he reached the bridge. I owe you an apology, he said, breathlessly. Max said nothing. First, my name's not Broward, he said. It's Christopher Vale. Most people call me Topher. The breeze stirred through the trees behind Max. Somewhere deeper in camp the wind rattled a corrugated metal roof. I'm not a detective either. Max felt irritation flare hotter than relief. Then what do you want? Topher rubbed the back of his neck before answering. I'm a writer, he began. Well, trying to be. I write nonfiction mostly, folklore, regional history, weird local stories, that sort of thing. Max rested the hammer beside him on the bridge railing. Well, you picked a hell of a way to introduce yourself. Yeah, Topher admitted. I know. Stupid. For a moment neither man spoke. Then Topher said, You know the name Hexen goes way back before the camp, right? That got Max's attention. He took an interest in learning everything he could about the camp's history, and did a good job of it. Camp Hexen was a bigger part of his life than his own childhood home. However, he'd never looked into anything prior to the camp's founding in 1926. I figure there used to be some settlement out here. Is that where they got the name? Tofer nodded. In the early 1700s, this whole region was still a part of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. There was a small religious settlement somewhere near these woods. Barely lasted twenty years from what I can tell. The records are scattered, but the name Hexen keeps appearing. He paused. And every time the name comes up, it's alongside reports of a woman accused of witchcraft. If Topher was looking for a reaction, he didn't get one. Max leaned back against the railing, a skeptical look on his face. Salem kind of stuff? He asked. Not quite, Topher said. Frontier settlements handled things differently. Less paperwork, more rumors, no courtrooms. He paused. People disappeared out here. Others claimed they heard voices in the woods. Livestock mutilated. Children getting sick. Max snorted quietly. You can make any old place sound scary if you dig around long enough and fill in the blanks with bullshit. Maybe, Topher replied. But the stories never really stopped around this place. Former campers, staff, hikers. Strange experiences. They go back decades. Max shrugged, though his shoulders felt tight. I've heard stories. Every camp has them. Topher studied him carefully. You ever go into the woods beyond the hiking trails? No reason to. I was wondering if maybe you'd show me around a little. Max answered quickly. No. Tofer blinked at the sharpness of the reply. Sorry, Max said. It's just not a great time of year for it. Lots to get done before winter. Tofer nodded slowly. Well, he said, reaching into his coat pocket, if you change your mind. He handed Max a folded piece of paper with a phone number written across it. Then he walked back toward the sedan alone, leaving Max standing on the bridge. The car rolled off the gravel and onto the road. He could hear its engine fading. But Max wasn't looking at the road. He was facing the trees. Lying in bed that night, Max stared at the paneled ceiling, knowing he wasn't going to sleep. He lay on top of the sheets and the blankets, fully dressed. His boots were on and laced tight. The camp was quiet. There was no wind. Other than the owl he'd heard a few minutes before, the only sound was his breathing, each breath counting down toward the appointed time. It was nearly three in the morning when he rose from bed. Max walked heavily to the closet and knelt in front of the chest. His eyes were open, but he could have performed these motions in his sleep. There had been many nights before this one when, compelled by a call he didn't understand, he'd risen from bed and gathered his trove of stolen objects. He placed each item carefully into a canvas pack. Soon it was bulging and heavy. He closed his eyes, remembering the desperate panic clawing at his chest as he crept through the bedrooms and bunks during the summer months. Wrong move and he'd be found out. The whole twisted mess would tumble into the light. His career, his life as he knew it, would end. With a forlorn glance at the calendar, today's date circled in black, Max shouldered the pack and walked out the door into the waiting night. Max crossed the empty camp beneath a moonless sky. The canvas pack hung heavy against his shoulders. Frost silvered the grass beneath his boots. Every cabin window was dark. The camp looked dead, as though no child had ever laughed or shouted there. Max passed the final row of cabins, crossed the stretch of lawn, and entered the woods. The familiar hiking trails carried him only part way. Soon he stepped off the path and pushed deeper through the tangled dark. Branches scraped against his coat, leaves shifted beneath his boots. Several times he nearly turned back. The fear rising in him had become almost unbearable with age. Every year he told him he would not do this again. But every year the appointed night came, and with it the certainty that something terrible would happen if he failed to answer the call. Eventually the trees thinned. A small clearing waited there in the darkness. Max stopped at its edge. His breath fogged faintly before him. For several long seconds, nothing moved. Then an old woman stepped silently from between the trees. She was terribly thin. Layers of ragged grey clothing hung from her narrow frame. Wisps of white hair drifted around, a face so lined and sunken it looked almost unfinished in the dark. Her eyes found Max immediately. His stomach clenched with the same dreadful recognition it always did. Slowly Max lowered the pack from his shoulders. The old woman watched him without blinking, while he unpacked the stolen objects onto the frozen grass. Phones, watches, necklaces, wallets, children's toys. The miniature stuffed duck landed near her bare feet. The woman crouched stiffly before the collection. Her fingers moved reverently across the objects. Then she looked up at him expectantly. Max closed his eyes. No, he whispered reflexively, though he already knew resistance was pointless. With trembling hands he reached into the pack and removed the green felt bag. The drawstring loosened softly in his fingers. Inside rested dozens of bundled locks of hair. Each was combed smooth, folded in half, and cinched with a bit of twine. A terrible shame swept through him as memory flashed behind his eyes, moving silently through dark cabins and sock feet, the small metallic snip of scissors beside sleeping children, hiding motionless in the dark while someone stirred beneath their blankets, waiting for breathing to deepen again before continuing. Max set the bag before. The old woman touched it almost lovingly. Her hands, stark white and thin, looked like bone draped in wet paper. What do you do with it all? Max asked. His voice trembled. He never spoke to her. The woman said nothing. What do you do to them? Only the trees answered, creaking softly overhead. Max felt sudden anger flare through his fear. This is the last time, he said. The old woman stared at him. Suddenly she gave a sharp nod, her chin jutting out abruptly. The clearing lurched sideways, a violent dizziness swept through Max's body. Trees blurred together, his knees buckled beneath him. Darkness rushed forward from behind his eyes and he collapsed to the forest floor. Max woke with a groan, sometime near noon. Pale daylight filtered weakly through the lodge windows. For several seconds he lay motionless, staring at the ceiling and trying to understand why something felt terribly wrong. At last his brain caught up to the pain. A violent burning sensation tore through his left hand. Max cried out and rolled onto his side, clutching his wrist against his chest. The movement sent another wave of agony through him so sharp it nearly made him vomit. Breathing hard, he forced himself to look down. Every finger on his left hand was broken. They jutted at unnatural angles, swollen and blackening beneath the skin. One finger bent sideways so severely Max could see pale bone straining against the flesh near the knuckle. A terrified yelp escaped him. Immediately he understood. It was a warning. The woman in the clearing had heard him when he said, This is the last time. And she had answered. Max sat trembling on the edge of the bed while cold panic spread through his chest. His boots were still on. Mud had dried thick along the soles and lower leather. He stumbled to the closet and dropped heavily to his knees before the chest. Fumbling with a lock one-handed, he finally tore it open. Empty. Max stared into the hollow, dark interior of the chest for several seconds before slamming it shut, hard enough to rattle the walls. Another spike of pain shot through his hand. Swearing through clenched teeth, he lurched toward the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. Behind an old bottle of aspirin sat the remains of an oxycodone prescription from his knee operation years earlier. He dry swallowed one of the pills. Twenty minutes later, pale and shaking, Max staggered out of the lodge and climbed into his truck. He drove off in the direction of the hospital one-handed, the broken fingers resting uselessly in his lap. The chairs were upholstered in cracked blue vinyl that squeaked whenever someone shifted their weight. A television mounted high in one corner played a daytime judge show. No one seemed to be watching. Across from Max, a coughing child slept against his mother's shoulder, beneath a camouflage coat much too large for him. Max sat hunched forward with his ruined hand tucked carefully against his stomach. Every pulse of his heartbeat sent another wave of pain through the broken fingers beneath the swelling. He kept his eyes lowered. Already he could feel people glancing toward the hand despite his efforts to hide it. The hospital itself sat on a low hill at the edge of town. A brick building from the seventies, with newer additions bolted awkwardly onto either side. Everyone in the county ended up here eventually. Nurses passed through the waiting room with exhausted expressions and clipboards hugged to their chest. Most of the faces looked familiar to Max in the vague way rural places always worked. Even if you didn't know someone personally, you recognized them from the grocery store, the gas station, the hardware store. Beyond the waiting room windows, the sky hung low and gray over the town. People murmured about coming snow, but none had fallen yet. Max closed his eyes. He had first wandered those woods when he was eleven years old. That summer had been his first at Camp Hexen. His mother had sent him after his father left, insisting it would be good for him to spend time around other boys. Max remembered the loneliness of that first week more vividly than almost anything else from childhood. The noise of the camp had only made it worse somehow. Everywhere he looked, there were friendships already formed, private jokes in motion, camp traditions that made no sense to him. One afternoon, after an older camper humiliated him in front of others during waterfront swim time, Max slipped away from the group and wandered into the woods alone. Nobody noticed him leave. He walked farther than he'd meant to. Even then, something about the forest beyond the trails felt different from the maintained parts of camp. He felt daring, intrepid, like he'd reached places even the veteran campers who had mocked him had never seen. Eventually he stumbled upon the clearing and the woman waiting there. She had frightened him, but not in the way she did now. Age had made her monstrous. Back then she'd been striking, pretty even. Max remembered thinking, what was a beautiful lady like this doing in the woods all alone? She had spoken softly. That was what Max remembered most clearly after all these years. Not the words themselves, but the gentleness of her voice. She knew things. She knew his father had left six months earlier. She knew Max blamed himself for it. She knew he'd stolen ten dollars from his mother's purse before leaving for camp, and hidden the bills beneath a loose floorboard in his bedroom. The shame of hearing those secrets spoken aloud had rooted him to the clearing more completely than fear ever could. Max worked hard to forget the things she'd said next. Not threats exactly. Her words sounded more like possible futures she could bend toward him if she chose. Hideous, fiery nightmares, all depicting violent ends to his life and his mother's. When Max returned to camp that evening, nobody seemed aware he had been gone. But afterward, strange things began happening. Counselors found him wandering camp barefoot in the middle of the night, with no memory of leaving his cabin. Small objects began disappearing around him, trinkets at first, watches, pocket knives, necklaces. Max hid them carefully afterward. He buried them in the sand along the lakefront, or tossed them deep into the brush outside his cabin. He could never understand why he had taken them to begin with. Yet the compulsion only grew stronger as he grew older. And no matter how many times he left Camp Hexen at the end of each summer, he always found himself returning. First as a counselor, then maintenance staff, then year-round caretaker. By his thirties the camp no longer felt like a job. It felt like gravity. Max looked down at the swollen, violet snarl that was his hand. How did it come to this? What kind of a man was he? Or was he still that frightened, lonely, eleven year old boy wandering lost in the woods? Hadn't his life been his own? Couldn't he have quit, left town, found work somewhere far from Camp Hexen? A nurse stepped into the waiting room and called out while looking down at a metal clipboard. Max Greeley. Weeks passed without Max calling the number Topher had given him. November sank into December. Snow arrived one night and buried the cap beneath drifts that reached the lower cabin windows. Max settled into the old winter routines automatically, shoveling paths, checking pipes, snowshoeing the perimeter trails after storms. At night he sat alone in the lodge, listening to the old furnace cycle on and off beneath the floorboards. His broken fingers didn't heal correctly. Even after the casts came off, his left hand remained rigid and stiff. In the mornings pain radiated through it. He felt ancient. He wondered if he could still do his job. The reclusive life he'd lived made it simple to hide the injury. He told no one. The phone rang one evening while Max was eating canned stew at the kitchen counter. He let it ring five times before answering. Hello? Max. Tofer's voice sounded thin and strained through the receiver. I didn't think you'd ever pick up. Max said nothing. I've been digging into the camp, Topher continued quickly. Former staff, campers, people who worked there thirty, forty years ago. I've been interviewing anyone I can find. Max stared out the kitchen window into the dark while he listened. There are patterns, Topher said. Bad ones. Max felt his stomach tighten. What kind of patterns? A pause crackled on the line. Then Topher continued. His voice was small and guarded. Depressions. Suicides. Missing persons. Way too many connected to Hexen. Topher exhaled shakily. In the dreams. God, Max, so many people describe the same dreams after leaving that place. The woods, someone calling to them. Some of them still dream about it. Decades later. Max had stopped drawing breath. He stood frozen, the phone pressed to his face. Tofer kept talking, agitated now, words spilling over each other. And then I started finding all these forum posts and social media threads, campers complaining about things disappearing during summers, jewelry, watches, personal stuff. He paused again. I think the objects matter somehow. Max closed his eyes. I think taking things from people, it anchors them to the place, Topher said. Maybe psychologically. Maybe something else. A cold wave swept through Max so suddenly he nearly lost his balance. Of course Topher was right to connect these things, the missing objects, the hair, the dreams, the woman in the clearing. Suddenly, Max understood that he belonged on this list as much as anything else. For years he had convinced himself that the thefts were simply part of whatever hold she had over him, a private sickness, a humiliation meant only for him to carry. The vast majority of the time he simply didn't think about it at all. The moments this part of his life surfaced were like fugue states he paced through like a sleepwalker. But now another possibility opened beneath his feet. He had been helping her, not just feeding her desire for possessions. He'd helped bind people to Camp Hexen long after they'd gone home, ruining them. People had died because of him. Max, Topher asked. You still there? Max hung up the phone. For a long moment he stood motionless in the kitchen, listening to the hum of the refrigerator. Then he opened the cabinet above the refrigerator and pulled down a dusty bottle of peppermint schnapps left behind after a staff reunion Christmas party two winters earlier. Although he never indulged in drink, he twisted off the cap and drank straight from the bottle. Max woke sometime after midnight with a sour taste of schnapps still coating the back of his throat. He still had his boots on. His teeth felt fuzzy and his tongue fat. For several seconds he lay in the darkness, disoriented and afraid. The lodge was silent except for the low groan of the furnace beneath the floorboards. His left hand throbbed beneath the blankets with a deep, miserable ache that never fully left him now. He could feel his heartbeat inside the ruined fingers. Then the sound came again. The sound that had woken him. A dull crunch somewhere outside. Max closed his eyes tightly. The old fear spread through him immediately, but now it carried something heavier than terror alone. Shame. Exhaustion. A bleak certainty that whatever waited for him outside would only drag him deeper into the life he had spent decades trying not to examine too closely. Another sound. Closer this time. Snow compressing beneath slow footsteps. Max remained frozen beneath the blankets. He told himself it was nothing. Wind settling snow from the branches, a deer moving between the cabins. The camp made all sorts of noises if you listened hard enough. But beneath those excuses lived another certainty. It was her. The broken hand resting against his chest felt suddenly unbearable. Then a pale beam of light slid silently across the ceiling. Max sat upright so quickly, pain exploded through his fingers. Someone was outside the lodge. The flashlight beam drifted between the cabins across camp, appearing and vanishing through falling snow. The thought of opening the door and stepping back into that darkness filled him with a dread so overwhelming it made his stomach clench. He felt so old, old and tired, entrapped inside a life that no longer seemed like his own. He propped himself on one elbow and peered out the window. The light was there, distant now, a single beam bouncing slowly away from him. He forced himself out of bed and dragged on his coat one-handed. By the time he stumbled outside, snow had begun falling in thin, drifting flakes. The beam of light moved slowly between the last cluster of cabins ahead of him. A flashlight, and beneath it, a familiar figure in a dark winter coat. Topher. He was alone. Max lurched off the porch after him. In seconds, Topher had crossed the archery field and reached the tree line. Max squinted into the dark and saw the man disappear into the forest. Max stumbled through the snow, breath tearing raggedly through his throat. It was falling hard now. Thick, wet flakes spiraled through the moonlight and swallowed the woods beyond into shifting white darkness. Ahead of him, Topher's flashlight bobbed between the trees. Topher, Max shouted. But the snow swallowed his voice almost immediately. He pushed harder, boots slipping beneath him, his ruined hand throbbing violently against his chest. But Topher was gone, far ahead. Max knew where he'd find him. When Max reached the clearing, he stopped dead at the edge of the trees. Topher sat cross legged in the snow at the center of the clearing like a child listening to a bedtime story. Across from him sat the woman. No, not the woman, not exactly. She looked younger now, her skin smooth and pale in the falling snow. Dark hair hung over narrow shoulders wrapped in raggedy grey cloth. She was beautiful, but the voice was the same, soft, gentle. You've been unfaithful to your wife, she murmured. Tofer stared at her blankly. You didn't attend your father's funeral. Cold terror bloomed in Max's gut. The words struck with the same awful intimacy as the things she had whispered to him as a boy in this very clearing. Not accusations exactly, worse than that. Awful secrets opened gently with careful fingers. Tofer's flashlight rested, forgotten in the snow beside him. The woman reached forward and touched the side of his face almost tenderly. Max understood what was happening. She was taking him. The old instinct to obey surged through Max so suddenly his knees nearly weakened. Beneath him. Part of him wanted to step quietly into the clearing and kneel beside Tofer like a servant returning to his place. Then something inside him finally revolted. No, Max heard himself say. The word came out weak and broken, but he charged from the trees anyway. Bracing his ruined hand against his chest, he lowered his shoulder and drove toward the woman with every ounce of strength left in his body. Just before he reached her, she raised one hand calmly toward him. Max's chest struck something invisible. The impact stopped him instantly. It felt like running full speed into a steel cable stretched across the clearing. His legs flew out from beneath him and he crashed hard onto his back. The world vanished white. For several seconds he could not breathe. He lay sprawled in the snow, choking desperately for air while pain fired through his ribs and broken hand alike. The world swam in and out around him. Snow gathered against his coat and melted weakly against his face. When his vision finally steadied again, tremendous weight pressed down across his body. Max lifted his head weakly. A massive flat stone had been laid across his torso from ribs to hip, like a slab. Smaller rocks had been wedged carefully around it. He could barely draw breath beneath the crushing pressure. Panic surged through him. He tried to move. He was trapped. Above him, boots crunched softly through the snow. Topher emerged from the woods, carrying another huge stone in both arms. His face was utterly blank. Topher, Max rasped. Stop. Topher gave no sign he had heard. He lowered the stone carefully onto the slab, adding weight. Max's face darkened, his breaths became tiny, panicked gasps. Topher stepped back several paces, breathing heavily. Then he turned his head toward the far edge of the clearing as though listening to someone standing just beyond the trees. Max tried to look too. The woman was gone, but he understood immediately she was still there, watching. Tofer disappeared into the trees once more. When he returned he carried another stone. It was enormous. He could scarcely manage it. He shuffled slowly through the falling snow, trembling with effort until he stood directly over Max. The stone hung there. It was the only thing Max could see. Max stopped struggling then. The fear drained out of him all at once, leaving only exhaustion and terrible sadness. All his life he had obeyed her. Now another poor man was being bent into the same shape. I'm sorry, he whispered. Snow settled softly against Max's face. Topher dropped the stone.

Epilogue

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It was high summer. The trees swayed lazily in the July heat. Camp Hexen was brimming with activity. Campers swarmed over the fields, shouting, laughing, chasing. Any minute a bell would ring, summoning the camp, 300 strong, to the mess hall for lunch. Tofer sat on the tractor, watching. Once the kids had cleared out to lower camp, he could finally get this field mode. A little girl in a bright green ball cap broke away from the others near the edge of the woods. She stood there alone for several seconds, staring into the trees. Tofer thought he saw her lift one foot as though preparing to step into the forest. Just then, the lunch bell rang. The girl blinked and ran back toward camp.

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Channel Outro

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Until next time, sleep well.