Free Phil and the Ghost of Camp Ch-Yo-Ca by John Luke Robertson

cabins. They’re banging into each other because there are literally thousands. Tens of thousands? Hundreds of thousands?
    As you lead John Luke out, he starts shaking his head and resisting.
    â€œNo,” he says. Then, louder, “No, no!”
    â€œIt’s okay,” you say, your arm still around him. “We’ll be fine.”
    â€œI know. But why are you acting like I can’t walk?” he asks.
    â€œOh. Sorry. Just helpin’.”
    Side by side, you move slowly through the sea of ducks, careful not to enrage them. You don’t want them suddenly attacking. This many of anything would take you down. They might just all try to land on you at once and suffocate the life out of you.
    John Luke accidentally kicks a duck in the head.
    â€œEasy,” you whisper. “We have to make it to the Jeep.”
    There are ducks all over the vehicle too. It’s like a snowstorm with ducks instead of snowflakes. You have to shoo away ducks from the windshield and the roof.
    Once inside the Jeep, you’re both too stunned to talk. John Luke starts the engine.
    â€œHow’d this happen?” he finally asks.
    You shake your head. No idea.
    You don’t know if this duck infestation is only affecting the camp or if it’s happening in other places too.
    What about the rest o f West Monroe? What about all of Louisiana?
    You turn on the radio but don’t hear anything out of the ordinary.
    â€œLet’s go to your house,” you suggest.
    â€œThink Dad will know what’s happening?”
    â€œNo, of course not. But Willie will have a plan. He’s always got a plan.”
    John Luke slowly begins driving, letting the ducks move out of the way. They cover the drive all the way to the main road you take to exit the camp.
    The ducks have revolted.
    Not only that . . .
    They’ve multiplied.

    And you’re sneaking away in the night. This time the ducks are winning.
    Yeah. Some Duck Commander you’ve turned out to be.
    The worst part is, you haven’t even solved the mystery. Could the ducks be responsible for the strange happenings around here? It’s possible. But it’s not like they’re planning to confess anytime soon.
    Wait . . . ducks can’t confess! They can’t even talk. I must be starting to quack up.
    THE END
    Start over.
    Read “The Shadows That Follow Us: A Note from John Luke Robertson.”

THE SCENT OF MYSTERY

    YOU IMMEDIATELY APPROACH THE POLICE, but the officer in charge asks you to take a seat and wait until they can sort things out.
    An hour later, with the fire extinguished after the firemen tried to salvage whatever they could of the burning cabin, a cop walks toward you. You’re sitting at a picnic table with John Luke and Willie, who arrived about thirty minutes ago.
    “You guys know anything about this?”
    He hands you a glass bottle that’s shaped like a duck. You look at it and notice it’s filled with liquid and has a spray top.
    “I know what that is,” Willie says, taking the bottle from you. “It’s a cologne some guy was trying to brand with Duck Commander. He was callin’ it ‘Duck Scent.’ Where’d you find this?”
    “It was in the field   —a few bottles of it,” the cop says.
    “That guy was carrying a backpack full of something,” you say.
    “I wonder if it’s the nut job who tried to sell this to us,” Willie says.
    “What was wrong with it?” you ask.
    Willie sprays it a few times so you can get a nice good sniff.
    It smells rancid, like someone died.
    Then you remember smelling something like that before.
    When John Luke and I picked up the hitchhiker.
    Could it be he wasn’t covered in body odor, but rather was wearing the never-to-be-released Duck Commander Duck Scent cologne?
    “How can somethin’ smell so bad?” you ask.
    “That’s awful,” John Luke says, coughing.
    “We’re gonna want to get the name of the guy trying to sell you this stuff,”