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

the cop informs Willie.
    “Absolutely,” Willie says. “That guy always seemed suspicious.”
    “No,” the policeman says. “Not because of that. I wanna know how I can buy my own bottle of Duck Scent cologne!”
    THE END
    Start over.
    Read “The Shadows That Follow Us: A Note from John Luke Robertson.”

STAYING HOME

    WHATEVER’S GOING ON AT THAT CAMP can surely wait till you’ve had a good night’s rest. John Luke decides to spend the night at your house so the two of you can drive over first thing tomorrow morning. The Egyptian Ratscrew game finally ends, but everybody takes their time leaving. You wind up going to bed at a later hour than usual and fall asleep in about ten seconds.
    A high-pitched scream wakes you.
    “What was that?” you mutter to Miss Kay, who is already awake and looking out the window.
    “Sounds like some kind of animal.”
    It’s unlike any animal you’ve ever heard. It reminds you a bit of the nasally, braying noise of a mule, but it’s much higher. And it lasts much longer.
    “Maybe it’ll stop in a minute,” Miss Kay says, climbing back into bed.
    “It better be stoppin’ in a minute.”
    If there’s one thing in this world you don’t like, it’s being woken up. The kids and the grandkids have always known that. It takes a lot to wake you, and if something or someone does, they better watch out.
    After about five minutes, you realize you’re going to have to get out there and deal with this. Being woken up is one thing, but being forced from your bed is another.
    This is gonna be the last sound that animal ever makes.
    You put on some clothes and shoes, then head toward the front door.

    The room where John Luke is sleeping is quiet, so you leave him alone. He’s a heavy sleeper like you and the rest of the Robertson boys. And you’re sure you can handle this creature yourself.
    You grab a rifle and a flashlight and silently open the door. The outdoor lights are on, illuminating the yard. As you shut the door behind you, the sound stops. You step in the direction the noise came from, but everything is quiet.
    As you venture down a trail into the woods, you keep waiting for the sound to start up again. For a second, you stop and listen.
    Nothing.
    The worst part is you’re wide-awake now. This is why you don’t like to be woken up. Once it happens, it’s almost impossible to go back to sleep.
    The bushes ahead of you rustle, and then you hear the sound again. It’s louder out here. You aim the high-powered flashlight toward it but don’t see anything. You walk closer, the annoying clamor louder than ever. But nothing appears unusual.
    After searching for about twenty minutes, with the strange noise coming and going, you see bushes shake and hear branches snap as if something large is moving around. But you still can’t see whatever it is.
    Just like that, all the noises stop. The animal that was making this eerie sound   —no trace of it.
    Well, that’s weird.
    You know it’s gotta be close   —maybe only a few feet from you, using the cloak of darkness as its camo.
    You’re not sure whether to stay outside until you find it or to go back inside and try getting some sleep.

    Do you stay outside? Go here .
    Do you go inside? Go here .

SLASHER

    YOU FEEL SOMETHING WARM against your cheek. You’re deep in sleep, but this sensation   —it’s strange. It’s almost like someone’s standing over you, watching you, breathing on you. A person with hot breath and a cold heart.
    Something scrapes along your bed.
    You open your eyes with a jolt and scan the room.
    No hot breath or cold heart to be seen. Surely you were just dreaming.
    Then you hear mumbling from the bed next to you.
    “I didn’t . . . No, it moved   —I didn’t hit it. . . . The tree hit the Jeep.”
    It’s only John Luke talking in his sleep.
    “A hundred trees   —mean trees   —flipped the Jeep. . . . Bad tree.”
    You decide to leave your talking grandson and head to the