October 1, 2023.
The campground turned out to be much smaller than the photos on their phones had suggested, a forty foot square plot of matted, rotting leaves and discarded cellophane wrappers and rainbow-slicked seepage. A rusted can of a fire pit lay smack in the middle of the ground, canted, and when they got the fire going after dark it spat sparks and oily smoke at them like malevolent vengeance for the impudence of its waking.
To each side of the camp was a thin stagger of dying, recently planted birches, with the aborted idea of separating the area from its neighbors, idiot recreational vehicles and their idiot habitants. The vehicles spewed pollution, chemical, audible, into the night, competing nu-metal setlists billowing along with the pigrotten smell of something horrible burning on the propane grills.
The firepit stank of gasoline. They sat around it, plans for s’mores abandoned, instead ritualistically passing a handle of cheap gas station rum and a two liter of Sprite around the ring.
“This tastes like infected piss,” said the sous chef, approvingly. The maître d', wrapped up in a Patagonia sweater and a knit hat, shrugged. “Well at least I brought something.”
The executive chef, who accidentally had not brought any food or supplies, pretended not to have heard him, but in his head, logged it for a later point of discussion.
The owner, who was 63 and had a serious drinking problem, smiled gamely at everyone around the circle. He was proud of himself for having come up with this great idea of a motivational outing for his staff, and due to his car ride six White Claws and 6.8 fl oz of peach Johnny Bootlegger, did not recognize the general malaise or poor state of the camp. He was smoking a long cigarette.
“I have a good idea,” he slurred, yellow cigarette smoke drooling from his small mouth, “Let’s tell spooky campfire stories.”
The sous chef did his best Brian Blessed, who he vaguely resembled and which added to the effect: “Once upon a time, there was a failing restaurant, and instead of getting monetary compensation for several awful months of service, they were dragged out to a campground and forced to be around each other outside of work hours.”
A smatter of bitter laughter passed around the ring of kitchen staff. The camper to their left began piping out the opening screeches of Freak on a Leash, covering the sounds of an escalating domestic dispute. “No no,” said the owner. “Like hook hand guy. Once upon a time, there was a guy with a, uh hook hand. He had escaped from a mental asylum. And he sounded, like this!”
He scraped the arm of his chair with his manicured fingernails, which created a dull and not very scary sound.
“Hum. I’ve got one,” muttered the heavily tattooed chef de partie, who until now had been silently musing on whether to give two weeks notice from the restaurant, or just walk out, head to Mason, Georgia to live with her uncle who fixed appliances, and let them sort it out.
The owner, who didn’t seem to have heard her, continued his very bad story. “It was a night, and there was a boyfriend and girlfriend who were in their car, up on Makeout Point, and they were, you know… doing it…”
“Doing what,” inquired the sous chef.
“I’ve got one,” repeated the chef de partie, louder. She took a long draught of the rum, chased it with Sprite, and handed it over to the maître d'. The orange light from the pitfire cast shifting shadows up her dour face, two points of dancing flame in the dark hollows of her eyes.
The other members of the circle watched her, waited as she gathered her thoughts. When she began, her voice had an odd tremble to it, that none of them had heard from her before, but each of them had heard coming from their own mouths, in the dark and hopeless corners of the night.
“I used to know this guy. Mid thirties, nondescript, heavyset, patchy beard. Each year, each October, he does these little writing exercises, little ironic scary stories, maybe a couple lines, maybe a couple paragraphs, and posts them on Facebook every day, or every other day, or whatever.”
“Facebook still exists?” asks the maître d', and no one is quite sure if he’s joking. The chef de partie ignores him and continues.
“He posts these little stories, going on nine years, now. It started off as just a little goof, something trivial to throw away as a joke while he worked on bigger and better things, but as time has passed, more and more of his dreams have fallen by the wayside, his hopes have fizzled, and the grand things he thought his life would be are rapidly slipping through his fingers, if they haven’t already slipped completely. ”
“So now, these little stories end up being a highlight for him, something to look forward to. ‘Got some good ideas for some Spooktober Stories,’ he’ll slur drunkenly to one of the few people who still speak to him. They just smile and nod, but why would they care? Most of his other relationships dissolved once they realized he’s a dead end of a human being, consumed by pride, vanity, and some misplaced conviction that he’s a ‘good person,’ which makes him sick with inaction, an unwillingness to change, improve himself, dig himself out of the hole he is sinking into.”
“This year, I imagine he’ll do it again. And, if he’s still alive next year, as his body bloats with disuse and hedonistic indulgence, he’ll do it again. Twenty, twenty five Facebook posts, each year, to no greater purpose, his failing brain dribbling out these nothing stories to the void, to three or four ‘likes’ apiece, and then… death, I guess.”
She stops there. The rest of the circle waits for the punchline, but she doesn’t produce one. Instead she just lights a Pall Mall, blows tar smoke at the oil smoke from the firepit.
“Uh,” starts the sous chef. “I mean, that’s kind of sad, but this is supposed to be a scary story. That’s not scary.”
The chef de partie leans forward, incensed, the reflection of the fire now blazing in her eyes. “Not scary? No, no, you’re wrong. You’re dead wrong.”
She grins at everyone, flames licking the wetness of her teeth, black shadows and firelight dancing along her face. “Because these sad, little stories, written by a pathetic, useless failure… oh, babes…”
“You’re IN one.”
WELCOME, TO SPOOKTOBER STORIES
YEAR 9