Virgo
Cellar Dwelling Witchcraft
by Chase TheQueerXXX
Forward
This story was requested by @CellarDweller
For those of you who don’t know Chuck (CellarDweller), he’s a big fan of the 1998 paranormal drama series Charmed. He suggested I write a story about him that was like a Charmed episode. One where he is a male witch whose powers are activated, and he battles a demon. I’m afraid I haven’t seen that many episodes of Charmed, but his suggestion stuck with me. So, 20,000 words later, I have driveled away at my keyboard for the past couple of weeks since he suggested it to create a story.
Special thanks to @andy for all that he does in creating, maintaining, and running this forum. Many thanks to my readers, @Bookworm and @Cridders88 , who surprised me with their encouragement. To @Meebs, @LJay , @InbetweenDreams , @Insertnamehere , @Bhp91126 and my other friends for helping each other out in making GS a supportive online refuge. The biggest thanks goes to Chuck. When I told him how my story about him had evolved into something serious, he gave me permission to write whatever the muse tells me and go ahead and share it.
I must say though, I can’t really call the main character the same Chuck as CellarDweller. As I wrote this story, I began to realize just how much I don’t know him. This is especially true given the fact that I decided to base the story around him gaining his witchcraft at the age of 15. It is hard for me to write a fictionalized version of someone at 15, when I don’t even know who I was at 15. So don’t make any judgements about the real Chuck based on this character. If anything, this character is more me than him, but I wouldn’t say that, either.
One more thing – Chuck asked for a story about him battling a demon. You will find the antagonist of this story to be a far greater evil than a demon on an episode of Charmed. So, I must give a warning.
Warning: This story contains adult language and depictions of homophobia, bullying, violence, and the 1980s AIDS scare that some readers may find disturbing and triggering. Reader discretion is advised.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This work is written in first person from the perspective of a fictional character. All views, beliefs, and opinions expressed are those of a fictional character and not the author.
Prologue
No magic will ever break what my first love gave to me. I’m 51 and it’s been 36 years, and that ghost still haunts me. Such a cruel fate, to be given the powers of the universe, but live without my first love.
I lay on my bed, checking my favorite forum over my phone. GS is slow today. I’ve held the win of the Last Post Wins thread for over an hour. I should be happy – I have the win! Yet no one is chiming in, making me feel lonely. I refresh the page. Cridders88 just stole the win from me. I’m tempted to cross the pond right now and give him a piece of my mind!
That would be something. Me just poofing into his bedroom and telling him it’s my win. The look on his face would be priceless! Well, I suppose it would be trespassing. Maybe I’ll just pop in front of his front door and give him a knock. No, it’s eleven at night right now. I don’t know how many hours ahead the UK is, but it’d be that more creepy, that more suspicious.
I check the dating websites. I’ve been messaged by a man who looks like the adult version of my Alex. I check my inbox – it’s a picture of his you-know-what. I click block. Maybe something could have worked out, but if he looks like my Alex, I need him to be serious for me.
Time for bed. I see a hornet crawling on my bedside lamp. I snap my fingers and it drops dead. I snap my fingers again, and the corpse of the vile thing disappears.
If only my memories of Alex could disappear. If only. Time for bed.
Chapter 1
I’m not sure I want to go to summer camp. It was fun when I was in grade school, still fun in middle school, but I’m not so sure about it still being fun in high school. Ever since I found out I was gay, I’ve had to be a lot more careful. It’s like I woke up one morning and realized I had a secret that could kill me if it got into the wrong hands. It’s like? No, it is. If the guys at camp find out, I’m dead.
Out the window, I see a sign that says Welcome to Pittsburg, New Hampshire. We’re almost there. We’re in the middle of nowhere. All I see out the window is trees. Maybe if I bug mom enough, she’ll take me back home. “Mom,” I say, “I told you, I don’t want to go to camp.”
“But your father and I are going away too,” she says. “Your father’s company only booked him a one bed hotel room. There isn’t enough room for the three of us. I can at least rent a car, but if you go with him, you’ll be trapped in the hotel while he’s working. I don’t want him going away alone, and I don’t want you at the house alone.”
“I’m fifteen, mom. I’m old enough to stay home alone.”
“This is the only summer camp we can afford to send you that lasts the entire summer,” says my mom, “so you’re going, and that’s final!”
I grumble. I don’t want to go to summer camp. I like the outdoors, but I’m just not in the mood for it. I turn on the radio.
“Il fait beau,” says a French voice over the radio, “il y a du soleil.” I spin the nob on the radio. It’s more French.
“Oooh,” says my mom. “We must be close to the Canadian border. I guess New Hampshire borders the French part.”
Out the window, all I see is trees. Trees, an occasional hunting shop sign, trucks with New Hampshire, Vermont, and Maine plates, sedans with Quebec plates. We’re in the middle of nowhere, and I can’t even listen to the radio because I don’t understand French. Mom finds a French jazz station and starts humming to the tune. I see the trees clear, and over a railing, a dark blue lake. We turn down a dirt road, the lake disappears, and we’re surrounded by trees again.
The dirt road is bumpy. The highway sliced through the woods, but this road is inside the woods. It’s a lot spookier inside it. The bottom branches aren’t leafy or needled because they’ve been deprived of sunlight.
We drive into the camp. It sits in a clearing in the woods. The facilities are in several large, log cabin style lodges, and the sleeping quarters are all in a Smurf village of tiny wooden cottages. An American flag flaps high in the center of the camp, a direct defiance to the Québécois that blasts the airwaves.
My mom drops me off and leaves me stranded. I go to my assigned cottage. My summer roommate is already unpacked. He looks hot. He’s a lot taller than me and looks a few years older. I’m tempted to imagine him with his shirt off, but I have a feeling he’s not gay, so I better not think about it. “Hi,” I say, “I’m Chuck.”
“Hi Chuck,” he says, “I’m Kyle. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here before.”
“It’s my first time,” I say. “Not my first time at a summer camp though. I used to go to this other camp in Pennsylvania, but it only takes kids up to fourteen. I’m fifteen now.”
“We’re all high schoolers here,” says Kyle. “You have a funny accent, where’re you from?”
“New Jersey,” I say, trying my best to sound as standard as possible.
I change into my camp uniform. It looks pretty close to a Boy Scout’s uniform (thank God it isn’t). I talk with Kyle. We have some similar interests. We both like Super Friends, but he isn’t as big a fan as I am. He’s 18 and is considered a Scout Leader. He tells me the ins and outs: Although we’re in New Hampshire, the camp is called Camp Connecticut, after the Connecticut Lakes, but everyone calls it Camp C, and us C-Scouts. The pecking order is based on seniority. None of us student campers can buy booze here in New Hampshire because the drinking age is 20, but it’s still 18 in Vermont, so the seniors sometimes hitch rides there and back, and if you’re nice to them, they might share some with you.
“What about you?” I ask, “do you drink?”
“Yeah,” says Kyle. “It’s a pain in the ass to get it, though. I charge freshman ten bucks plus the price of their booze.”
Yikes! Ten dollars is a lot of money. Mom didn’t leave me with any money. I guess I’m not drinking. We don’t say much until it’s time to eat.
“Let’s go to the mess hall,” says Kyle. “You first.”
I open our cottage door and step forward. I trip.
“Rrrarre!” snarls a cat.
I look up and see a huge cat the size of a German Shepherd. It’s practically a lion. It prances off into the woods. “What was that?” I ask.
“One of the witch’s cats,” says Kyle.
I stand back up and brush the dirt off my knees. I have a feeling Kyle knew I might trip. “The witch?” I ask.
“She lives nearby,” says Kyle. “She’s a crazy cat lady. She lives in a big shack that’s off the grid with tons of cats. Be careful, according to legend, she eats C-Scouts. Boils us alive in one her cauldrons in her shack. She can put a curse on you if you’re not careful.”
“Is that why that cat was so big?” I ask. “Magic?”
“No,” says Kyle. “That was a Maine Coon. She has tons of them, and they all sneak around camp like they own the place. Don’t mess with them, it’s said if you step on one, the witch will put a curse on you.”
“But I just did,” I say.
“Sucks to suck,” says Kyle. We go to the mess hall. Already, I feel the effects of the curse, as there’s been an accident in the kitchen, delaying dinnertime for a few more hours. Outside, Kyle meets up with more senior boys.
“It sucks that they make us share a room with the freshies,” says one of them.
I can tell I don’t belong with them, so I walk away. I walk around the camp, feeling like an outsider. I see a trail run through the woods with a sign saying it goes to the camp’s beach and docks on the First Connecticut Lake. It’s funny, we’re in a town called Pittsburg, but it’s the opposite to the city of Pittsburgh; we’re still in the states, but French is all over the radio; we’re in New Hampshire, but the lake has Connecticut in its name. I walk the trail.
I come to the lake. It’s beautiful. The beach isn’t sandy, it’s rocky and muddy. The water looks calm, with Jell-O-like ripples giggling across the surface. I see a boy who looks my age standing on a rickety pier. He’s in the same uniform as I am. I go to him.
I stand behind him, and he continues standing there, staring at the lake. He turns around and stares back at me. At once, I feel my heart sink. He looks so cute, with boyish good looks and a mop-top of hair. His socks are pulled up to his shorts, kind of dorky, but he pulls it off. He sighs and turns back to the lake.
“Is something wrong?” I ask.
“Huh?” he says. He turns back to me. “You can see me?”
“Of course I can see you,” I say. “What? Are you supposed to be invisible?”
“Well, yeah.”
I laugh. I touch him on the shoulder. “I think I’m supposed to be invisible, too.”
“You can touch me too?” he asks.
“Sorry,” I say.
“It’s okay,” he says. “Who are you?”
I tell him my name. “But you can call me Chuck,” I say. “I’m 15 and from Jersey – or Joisey, as it’s also called. I’m 15 and it’s my first time here.”
“I’m Alexandre Duplantier,” he says, “but you can call me Alex. I’m 15 too and from around here.”
“So is this your first summer at Camp C, too?”
“No,” he says.
I talk with Alex. He’s very agreeable. It’s not like talking to Kyle at all. Kyle just has this attitude that he’s my senior, so I need to be thankful for his existence. Alex on the other hand just comes across as a guy who feels more lost than I am. Maybe it’s because he’s a local, and all the other guys are mostly from big cities.
I see Alex slouch his shoulders. I can’t see his neck because he’s wearing that silly camp-issued neckerchief, but I can tell he’s almost trying to expose it to me, as if I’d go for his jugular. I feel like I can tell him anything, and he’d just be a shy little wallflower and not tell anyone else. I start unloading my secrets on him. I don’t tell him I’m gay, but something about him makes me feel like I could.
“And sometimes I just burst out laughing at the most crazy of things!” I say.
Alex giggles. “That is . . . unfortunate.”
My stomach growls. I put my hands to my stomach. “I’m so hungry. Let’s go check if dinner is finally ready in the mess hall.”
“Okay,” say Alex. “You go ahead, I’ll meet up later.”
I ask him if he’s sure, and when he says he is, I head back to the main camp. I feel like I shouldn’t leave him there, but I’m really hungry. Back at the mess hall, most seats are already taken. The only seat available is next to Kyle and some other senior guys.
I sit next to Kyle and say hi. Kyle rolls his eyes and says, “My roommate.”
That was uncomfortable. I guess Kyle only prefers seniors, but I guess I can’t blame him. I mean, the seniors are practically adults. If this is summer camp, that’d make them high school graduates, wouldn’t it? Well, at least I made friends with Alex.
I look around the hall, trying to find Alex. I can’t see him. It’s hard because we’re all a bunch of clones in the same dorky scout uniform. I take a good look at all the guys with mop top hair, but don’t see Alex.
“Are you trying to find someone?” asks Kyle.
“Oh, just this guy I met earlier. He’s my age. His name is Alex.”
“I think we have three Alexes here,” says one of Kyle’s friends. “Alex who?”
“Alex … Alex something French,” I say, “Alex-an-dray Dew-plant-tay, or something like that, but he goes by Alex.”
“What?” says Kyle’s friend. They all give me a funny look. “Alex Duplantier? He’s dead.”
“But I just met him on the lake.”
“Well,” says Kyle, “that’s probably where his ghost would be. He was a freshman scout who killed himself by drowning himself in the lake. Took a canoe and jumped in with rocks in his pockets. His body had to be fished out. That was years ago.”
“But I just saw him,” I say.
“Either you saw a ghost or someone’s pulling your leg,” says Kyle.
“Or you’re pulling our legs,” says one of Kyle’s friends.
I drop the subject. I don’t want them thinking I’m trying to fool them. Alex doesn’t strike me as a liar. Maybe Alex is a cousin or little brother to the Alex who killed himself, that’d explain why he looked sad. Or maybe it’s a common name up here. We’re on the Quebec border, maybe there’s a lot of them living around here, and it’s a common French name. I don’t know, I don’t know much about this area.
Dinner ends. I go through a few orientation programs. I sign up for a class that’s supposed to teach me how to make a fire from scratch. I go to a picnic area with other freshman boys and a scout master teaches several techniques for starting a fire with no matches, lighters, or kerosene. It’s a real pain the ass!
I bang some rocks together over some birth bark and my little pile of bark and moss catches on fire. I’m the first one to do it. I feel like a superhero – I can make fire from scratch! The other guys praise me. Praise ends and they go back to toiling away, banging rocks and rubbing sticks together like cavemen.
I guess I lucked out. I have a lot of spare time on my hands, now. Maybe I should use it go find Alex. I’ve been sweating all day though; I want to shower. Crap, there wasn’t a shower in my cottage. Do I have to shower with the others? Probably, these places always have showers you have to share. I better go now before it’s crawling with naked guys. It’d be quite the sight to see, but I have to be careful here.
I go to the showers, wash the bug spray off, and return to my cottage. I read a comic book I packed. Kyle comes back. We don’t say much. Kyle asks me if any of my comics are nudie mags, and is annoyed when I tell him no.
“Maybe you should go to bed now,” says Kyle, irritated.
“Uhh, okay,” I say. I crawl under my covers. I start to shiver. Why is it so cold? I know it’s nighttime now, but it’s almost June. We can’t be that far up North. I close my eyes and picture Alex. His cute face, his mop top hair, his bashful demure, the dorky way he wears his socks. I wish I shared a cabin with him, not Kyle. Maybe he is a ghost, or maybe I’m the one who’s the ghost, or maybe, just maybe, we both are.
Chapter 2
I wake up. Mornings at the camp feel like a drag. I got away with showering alone last night, but I can’t get away with it in the morning. I hurry up and get dressed and run to the mess hall. After I’m done eating, I’m told I have to go to the main lodge to listen to a sermon.
“I thought this wasn’t a religious camp,” I say.
“It isn’t,” says Kyle, “but priests and pastors still sneak in by calling themselves guest lecturers.”
I go to the main lodge. The guest lecturer is an obvious pastor with a King James Version bible. I sit back and listen to the sermon.
“One must be born again,” says the pastor. “As it is said in One Peter, One Twenty-Three, being born again, not of corruptible seed, but of incorruptible, by the word of God, which liveth and abideth forever.”
The sermon goes on for a few hours before it finally ends. Outside the main lodge, I stretch. It was long and boring, but the King James Version verses were very poetic. Every single line had to have been carefully crafted. It makes me want to start writing poetry myself. That sounds like something I could do.
“What’d you think?” asks Kyle.
“It was kind of boring,” I say. “I liked how poetic it was, though. I think I might start writing poetry.”
“Not me,” says Kyle, “poetry is kind of gay. I’m not as religious as that pastor, but I doubt God cares if I’m kissing his ass twenty-four seven. You only go to Hell if you’re a murderer, a rapist, or a faggot or whatever.” Kyle makes a strange, emotionless face. I don’t know what kind of face it is, but it creeps me out. He looks in my eyes and asks, “You’re not a faggot, are you?”
I gulp. “No,” I say.
Kyle glances around at the crowd of scouts. “Good,” he says. “There’s always at least one here. Always at least one. You gotta sniff them out.”
I leave Kyle feeling nerve wrecked. I’m supposed to sign up for at least one camp activity for the day, but I just don’t feel like it. I run into the woods. I run deeper and deeper. I come to a plaster of signs that tells me I’ve reached the Canadian border. I’m tempted to illegally cross the border, but the signs all warn of harsh fines. Mom and dad would be pissed if I got caught by a Mountie and dad had to end his business trip early. I turn back around.
I come to the lake. I see Alex walking along the muddy beach. I run to him. “There you are,” I say. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”
He looks down at the ground and slips his left hand up his right sleeve. “Sorry,” he says, “I wander off sometimes.”
I feel my heart quiver as I talk to him. “Do you like Super Friends?” I ask.
He giggles. “I guess you could call me a fan.”
“How do you feel about The All-New Super Friends Hour?”
“I . . . never heard of that,” says Alex.
I laugh. “Some fan you are.” I see a strange duck bobbing on the lake. It’s mainly black with white spots. A cute duckling is hitching a ride on its back. It has red eyes. “That’s a funny duck,” I say.
“It’s a loon,” says Alex. “They’re not ducks, they’re their own thing.”
I laugh. “A loon! If it looks like a duck, if it quacks like a duck, it’s a duck!”
The loon cries in a high pitch. “AAAAHH EEEE AAAHH EEE EEE!”
Alex laughs. “That doesn’t sound like a duck.”
I laugh and shake a mock fist in front of him. “Watch it, you! Okay, it’s not a duck. Man that call was annoying.”
“Not all loon calls are bad,” says Alex. “Their call can be beautiful.”
I smile. “You’re beautiful,” I say. I feel my heart thud at the realization of what I just said. I can’t believe I just said that aloud!
“Thanks,” says Alex. “Um, you are too.”
I see him blushing. I want to hug him, but I don’t know if it’s okay. “Thank,” I say.
“Do you want to go for a walk with me?” he asks. “Through the woods?”
“With you? I do.” I walk with Alex through the woods. To me it’s more of a hike, but that’s what I love about it. I really do love the outdoors. I also think I might love Alex.
Alex won’t come with me to the mess hall to eat. Maybe it’s a good thing, because Kyle would see me drooling over him. By nighttime, I return to my cottage. Kyle gives me his goodnight eyeroll and grunt, and in the dark, I put my hands on my heart and think of Alex.
Chapter 3
I feel time rushing by me. I wake up, shower, get dressed, eat breakfast, go to Alex, eat lunch, go to Alex, eat dinner, go to Alex, shower, go to sleep, repeat. I don’t know how he gets away without eating. He’s a skinny dangly thing, but he isn’t a skeleton. He says he’s a local, so maybe he’s allowed to eat at his parents’ house, if that’s nearby somewhere.
I’m not sure what month it is now. It can’t be May anymore. It could still be June, but it could also be July or even August. I don’t care because I just want to see Alex. I finish my dinner and march back towards the lake. A hand grabs me by my neckerchief and yanks me back. I turn around and see a scout master. I don’t know him, but I notice his name, Earl, sowed on his uniform.
“Chucky,” says Earl, “I noticed you haven’t been signing up for any activities.”
“Oh, sorry,” I say. “I’ve just been doing a lot of hiking. I really like hiking.”
“That’s great,” says Earl, “but you don’t have to do it alone. We have hiking groups, you know.”
“I haven’t been doing it alone. I’ve been hiking with Alex.”
“Which Alex?”
“Alex Duplantier.”
“That’s not funny,” says Earl. “He was a real boy, like you. I signed you up for archery today. Show up or you’re in trouble.”
I go to the archery group. It’s a group of three other freshman, two sophomores, no juniors, but Kyle and three other seniors. I’m given a bow called a compound, and I find it a hell of a lot harder to fire arrows than in the movies.
“Put some muscle into it, Chucky!” says a senior named Bill.
I grunt as I pull the string back on a loaded bow, release, and my arrow lands a ring away from the bull’s eye. “Not bad,” says Kyle.
“Thanks,” I say, but I know it was sheer dumb luck. We continue practicing for another hour or two. It must be getting late, but the sun is still out, it is summer, after all. As dusk kicks in, we stop archery and just hang out.
Eric, one of the seniors, runs to his cottage and comes back with a 30 pack. “My treat guys,” he says. “Just don’t rat. The freshies can have some too.”
One of the freshmen, Nate, says, “But, but the drinking age in New Hampshire is 20.”
Eric repeats back the sentence in a mock baby voice, “But, but the drinking age in New Hampshire is 20.” He spits on the ground. “Yeah, and I heard next year they’re raising it to 21. I said don’t rat.”
“Yeah,” says Kyle, “don’t be a little bitch.”
I’m handed a beer and I accept it. I don’t feel good illegally drinking, but I got a feeling something bad is going to happen to Nate. The seniors continue leading the group conversation.
“I don’t want to go to college,” says Eric, “but my old man is making me.”
“My dad’s making me go to Harvard,” says Kyle. “He pulled some strings, so I can’t say no. It sucks.”
I sigh. I wish my dad was rich enough to send me to Harvard, never mind pull some strings for me. I really wish I was with Alex right now. Not with him with these guys, though. I’d hate for him to get picked on like poor Nate is right now.
“So Nate,” says Bill, chuckling, “tits or ass?”
Nate groans. He looks uncomfortable. “I, I don’t know,” says Nate.
Kyle laughs. “How could you not know? What are you, a fag?”
“No,” cries Nate.
I’m tempted to tell Kyle guys have butts too, but I resist. I see a tear start to run down Nate’s cheek. I feel like a monster not saying anything. I take another swig of beer, hoping it’ll wash the guilt away. The guys all start to make fun of Nate as he cries. Nate runs away sobbing.
The group laughs hysterically. It reminds me of hyenas I saw on a nature show. Kyle mockingly wipes fake tears from his cheeks. “Boo hoo!” he cries. “What a little bitch. I hope the reason he doesn’t know is because his balls haven’t drop yet, and he’s not a fucking faggot.” He points at me. “What about you, Chuck, tits or ass?”
I’m tempted to say ass, but I think I’m safer with tits. “Tits,” I lie.
Kyle laughs. He’s had four beers so far and is clearly drunk. “What kind of tits?”
“Um, big ones,” I say.
Eric laughs. “No shit!”
Kyle downs another beer and says in a drunken voice: “There’s always at least one faggot here! Always at least one!” He crushes the beer can, tosses it, and points to the other two freshmen. “Which one of yooz is it?”
“Isn’t it Nate?” says one of them.
Eric hiccups and says, “Nope. He can’t know if dudes give him a boner yet cuz that little bitch’s balls haven’t dropped yet.” I cringe on the inside. I don’t know how far into puberty Nate is, but I’m pretty sure he at least started it. Kyle’s joke had apparently turned into a fact. That’s something I never understood – how people turn jokes into reality.
“I’ve seen hair on all your peaches in the showers,” says Kyle. He has that creepy look on his face again. It’s like a little switch is going off in his brain. “Tits or ass?”
“Speaking of the showers,” says Bill, “I heard a rumor there’s a dude who always has a boner in there.”
Kyle spits on the ground. “Fuck. See, I told you? There’s always at least one. Do we know who it is?”
“No,” says Bill. “Too bad. I’d like to drown that faggot in the lake. Does anyone here have any idea who it might be? No joking, this is serious. I don’t want to get butt-raped by a queer or catch its AIDS.”
The group starts speculating. Thankfully I’m not hearing Alex’s name come up. One of the sophomores is saying he has a hunch it’s a guy named Jack, and a freshman named Tylor thinks it’s a guy named Patrick. Kyle digs his hand into the 30-pack box. Despite charging ten bucks for beer runs, he seems pretty entitled to his friend Eric’s generosity. He comes up empty handed and starts stomping on the box. “FUCK!” he screams. “Ugh.” He points at me. “What about you Chuckles? Who do you think is the queer who’s popping a boner in the showers?”
“Uh, I’m not sure,” I say. I really don’t know. Thankfully, I at least know it can’t be me. I’m in and out of the showers.
“Hey Chuck,” says Tylor, “home you’re not in the showers that long? You always seem to rush.”
Kyle looks at me, and I see that switch go off in his brain. A shiver runs down my spine. I swear to God, there is just something about that look. I gulp. “I, I don’t know,” I say. “I guess, I guess I just don’t like –”
“It’s you, isn’t it?” says Kyle.
“No,” I say, “I’ve never had a . . . I’ve never had a boner in the showers.”
“I mean you’re the fucking queer,” says Kyle. He points at me. “There’s always at least one. There’s always at least one!”
“I’m not,” I say. I back away. I feel myself trembling. Kyle starts stumbling towards me. I feel a raccoon trying to break out of my chest. I run. Run off into the woods.
Big mistake. I shouldn’t have run. Now, it’s obvious. I should have just kept lying. It’s too late now, though, because I am running, and Kyle and the rest of the gang is chasing after me.
An arrow whizzes past me. Jesus Christ, they’re firing arrows at me! Why did I run into the woods? I should have run to one of the lodges, where a scout master could save me. Would a scout master save me? The seniors are technically adults and they’re trying to kill me. No, I’m not safe. Not with the secret of me being gay. It’s not a secret anymore though. I don’t think I’ll ever be safe again. Kyle’s voice echoes through the woods: “COME BACK HERE YOU FUCKING FAGGOT!”
I see a wooden house ahead. There’s no lawn, it’s just a house in the woods. Maybe they’ll be a phone. I can call the cops, or at least mom and dad to pick me up. Fuck, I don’t remember the number they gave me for their hotel!
I run into the house. I hate to be trespassing, but they’re going to kill me. I’m in the middle of nowhere, some gun-crazy rednecks might live here and shoot me to death, but that’d be better than whatever Kyle and the others want to do to me. I try locking the door, but there’s no lock. I can’t see much inside. It’s getting dark outside because the sun is setting, and inside there are no lights. I crawl under a table.
Kyle and the gang run into the shack. Kyle shouts, “Where are you, FAGGOT?”
I put my hand in front of my mouth, trying to contain my panting. I hear Tylor’s voice ask, “What is this place?”
“It’s the witch’s house,” says Bill.
“Rrrearrr!” snarls a cat. In the darkness under the table, a huge mass of fur brushes over me. The paws of a heavy cat sink into my stomach, making me want to squeal.
“Fuck,” says Eric. “Let’s get the hell out of here. Hurry up before we see her.”
“What about the queer?” says Kyle. “We can’t let him go. He’s supposed to be my roommate. I don’t want to get butt-raped in my sleep.”
“The witch will get him now,” says Eric. “Fuck this place. I’ve got the creeps.”
They leave, and I’m left alone in the dark house. My breathing slowly returns to normal. I can’t see anything, but I hear one of the Maine Coons purring. And another one. And another one. Now I don’t know how many of them there are, but I’m surrounded by a pride of huge cats. I don’t know what to do. If this shack is supposed to be off the grid, I guess that means I can’t use a phone.
What if the guys tell the scout masters I’m gay, and the scout masters tell my parents I’m gay? Will mom and dad still love me? It seems like being gay is the worst thing in the world. Maybe I can sneak across the border. Live as a drifter in Canada. Keep going north until I reach the arctic, and freeze to death. I crawl forward.
Creeeeeeeeeeeek. The front door opens. A sliver of moonlight enters the house. “I’m home,” says a raspy, female voice. It’s the witch.
Chapter 4
Candlelight starts to fill the room. I see the witch’s legs from under the table limp back and forth across the shack as she lights candle after candle. She has a ragged dress that goes down to her knees, hairy legs, and homemade moccasins for shoes. One of the lynx-like Maine Coons that’s snuggled up to me scurries over to her and makes a bird-like chirp. “Rreh reh, reh reh.”
I hear the witch say, “What is it Precious?”
“Rreh reh, reh reh.”
“Ooh,” says the witch. “Yum. I haven’t had C-Scout stew in a while.”
“Meow.”
“Alright,” says the witch, “but only because he’s your friend.” She limps towards me. I feel that raccoon trying to tunnel out of my chest again. She bends over and I see her face. “Hello,” she says with a smile.
Her face is old and wrinkled. She has all her teeth, but they’re discolored. Not rotten, just discolored. Despite being a woman, she’s balding. I didn’t know old ladies could go bald. I curl into a ball and say, “Um . . . hi.”
The woman stands back up and continues limping around her shack, lighting candles. I stay curled up under the table, not sure if I should feel scared, silly, guilty, or embarrassed. Another Maine Coon joins me under the table, and I start to feel claustrophobic. I crawl out from under the table and stand up.
In the candlelight, I see most things in the shack are homemade. There’s a fireplace made from stones that look just like the rocks on the lake beach. The floor is uneven, and in the center, there’s a tree stump with a book on it. All the furniture is handmade from the local shrubbery, not polished or treated with polyurethane, but covered in bark. The only thing that doesn’t look homemade are the countless Mason jars that cover the shelves. Half of the glass jars are filled with pickled vegetables, and the other half are filled with dried flowers, dirt, pebbles, and small mummified animals. There’s a large cauldron in the fireplace.
I need to stay rational. Witches don’t exist. This is just an old lady. This house is weird, but maybe she’s Amish or something, or so old she’s stuck in a different time – or a crazy old lady who lost her marbles. “Ahem,” I clear my thought, “I’m really sorry.”
“Sorry for what, dearie?” asks the old lady. She goes to the fireplace. She throws some sticks under the cauldron. She grabs a fire poker, stabs the sticks, and a fire lights up under the cauldron. She starts throwing sprigs into the cauldron, grabs some carrots, and starts chopping them into the stew.
That was scary. It’s almost like she lit that up with magic. There must have been hot embers under the cauldron. I hope she’s not making C-Scout stew. “Sorry for trespassing,” I say.
“You weren’t trespassing,” says the old lady. “You were following the way. The way is strong in you.” She says the way like Ben Kenobi and Yoda say the force in Star Wars. She limps away from the cauldron, picks up a dark brown brick, and carries it over to me. “Acord bread, eat.”
The acorn bread looks gross. It sounds gross, too. Bread made from acorns? Yuck. I broke into her house though; I shouldn’t disrespect her. I try a piece. It tastes sweet and hearty. She goes to the book that’s on the stump. She flips it open and arranges candles around it. “Thanks for the bread,” I say, “what book is that?”
“It’s a grimoire,” says the old lady.
“What’s a grimoire?” I ask.
“It’s my book of shadows,” says the lady. “Well, it’s your book, now. I have no more use for it. Come, read.”
I step towards the book and read what’s on the first page. It’s hard trying to read it in candlelight. It’s written in an old fashion cursive calligraphy. The Power of the Way.
“Aloud,” says the old lady. “Read aloud.”
I read it aloud: “The Power of the Way. By the goddess’s light, by the god’s sight, let the cauldron bubble and the demons trouble. Let the wolves howl and the werewolves scowl. My soul belongs to the way, my songs to the fay. I do not crave to be rich, for till the grave, I am a witch!”
My vision becomes blurry. I am no longer in the shack. All around me, all I can see is gusts of light. A warmth runs down my spine. All throughout my nerves, I feel myself getting tickled, but I can’t burst out laughing because I can’t move. The tickling, the warmth, and the gusts dies down, and I am back in the shack. The old lady is laughing. Her laugh is a mock cackle, like the Wicked Witch from the Wizard of Oz.
“Oh my god,” I say, “are you a witch?”
She continues her fake cackling. “I am sweetie, and now, so are you!” I run to the door. I run outside, hearing her shout “Wait! You forgot your book!”
Outside, it’s gotten darker. In the woods at nighttime, I can barely see the trees around me. I run through the woods, not sure what direction I’m going. Shrubs, twigs, and branches whip into to me as I run. My face gets whipped by what feels like an evergreen branch, and I start to shield my head as I run.
I hear a howling through the woods. “Ahhh whoooo woo! Ahhh whooo woo!” It’s a howling unlike anything I’ve ever heard before. Is it a wolf’s howl? It’s like a ghost, wailing. “Ahh whoo woo! Ahh woo woo!” It sounds so unnatural and out of this world. Only two things I can think of could possibly make it – wolves or ghosts, and neither sounds good.
I see the artificial light of a flashlight ahead of me. I don’t know if I should run to it or not. It could be one of the C-Scouts, out hunting me. I run away from it, but the holder of the flashlight runs after me. A male voice shouts in French: “Arrête ! Halte! Vous arrêtez!” In a thick accent, he shouts: “Stop! Stay!”
He must be a French-Canadian border guard. I must have crossed the border. He could have a gun, I better stop. I stop, and the border guard catches up to me. I stand frozen as the border guard pats me down. He takes a good look at me, pinches the embroidered C-Scout symbol on my uniform, and says something in French over a walkie talkie. His accent is so deep and rugged, it sounds nothing like Pepé Le Pew. I guess I don’t know anything about French Canadians. He grabs my wrist and says, “You come with me.”
“Where are you taking me?” I ask.
“I take you home,” he says. “Back to camp.”
Oh God, I can’t let him take me back to the camp. I’d rather rot in a Canadian prison. “No,” I cry. “Please don’t take me back there!”
“You go back,” he says. He starts pulling me by my wrist.
I’m yanked forward by his pull. He’s very strong. I try to run away, but he only pulls me harder. “Let go of me!” I shout. The guard only grumbles and continues pulling me. “PLEASE DON’T TAKE ME BACK!” At random, the guard’s flashlight blows up.
The artificial light is extinguished. Sparks fly from the bulb. The guard lets go of my wrist and stumbles back. “Christ! Tabarnak! Câlisse!”
I run away. How did that happen? I don’t know, but I need to run away. I can’t get taken back to camp. Tree branches keep whipping into my face as I run. That chilling, phantom howl fills my ears again: Ahh whoo whoo! Ahh whoo woo! It can’t be wolves. I’m one hundred percent convinced now it’s a ghost. Worst than a ghost, probably some sort of demonic banshee or something. Fuck!
A blinding light shines on me. A standard American accent shouts: “Stay right there, son!” I stop and the man catches up to me. He has a uniform that looks close to a police uniform. My eyes adjust to his blinding flashlight, and I see from his badge he’s an American border guard. “Are you Chuck?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say.
“Thank God,” he says. “We were seconds from calling in the choppers. The scout masters at Camp C are worried sick about you.”
“Am I in trouble?”
“No. You don’t get in trouble for getting lost. You did get lost, right?”
“Um . . .” I don’t know what to say. I am lost, but I was running away. I can’t tell him that though. “Yes,” I say.
“Try not to next time,” says the border guard. “Come with me.”
The guard takes me to a border patrol station. I sit down in a room that has an American flag and a huge portrait of Ronald Reagan. Reagan’s portrait is so big, it’s bigger than the flag. I’m given a piece of paper and told to fill out as much personal information as I can. I scribble my address, parents’ names, date of birth, and try to remember my social security number. Meanwhile, the border guard speaks French over the phone.
“Nous l'avons trouvé . . .” says the American border guard, “Merci beaucoup . . . Nous sommes désolés.” His French doesn’t sound anything like his French-Canadian counterpart. That accent was so rugged, I envied it.
One of the guards drives me back to Camp C. My palms are sweating like crazy. I feel like passing out. I get back to camp. I’m greeted by a group of scout masters. They take me to a lodge. I keep expecting them to kill me. They keep asking me questions, but I can’t hear what they’re saying, because my heart is beating so fast, all while I’m super tired. I fall down. A scout master plops me on a chair. He puts his hands on my face and bites his lip.
“Ewe,” he says. Oh God, he must know I’m gay! “His face is all scratched up. He looks sick as a dog, no wonder he got lost. Get the nurse, asap. Hurry up, this has a lawsuit written all over it.”
A camp nurse comes. She’s half-dressed in her nursing uniform and half-dressed in her pajamas. She’s yawning and looks tired. “Alright boys,” she says, “give us some privacy.”
In private, the nurse examines me. As she sticks a popsicle stick down my mouth, I mumble “I wanna go home.”
The nurse yawns. “Me too.” She takes the popsicle stick out and sticks a thermometer in. I move it under my tongue. Maybe if it’s high, they’ll have to send me home. I close my eyes and hope and pray it’ll be high. “Holy crap,” says the nurse. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it that high. Looks like someone has a fever.”
She stops examining me and lets the scout masters back in. She tells them my results. “It was like magic. One moment it was normal, the next it shot right up.”
“Does that ever happen?” asks scout master Earl.
The nurse gives a long yawn. “I don’t know, but he should probably be separated from the other scouts in case he’s contagious.”
“We’ll put him in North Cottage D,” says Earl, “and have his food delivered to him until he gets better.”
I put my hands to my forehead. I don’t feel that hot. “North Cottage D?” I ask.
“It’s an empty cottage on the north end,” says Earl. “It’s supposed to be for scout masters, so it has its own bathroom, lucky you. Not so lucky is the fact that most don’t go near it. People think it’s haunted, even some of us scout masters. You’re not superstitious, are you?”
I remember that haunting, demonic howl I heard in the woods earlier. It was horrifying – but Kyle is more horrifying. I lie and say, “No.”
“Good,” says Earl, “because we already tried your parents and they aren’t answering. I’ll have your things moved in. Is there anything you want me to tell your roommate?”
I shake my head no. Earl tells me to wait while they move my things and prepare my cottage for quarantine. The other scout masters move away from me, hoping to not catch whatever I have. I hear them talk as I wait:
“I saw old lady Evelyn foraging mushrooms the other day. I think I saw her eating them, too. I’m not a mushroom expert, but they didn’t look safe.”
“It’s a sad situation. I tell ya, when my mother gets up there, it’s straight to the nursing home. No ifs, ands, or buts.”
“Her cats at least clean the mice out of my barn. One of ‘em got in the house this morning. My wife thought it was a mountain lion.”
My new quarters are finished. Earl takes me to North Cottage D. We stand in front of the steps and Earl says, “Don’t let the haunted rumors get to you. If you hear something go bump in the night, just tell yourself there’s no such thing as ghosts. I always find reciting the Lord’s prayer helps.”
The otherworldly howl echoes around us. “Oh my God,” I say, “I think I just heard a ghost.”
“I don’t hear no ghosts,” says Earl. The howling continues echoing around us. “It sounds peaceful to me. You should leave the window open. It’ll help you sleep. You’re just imagining things because you’re sick. No get to bed, chop chop.” He starts clapping his hands and gesturing me into the cottage like I’m a dog. I scurry in, and he shuts the door. I notice a lock on the door and immediately lock it. Thank God, at least now I’m safe from Kyle and the other C scouts.
Compared to the cottage I was sharing with Kyle, this one is bigger, but it’s still simple. There are several rooms. I’m in the entryway, which looks like it might also be a small kitchen. There’s a hallway that goes to the backdoor and separates the bathroom from the bedroom. I go to the backdoor and lock it. I go to the bedroom door, open it, and see two twin beds. One is empty, the other has Alex sitting on it.
Alex is somberly staring down at the floor. His mop top hair is dangling over his face, but I can tell he’s sad. “Oh my God,” I say, “Alex! What are you doing here?”
Alex looks up at me. “What? Chuck? Why are you here?”
“I’m sick,” I say. “They put me here so I don’t spread my germs. Why are you here? You might catch what I have.”
“No,” says Alex. “I think . . . I think I have the same thing you have. I am . . . sick too.”
I run to Alex and hug him. I start to cry and hug him tighter. Alex hugs me back. I’m not sure if Alex is crying too. I’d love to look in his face right now, but I love wrapping my arms around him just as much. “They want to kill me, Alex.”
“I know,” says Alex. “They wanted to kill me, too.”
TO BE CONTINUED IN THE NEXT POST
by Chase TheQueerXXX
Forward
This story was requested by @CellarDweller
For those of you who don’t know Chuck (CellarDweller), he’s a big fan of the 1998 paranormal drama series Charmed. He suggested I write a story about him that was like a Charmed episode. One where he is a male witch whose powers are activated, and he battles a demon. I’m afraid I haven’t seen that many episodes of Charmed, but his suggestion stuck with me. So, 20,000 words later, I have driveled away at my keyboard for the past couple of weeks since he suggested it to create a story.
Special thanks to @andy for all that he does in creating, maintaining, and running this forum. Many thanks to my readers, @Bookworm and @Cridders88 , who surprised me with their encouragement. To @Meebs, @LJay , @InbetweenDreams , @Insertnamehere , @Bhp91126 and my other friends for helping each other out in making GS a supportive online refuge. The biggest thanks goes to Chuck. When I told him how my story about him had evolved into something serious, he gave me permission to write whatever the muse tells me and go ahead and share it.
I must say though, I can’t really call the main character the same Chuck as CellarDweller. As I wrote this story, I began to realize just how much I don’t know him. This is especially true given the fact that I decided to base the story around him gaining his witchcraft at the age of 15. It is hard for me to write a fictionalized version of someone at 15, when I don’t even know who I was at 15. So don’t make any judgements about the real Chuck based on this character. If anything, this character is more me than him, but I wouldn’t say that, either.
One more thing – Chuck asked for a story about him battling a demon. You will find the antagonist of this story to be a far greater evil than a demon on an episode of Charmed. So, I must give a warning.
Warning: This story contains adult language and depictions of homophobia, bullying, violence, and the 1980s AIDS scare that some readers may find disturbing and triggering. Reader discretion is advised.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This work is written in first person from the perspective of a fictional character. All views, beliefs, and opinions expressed are those of a fictional character and not the author.
Prologue
No magic will ever break what my first love gave to me. I’m 51 and it’s been 36 years, and that ghost still haunts me. Such a cruel fate, to be given the powers of the universe, but live without my first love.
I lay on my bed, checking my favorite forum over my phone. GS is slow today. I’ve held the win of the Last Post Wins thread for over an hour. I should be happy – I have the win! Yet no one is chiming in, making me feel lonely. I refresh the page. Cridders88 just stole the win from me. I’m tempted to cross the pond right now and give him a piece of my mind!
That would be something. Me just poofing into his bedroom and telling him it’s my win. The look on his face would be priceless! Well, I suppose it would be trespassing. Maybe I’ll just pop in front of his front door and give him a knock. No, it’s eleven at night right now. I don’t know how many hours ahead the UK is, but it’d be that more creepy, that more suspicious.
I check the dating websites. I’ve been messaged by a man who looks like the adult version of my Alex. I check my inbox – it’s a picture of his you-know-what. I click block. Maybe something could have worked out, but if he looks like my Alex, I need him to be serious for me.
Time for bed. I see a hornet crawling on my bedside lamp. I snap my fingers and it drops dead. I snap my fingers again, and the corpse of the vile thing disappears.
If only my memories of Alex could disappear. If only. Time for bed.
Chapter 1
I’m not sure I want to go to summer camp. It was fun when I was in grade school, still fun in middle school, but I’m not so sure about it still being fun in high school. Ever since I found out I was gay, I’ve had to be a lot more careful. It’s like I woke up one morning and realized I had a secret that could kill me if it got into the wrong hands. It’s like? No, it is. If the guys at camp find out, I’m dead.
Out the window, I see a sign that says Welcome to Pittsburg, New Hampshire. We’re almost there. We’re in the middle of nowhere. All I see out the window is trees. Maybe if I bug mom enough, she’ll take me back home. “Mom,” I say, “I told you, I don’t want to go to camp.”
“But your father and I are going away too,” she says. “Your father’s company only booked him a one bed hotel room. There isn’t enough room for the three of us. I can at least rent a car, but if you go with him, you’ll be trapped in the hotel while he’s working. I don’t want him going away alone, and I don’t want you at the house alone.”
“I’m fifteen, mom. I’m old enough to stay home alone.”
“This is the only summer camp we can afford to send you that lasts the entire summer,” says my mom, “so you’re going, and that’s final!”
I grumble. I don’t want to go to summer camp. I like the outdoors, but I’m just not in the mood for it. I turn on the radio.
“Il fait beau,” says a French voice over the radio, “il y a du soleil.” I spin the nob on the radio. It’s more French.
“Oooh,” says my mom. “We must be close to the Canadian border. I guess New Hampshire borders the French part.”
Out the window, all I see is trees. Trees, an occasional hunting shop sign, trucks with New Hampshire, Vermont, and Maine plates, sedans with Quebec plates. We’re in the middle of nowhere, and I can’t even listen to the radio because I don’t understand French. Mom finds a French jazz station and starts humming to the tune. I see the trees clear, and over a railing, a dark blue lake. We turn down a dirt road, the lake disappears, and we’re surrounded by trees again.
The dirt road is bumpy. The highway sliced through the woods, but this road is inside the woods. It’s a lot spookier inside it. The bottom branches aren’t leafy or needled because they’ve been deprived of sunlight.
We drive into the camp. It sits in a clearing in the woods. The facilities are in several large, log cabin style lodges, and the sleeping quarters are all in a Smurf village of tiny wooden cottages. An American flag flaps high in the center of the camp, a direct defiance to the Québécois that blasts the airwaves.
My mom drops me off and leaves me stranded. I go to my assigned cottage. My summer roommate is already unpacked. He looks hot. He’s a lot taller than me and looks a few years older. I’m tempted to imagine him with his shirt off, but I have a feeling he’s not gay, so I better not think about it. “Hi,” I say, “I’m Chuck.”
“Hi Chuck,” he says, “I’m Kyle. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here before.”
“It’s my first time,” I say. “Not my first time at a summer camp though. I used to go to this other camp in Pennsylvania, but it only takes kids up to fourteen. I’m fifteen now.”
“We’re all high schoolers here,” says Kyle. “You have a funny accent, where’re you from?”
“New Jersey,” I say, trying my best to sound as standard as possible.
I change into my camp uniform. It looks pretty close to a Boy Scout’s uniform (thank God it isn’t). I talk with Kyle. We have some similar interests. We both like Super Friends, but he isn’t as big a fan as I am. He’s 18 and is considered a Scout Leader. He tells me the ins and outs: Although we’re in New Hampshire, the camp is called Camp Connecticut, after the Connecticut Lakes, but everyone calls it Camp C, and us C-Scouts. The pecking order is based on seniority. None of us student campers can buy booze here in New Hampshire because the drinking age is 20, but it’s still 18 in Vermont, so the seniors sometimes hitch rides there and back, and if you’re nice to them, they might share some with you.
“What about you?” I ask, “do you drink?”
“Yeah,” says Kyle. “It’s a pain in the ass to get it, though. I charge freshman ten bucks plus the price of their booze.”
Yikes! Ten dollars is a lot of money. Mom didn’t leave me with any money. I guess I’m not drinking. We don’t say much until it’s time to eat.
“Let’s go to the mess hall,” says Kyle. “You first.”
I open our cottage door and step forward. I trip.
“Rrrarre!” snarls a cat.
I look up and see a huge cat the size of a German Shepherd. It’s practically a lion. It prances off into the woods. “What was that?” I ask.
“One of the witch’s cats,” says Kyle.
I stand back up and brush the dirt off my knees. I have a feeling Kyle knew I might trip. “The witch?” I ask.
“She lives nearby,” says Kyle. “She’s a crazy cat lady. She lives in a big shack that’s off the grid with tons of cats. Be careful, according to legend, she eats C-Scouts. Boils us alive in one her cauldrons in her shack. She can put a curse on you if you’re not careful.”
“Is that why that cat was so big?” I ask. “Magic?”
“No,” says Kyle. “That was a Maine Coon. She has tons of them, and they all sneak around camp like they own the place. Don’t mess with them, it’s said if you step on one, the witch will put a curse on you.”
“But I just did,” I say.
“Sucks to suck,” says Kyle. We go to the mess hall. Already, I feel the effects of the curse, as there’s been an accident in the kitchen, delaying dinnertime for a few more hours. Outside, Kyle meets up with more senior boys.
“It sucks that they make us share a room with the freshies,” says one of them.
I can tell I don’t belong with them, so I walk away. I walk around the camp, feeling like an outsider. I see a trail run through the woods with a sign saying it goes to the camp’s beach and docks on the First Connecticut Lake. It’s funny, we’re in a town called Pittsburg, but it’s the opposite to the city of Pittsburgh; we’re still in the states, but French is all over the radio; we’re in New Hampshire, but the lake has Connecticut in its name. I walk the trail.
I come to the lake. It’s beautiful. The beach isn’t sandy, it’s rocky and muddy. The water looks calm, with Jell-O-like ripples giggling across the surface. I see a boy who looks my age standing on a rickety pier. He’s in the same uniform as I am. I go to him.
I stand behind him, and he continues standing there, staring at the lake. He turns around and stares back at me. At once, I feel my heart sink. He looks so cute, with boyish good looks and a mop-top of hair. His socks are pulled up to his shorts, kind of dorky, but he pulls it off. He sighs and turns back to the lake.
“Is something wrong?” I ask.
“Huh?” he says. He turns back to me. “You can see me?”
“Of course I can see you,” I say. “What? Are you supposed to be invisible?”
“Well, yeah.”
I laugh. I touch him on the shoulder. “I think I’m supposed to be invisible, too.”
“You can touch me too?” he asks.
“Sorry,” I say.
“It’s okay,” he says. “Who are you?”
I tell him my name. “But you can call me Chuck,” I say. “I’m 15 and from Jersey – or Joisey, as it’s also called. I’m 15 and it’s my first time here.”
“I’m Alexandre Duplantier,” he says, “but you can call me Alex. I’m 15 too and from around here.”
“So is this your first summer at Camp C, too?”
“No,” he says.
I talk with Alex. He’s very agreeable. It’s not like talking to Kyle at all. Kyle just has this attitude that he’s my senior, so I need to be thankful for his existence. Alex on the other hand just comes across as a guy who feels more lost than I am. Maybe it’s because he’s a local, and all the other guys are mostly from big cities.
I see Alex slouch his shoulders. I can’t see his neck because he’s wearing that silly camp-issued neckerchief, but I can tell he’s almost trying to expose it to me, as if I’d go for his jugular. I feel like I can tell him anything, and he’d just be a shy little wallflower and not tell anyone else. I start unloading my secrets on him. I don’t tell him I’m gay, but something about him makes me feel like I could.
“And sometimes I just burst out laughing at the most crazy of things!” I say.
Alex giggles. “That is . . . unfortunate.”
My stomach growls. I put my hands to my stomach. “I’m so hungry. Let’s go check if dinner is finally ready in the mess hall.”
“Okay,” say Alex. “You go ahead, I’ll meet up later.”
I ask him if he’s sure, and when he says he is, I head back to the main camp. I feel like I shouldn’t leave him there, but I’m really hungry. Back at the mess hall, most seats are already taken. The only seat available is next to Kyle and some other senior guys.
I sit next to Kyle and say hi. Kyle rolls his eyes and says, “My roommate.”
That was uncomfortable. I guess Kyle only prefers seniors, but I guess I can’t blame him. I mean, the seniors are practically adults. If this is summer camp, that’d make them high school graduates, wouldn’t it? Well, at least I made friends with Alex.
I look around the hall, trying to find Alex. I can’t see him. It’s hard because we’re all a bunch of clones in the same dorky scout uniform. I take a good look at all the guys with mop top hair, but don’t see Alex.
“Are you trying to find someone?” asks Kyle.
“Oh, just this guy I met earlier. He’s my age. His name is Alex.”
“I think we have three Alexes here,” says one of Kyle’s friends. “Alex who?”
“Alex … Alex something French,” I say, “Alex-an-dray Dew-plant-tay, or something like that, but he goes by Alex.”
“What?” says Kyle’s friend. They all give me a funny look. “Alex Duplantier? He’s dead.”
“But I just met him on the lake.”
“Well,” says Kyle, “that’s probably where his ghost would be. He was a freshman scout who killed himself by drowning himself in the lake. Took a canoe and jumped in with rocks in his pockets. His body had to be fished out. That was years ago.”
“But I just saw him,” I say.
“Either you saw a ghost or someone’s pulling your leg,” says Kyle.
“Or you’re pulling our legs,” says one of Kyle’s friends.
I drop the subject. I don’t want them thinking I’m trying to fool them. Alex doesn’t strike me as a liar. Maybe Alex is a cousin or little brother to the Alex who killed himself, that’d explain why he looked sad. Or maybe it’s a common name up here. We’re on the Quebec border, maybe there’s a lot of them living around here, and it’s a common French name. I don’t know, I don’t know much about this area.
Dinner ends. I go through a few orientation programs. I sign up for a class that’s supposed to teach me how to make a fire from scratch. I go to a picnic area with other freshman boys and a scout master teaches several techniques for starting a fire with no matches, lighters, or kerosene. It’s a real pain the ass!
I bang some rocks together over some birth bark and my little pile of bark and moss catches on fire. I’m the first one to do it. I feel like a superhero – I can make fire from scratch! The other guys praise me. Praise ends and they go back to toiling away, banging rocks and rubbing sticks together like cavemen.
I guess I lucked out. I have a lot of spare time on my hands, now. Maybe I should use it go find Alex. I’ve been sweating all day though; I want to shower. Crap, there wasn’t a shower in my cottage. Do I have to shower with the others? Probably, these places always have showers you have to share. I better go now before it’s crawling with naked guys. It’d be quite the sight to see, but I have to be careful here.
I go to the showers, wash the bug spray off, and return to my cottage. I read a comic book I packed. Kyle comes back. We don’t say much. Kyle asks me if any of my comics are nudie mags, and is annoyed when I tell him no.
“Maybe you should go to bed now,” says Kyle, irritated.
“Uhh, okay,” I say. I crawl under my covers. I start to shiver. Why is it so cold? I know it’s nighttime now, but it’s almost June. We can’t be that far up North. I close my eyes and picture Alex. His cute face, his mop top hair, his bashful demure, the dorky way he wears his socks. I wish I shared a cabin with him, not Kyle. Maybe he is a ghost, or maybe I’m the one who’s the ghost, or maybe, just maybe, we both are.
Chapter 2
I wake up. Mornings at the camp feel like a drag. I got away with showering alone last night, but I can’t get away with it in the morning. I hurry up and get dressed and run to the mess hall. After I’m done eating, I’m told I have to go to the main lodge to listen to a sermon.
“I thought this wasn’t a religious camp,” I say.
“It isn’t,” says Kyle, “but priests and pastors still sneak in by calling themselves guest lecturers.”
I go to the main lodge. The guest lecturer is an obvious pastor with a King James Version bible. I sit back and listen to the sermon.
“One must be born again,” says the pastor. “As it is said in One Peter, One Twenty-Three, being born again, not of corruptible seed, but of incorruptible, by the word of God, which liveth and abideth forever.”
The sermon goes on for a few hours before it finally ends. Outside the main lodge, I stretch. It was long and boring, but the King James Version verses were very poetic. Every single line had to have been carefully crafted. It makes me want to start writing poetry myself. That sounds like something I could do.
“What’d you think?” asks Kyle.
“It was kind of boring,” I say. “I liked how poetic it was, though. I think I might start writing poetry.”
“Not me,” says Kyle, “poetry is kind of gay. I’m not as religious as that pastor, but I doubt God cares if I’m kissing his ass twenty-four seven. You only go to Hell if you’re a murderer, a rapist, or a faggot or whatever.” Kyle makes a strange, emotionless face. I don’t know what kind of face it is, but it creeps me out. He looks in my eyes and asks, “You’re not a faggot, are you?”
I gulp. “No,” I say.
Kyle glances around at the crowd of scouts. “Good,” he says. “There’s always at least one here. Always at least one. You gotta sniff them out.”
I leave Kyle feeling nerve wrecked. I’m supposed to sign up for at least one camp activity for the day, but I just don’t feel like it. I run into the woods. I run deeper and deeper. I come to a plaster of signs that tells me I’ve reached the Canadian border. I’m tempted to illegally cross the border, but the signs all warn of harsh fines. Mom and dad would be pissed if I got caught by a Mountie and dad had to end his business trip early. I turn back around.
I come to the lake. I see Alex walking along the muddy beach. I run to him. “There you are,” I say. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”
He looks down at the ground and slips his left hand up his right sleeve. “Sorry,” he says, “I wander off sometimes.”
I feel my heart quiver as I talk to him. “Do you like Super Friends?” I ask.
He giggles. “I guess you could call me a fan.”
“How do you feel about The All-New Super Friends Hour?”
“I . . . never heard of that,” says Alex.
I laugh. “Some fan you are.” I see a strange duck bobbing on the lake. It’s mainly black with white spots. A cute duckling is hitching a ride on its back. It has red eyes. “That’s a funny duck,” I say.
“It’s a loon,” says Alex. “They’re not ducks, they’re their own thing.”
I laugh. “A loon! If it looks like a duck, if it quacks like a duck, it’s a duck!”
The loon cries in a high pitch. “AAAAHH EEEE AAAHH EEE EEE!”
Alex laughs. “That doesn’t sound like a duck.”
I laugh and shake a mock fist in front of him. “Watch it, you! Okay, it’s not a duck. Man that call was annoying.”
“Not all loon calls are bad,” says Alex. “Their call can be beautiful.”
I smile. “You’re beautiful,” I say. I feel my heart thud at the realization of what I just said. I can’t believe I just said that aloud!
“Thanks,” says Alex. “Um, you are too.”
I see him blushing. I want to hug him, but I don’t know if it’s okay. “Thank,” I say.
“Do you want to go for a walk with me?” he asks. “Through the woods?”
“With you? I do.” I walk with Alex through the woods. To me it’s more of a hike, but that’s what I love about it. I really do love the outdoors. I also think I might love Alex.
Alex won’t come with me to the mess hall to eat. Maybe it’s a good thing, because Kyle would see me drooling over him. By nighttime, I return to my cottage. Kyle gives me his goodnight eyeroll and grunt, and in the dark, I put my hands on my heart and think of Alex.
Chapter 3
I feel time rushing by me. I wake up, shower, get dressed, eat breakfast, go to Alex, eat lunch, go to Alex, eat dinner, go to Alex, shower, go to sleep, repeat. I don’t know how he gets away without eating. He’s a skinny dangly thing, but he isn’t a skeleton. He says he’s a local, so maybe he’s allowed to eat at his parents’ house, if that’s nearby somewhere.
I’m not sure what month it is now. It can’t be May anymore. It could still be June, but it could also be July or even August. I don’t care because I just want to see Alex. I finish my dinner and march back towards the lake. A hand grabs me by my neckerchief and yanks me back. I turn around and see a scout master. I don’t know him, but I notice his name, Earl, sowed on his uniform.
“Chucky,” says Earl, “I noticed you haven’t been signing up for any activities.”
“Oh, sorry,” I say. “I’ve just been doing a lot of hiking. I really like hiking.”
“That’s great,” says Earl, “but you don’t have to do it alone. We have hiking groups, you know.”
“I haven’t been doing it alone. I’ve been hiking with Alex.”
“Which Alex?”
“Alex Duplantier.”
“That’s not funny,” says Earl. “He was a real boy, like you. I signed you up for archery today. Show up or you’re in trouble.”
I go to the archery group. It’s a group of three other freshman, two sophomores, no juniors, but Kyle and three other seniors. I’m given a bow called a compound, and I find it a hell of a lot harder to fire arrows than in the movies.
“Put some muscle into it, Chucky!” says a senior named Bill.
I grunt as I pull the string back on a loaded bow, release, and my arrow lands a ring away from the bull’s eye. “Not bad,” says Kyle.
“Thanks,” I say, but I know it was sheer dumb luck. We continue practicing for another hour or two. It must be getting late, but the sun is still out, it is summer, after all. As dusk kicks in, we stop archery and just hang out.
Eric, one of the seniors, runs to his cottage and comes back with a 30 pack. “My treat guys,” he says. “Just don’t rat. The freshies can have some too.”
One of the freshmen, Nate, says, “But, but the drinking age in New Hampshire is 20.”
Eric repeats back the sentence in a mock baby voice, “But, but the drinking age in New Hampshire is 20.” He spits on the ground. “Yeah, and I heard next year they’re raising it to 21. I said don’t rat.”
“Yeah,” says Kyle, “don’t be a little bitch.”
I’m handed a beer and I accept it. I don’t feel good illegally drinking, but I got a feeling something bad is going to happen to Nate. The seniors continue leading the group conversation.
“I don’t want to go to college,” says Eric, “but my old man is making me.”
“My dad’s making me go to Harvard,” says Kyle. “He pulled some strings, so I can’t say no. It sucks.”
I sigh. I wish my dad was rich enough to send me to Harvard, never mind pull some strings for me. I really wish I was with Alex right now. Not with him with these guys, though. I’d hate for him to get picked on like poor Nate is right now.
“So Nate,” says Bill, chuckling, “tits or ass?”
Nate groans. He looks uncomfortable. “I, I don’t know,” says Nate.
Kyle laughs. “How could you not know? What are you, a fag?”
“No,” cries Nate.
I’m tempted to tell Kyle guys have butts too, but I resist. I see a tear start to run down Nate’s cheek. I feel like a monster not saying anything. I take another swig of beer, hoping it’ll wash the guilt away. The guys all start to make fun of Nate as he cries. Nate runs away sobbing.
The group laughs hysterically. It reminds me of hyenas I saw on a nature show. Kyle mockingly wipes fake tears from his cheeks. “Boo hoo!” he cries. “What a little bitch. I hope the reason he doesn’t know is because his balls haven’t drop yet, and he’s not a fucking faggot.” He points at me. “What about you, Chuck, tits or ass?”
I’m tempted to say ass, but I think I’m safer with tits. “Tits,” I lie.
Kyle laughs. He’s had four beers so far and is clearly drunk. “What kind of tits?”
“Um, big ones,” I say.
Eric laughs. “No shit!”
Kyle downs another beer and says in a drunken voice: “There’s always at least one faggot here! Always at least one!” He crushes the beer can, tosses it, and points to the other two freshmen. “Which one of yooz is it?”
“Isn’t it Nate?” says one of them.
Eric hiccups and says, “Nope. He can’t know if dudes give him a boner yet cuz that little bitch’s balls haven’t dropped yet.” I cringe on the inside. I don’t know how far into puberty Nate is, but I’m pretty sure he at least started it. Kyle’s joke had apparently turned into a fact. That’s something I never understood – how people turn jokes into reality.
“I’ve seen hair on all your peaches in the showers,” says Kyle. He has that creepy look on his face again. It’s like a little switch is going off in his brain. “Tits or ass?”
“Speaking of the showers,” says Bill, “I heard a rumor there’s a dude who always has a boner in there.”
Kyle spits on the ground. “Fuck. See, I told you? There’s always at least one. Do we know who it is?”
“No,” says Bill. “Too bad. I’d like to drown that faggot in the lake. Does anyone here have any idea who it might be? No joking, this is serious. I don’t want to get butt-raped by a queer or catch its AIDS.”
The group starts speculating. Thankfully I’m not hearing Alex’s name come up. One of the sophomores is saying he has a hunch it’s a guy named Jack, and a freshman named Tylor thinks it’s a guy named Patrick. Kyle digs his hand into the 30-pack box. Despite charging ten bucks for beer runs, he seems pretty entitled to his friend Eric’s generosity. He comes up empty handed and starts stomping on the box. “FUCK!” he screams. “Ugh.” He points at me. “What about you Chuckles? Who do you think is the queer who’s popping a boner in the showers?”
“Uh, I’m not sure,” I say. I really don’t know. Thankfully, I at least know it can’t be me. I’m in and out of the showers.
“Hey Chuck,” says Tylor, “home you’re not in the showers that long? You always seem to rush.”
Kyle looks at me, and I see that switch go off in his brain. A shiver runs down my spine. I swear to God, there is just something about that look. I gulp. “I, I don’t know,” I say. “I guess, I guess I just don’t like –”
“It’s you, isn’t it?” says Kyle.
“No,” I say, “I’ve never had a . . . I’ve never had a boner in the showers.”
“I mean you’re the fucking queer,” says Kyle. He points at me. “There’s always at least one. There’s always at least one!”
“I’m not,” I say. I back away. I feel myself trembling. Kyle starts stumbling towards me. I feel a raccoon trying to break out of my chest. I run. Run off into the woods.
Big mistake. I shouldn’t have run. Now, it’s obvious. I should have just kept lying. It’s too late now, though, because I am running, and Kyle and the rest of the gang is chasing after me.
An arrow whizzes past me. Jesus Christ, they’re firing arrows at me! Why did I run into the woods? I should have run to one of the lodges, where a scout master could save me. Would a scout master save me? The seniors are technically adults and they’re trying to kill me. No, I’m not safe. Not with the secret of me being gay. It’s not a secret anymore though. I don’t think I’ll ever be safe again. Kyle’s voice echoes through the woods: “COME BACK HERE YOU FUCKING FAGGOT!”
I see a wooden house ahead. There’s no lawn, it’s just a house in the woods. Maybe they’ll be a phone. I can call the cops, or at least mom and dad to pick me up. Fuck, I don’t remember the number they gave me for their hotel!
I run into the house. I hate to be trespassing, but they’re going to kill me. I’m in the middle of nowhere, some gun-crazy rednecks might live here and shoot me to death, but that’d be better than whatever Kyle and the others want to do to me. I try locking the door, but there’s no lock. I can’t see much inside. It’s getting dark outside because the sun is setting, and inside there are no lights. I crawl under a table.
Kyle and the gang run into the shack. Kyle shouts, “Where are you, FAGGOT?”
I put my hand in front of my mouth, trying to contain my panting. I hear Tylor’s voice ask, “What is this place?”
“It’s the witch’s house,” says Bill.
“Rrrearrr!” snarls a cat. In the darkness under the table, a huge mass of fur brushes over me. The paws of a heavy cat sink into my stomach, making me want to squeal.
“Fuck,” says Eric. “Let’s get the hell out of here. Hurry up before we see her.”
“What about the queer?” says Kyle. “We can’t let him go. He’s supposed to be my roommate. I don’t want to get butt-raped in my sleep.”
“The witch will get him now,” says Eric. “Fuck this place. I’ve got the creeps.”
They leave, and I’m left alone in the dark house. My breathing slowly returns to normal. I can’t see anything, but I hear one of the Maine Coons purring. And another one. And another one. Now I don’t know how many of them there are, but I’m surrounded by a pride of huge cats. I don’t know what to do. If this shack is supposed to be off the grid, I guess that means I can’t use a phone.
What if the guys tell the scout masters I’m gay, and the scout masters tell my parents I’m gay? Will mom and dad still love me? It seems like being gay is the worst thing in the world. Maybe I can sneak across the border. Live as a drifter in Canada. Keep going north until I reach the arctic, and freeze to death. I crawl forward.
Creeeeeeeeeeeek. The front door opens. A sliver of moonlight enters the house. “I’m home,” says a raspy, female voice. It’s the witch.
Chapter 4
Candlelight starts to fill the room. I see the witch’s legs from under the table limp back and forth across the shack as she lights candle after candle. She has a ragged dress that goes down to her knees, hairy legs, and homemade moccasins for shoes. One of the lynx-like Maine Coons that’s snuggled up to me scurries over to her and makes a bird-like chirp. “Rreh reh, reh reh.”
I hear the witch say, “What is it Precious?”
“Rreh reh, reh reh.”
“Ooh,” says the witch. “Yum. I haven’t had C-Scout stew in a while.”
“Meow.”
“Alright,” says the witch, “but only because he’s your friend.” She limps towards me. I feel that raccoon trying to tunnel out of my chest again. She bends over and I see her face. “Hello,” she says with a smile.
Her face is old and wrinkled. She has all her teeth, but they’re discolored. Not rotten, just discolored. Despite being a woman, she’s balding. I didn’t know old ladies could go bald. I curl into a ball and say, “Um . . . hi.”
The woman stands back up and continues limping around her shack, lighting candles. I stay curled up under the table, not sure if I should feel scared, silly, guilty, or embarrassed. Another Maine Coon joins me under the table, and I start to feel claustrophobic. I crawl out from under the table and stand up.
In the candlelight, I see most things in the shack are homemade. There’s a fireplace made from stones that look just like the rocks on the lake beach. The floor is uneven, and in the center, there’s a tree stump with a book on it. All the furniture is handmade from the local shrubbery, not polished or treated with polyurethane, but covered in bark. The only thing that doesn’t look homemade are the countless Mason jars that cover the shelves. Half of the glass jars are filled with pickled vegetables, and the other half are filled with dried flowers, dirt, pebbles, and small mummified animals. There’s a large cauldron in the fireplace.
I need to stay rational. Witches don’t exist. This is just an old lady. This house is weird, but maybe she’s Amish or something, or so old she’s stuck in a different time – or a crazy old lady who lost her marbles. “Ahem,” I clear my thought, “I’m really sorry.”
“Sorry for what, dearie?” asks the old lady. She goes to the fireplace. She throws some sticks under the cauldron. She grabs a fire poker, stabs the sticks, and a fire lights up under the cauldron. She starts throwing sprigs into the cauldron, grabs some carrots, and starts chopping them into the stew.
That was scary. It’s almost like she lit that up with magic. There must have been hot embers under the cauldron. I hope she’s not making C-Scout stew. “Sorry for trespassing,” I say.
“You weren’t trespassing,” says the old lady. “You were following the way. The way is strong in you.” She says the way like Ben Kenobi and Yoda say the force in Star Wars. She limps away from the cauldron, picks up a dark brown brick, and carries it over to me. “Acord bread, eat.”
The acorn bread looks gross. It sounds gross, too. Bread made from acorns? Yuck. I broke into her house though; I shouldn’t disrespect her. I try a piece. It tastes sweet and hearty. She goes to the book that’s on the stump. She flips it open and arranges candles around it. “Thanks for the bread,” I say, “what book is that?”
“It’s a grimoire,” says the old lady.
“What’s a grimoire?” I ask.
“It’s my book of shadows,” says the lady. “Well, it’s your book, now. I have no more use for it. Come, read.”
I step towards the book and read what’s on the first page. It’s hard trying to read it in candlelight. It’s written in an old fashion cursive calligraphy. The Power of the Way.
“Aloud,” says the old lady. “Read aloud.”
I read it aloud: “The Power of the Way. By the goddess’s light, by the god’s sight, let the cauldron bubble and the demons trouble. Let the wolves howl and the werewolves scowl. My soul belongs to the way, my songs to the fay. I do not crave to be rich, for till the grave, I am a witch!”
My vision becomes blurry. I am no longer in the shack. All around me, all I can see is gusts of light. A warmth runs down my spine. All throughout my nerves, I feel myself getting tickled, but I can’t burst out laughing because I can’t move. The tickling, the warmth, and the gusts dies down, and I am back in the shack. The old lady is laughing. Her laugh is a mock cackle, like the Wicked Witch from the Wizard of Oz.
“Oh my god,” I say, “are you a witch?”
She continues her fake cackling. “I am sweetie, and now, so are you!” I run to the door. I run outside, hearing her shout “Wait! You forgot your book!”
Outside, it’s gotten darker. In the woods at nighttime, I can barely see the trees around me. I run through the woods, not sure what direction I’m going. Shrubs, twigs, and branches whip into to me as I run. My face gets whipped by what feels like an evergreen branch, and I start to shield my head as I run.
I hear a howling through the woods. “Ahhh whoooo woo! Ahhh whooo woo!” It’s a howling unlike anything I’ve ever heard before. Is it a wolf’s howl? It’s like a ghost, wailing. “Ahh whoo woo! Ahh woo woo!” It sounds so unnatural and out of this world. Only two things I can think of could possibly make it – wolves or ghosts, and neither sounds good.
I see the artificial light of a flashlight ahead of me. I don’t know if I should run to it or not. It could be one of the C-Scouts, out hunting me. I run away from it, but the holder of the flashlight runs after me. A male voice shouts in French: “Arrête ! Halte! Vous arrêtez!” In a thick accent, he shouts: “Stop! Stay!”
He must be a French-Canadian border guard. I must have crossed the border. He could have a gun, I better stop. I stop, and the border guard catches up to me. I stand frozen as the border guard pats me down. He takes a good look at me, pinches the embroidered C-Scout symbol on my uniform, and says something in French over a walkie talkie. His accent is so deep and rugged, it sounds nothing like Pepé Le Pew. I guess I don’t know anything about French Canadians. He grabs my wrist and says, “You come with me.”
“Where are you taking me?” I ask.
“I take you home,” he says. “Back to camp.”
Oh God, I can’t let him take me back to the camp. I’d rather rot in a Canadian prison. “No,” I cry. “Please don’t take me back there!”
“You go back,” he says. He starts pulling me by my wrist.
I’m yanked forward by his pull. He’s very strong. I try to run away, but he only pulls me harder. “Let go of me!” I shout. The guard only grumbles and continues pulling me. “PLEASE DON’T TAKE ME BACK!” At random, the guard’s flashlight blows up.
The artificial light is extinguished. Sparks fly from the bulb. The guard lets go of my wrist and stumbles back. “Christ! Tabarnak! Câlisse!”
I run away. How did that happen? I don’t know, but I need to run away. I can’t get taken back to camp. Tree branches keep whipping into my face as I run. That chilling, phantom howl fills my ears again: Ahh whoo whoo! Ahh whoo woo! It can’t be wolves. I’m one hundred percent convinced now it’s a ghost. Worst than a ghost, probably some sort of demonic banshee or something. Fuck!
A blinding light shines on me. A standard American accent shouts: “Stay right there, son!” I stop and the man catches up to me. He has a uniform that looks close to a police uniform. My eyes adjust to his blinding flashlight, and I see from his badge he’s an American border guard. “Are you Chuck?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say.
“Thank God,” he says. “We were seconds from calling in the choppers. The scout masters at Camp C are worried sick about you.”
“Am I in trouble?”
“No. You don’t get in trouble for getting lost. You did get lost, right?”
“Um . . .” I don’t know what to say. I am lost, but I was running away. I can’t tell him that though. “Yes,” I say.
“Try not to next time,” says the border guard. “Come with me.”
The guard takes me to a border patrol station. I sit down in a room that has an American flag and a huge portrait of Ronald Reagan. Reagan’s portrait is so big, it’s bigger than the flag. I’m given a piece of paper and told to fill out as much personal information as I can. I scribble my address, parents’ names, date of birth, and try to remember my social security number. Meanwhile, the border guard speaks French over the phone.
“Nous l'avons trouvé . . .” says the American border guard, “Merci beaucoup . . . Nous sommes désolés.” His French doesn’t sound anything like his French-Canadian counterpart. That accent was so rugged, I envied it.
One of the guards drives me back to Camp C. My palms are sweating like crazy. I feel like passing out. I get back to camp. I’m greeted by a group of scout masters. They take me to a lodge. I keep expecting them to kill me. They keep asking me questions, but I can’t hear what they’re saying, because my heart is beating so fast, all while I’m super tired. I fall down. A scout master plops me on a chair. He puts his hands on my face and bites his lip.
“Ewe,” he says. Oh God, he must know I’m gay! “His face is all scratched up. He looks sick as a dog, no wonder he got lost. Get the nurse, asap. Hurry up, this has a lawsuit written all over it.”
A camp nurse comes. She’s half-dressed in her nursing uniform and half-dressed in her pajamas. She’s yawning and looks tired. “Alright boys,” she says, “give us some privacy.”
In private, the nurse examines me. As she sticks a popsicle stick down my mouth, I mumble “I wanna go home.”
The nurse yawns. “Me too.” She takes the popsicle stick out and sticks a thermometer in. I move it under my tongue. Maybe if it’s high, they’ll have to send me home. I close my eyes and hope and pray it’ll be high. “Holy crap,” says the nurse. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it that high. Looks like someone has a fever.”
She stops examining me and lets the scout masters back in. She tells them my results. “It was like magic. One moment it was normal, the next it shot right up.”
“Does that ever happen?” asks scout master Earl.
The nurse gives a long yawn. “I don’t know, but he should probably be separated from the other scouts in case he’s contagious.”
“We’ll put him in North Cottage D,” says Earl, “and have his food delivered to him until he gets better.”
I put my hands to my forehead. I don’t feel that hot. “North Cottage D?” I ask.
“It’s an empty cottage on the north end,” says Earl. “It’s supposed to be for scout masters, so it has its own bathroom, lucky you. Not so lucky is the fact that most don’t go near it. People think it’s haunted, even some of us scout masters. You’re not superstitious, are you?”
I remember that haunting, demonic howl I heard in the woods earlier. It was horrifying – but Kyle is more horrifying. I lie and say, “No.”
“Good,” says Earl, “because we already tried your parents and they aren’t answering. I’ll have your things moved in. Is there anything you want me to tell your roommate?”
I shake my head no. Earl tells me to wait while they move my things and prepare my cottage for quarantine. The other scout masters move away from me, hoping to not catch whatever I have. I hear them talk as I wait:
“I saw old lady Evelyn foraging mushrooms the other day. I think I saw her eating them, too. I’m not a mushroom expert, but they didn’t look safe.”
“It’s a sad situation. I tell ya, when my mother gets up there, it’s straight to the nursing home. No ifs, ands, or buts.”
“Her cats at least clean the mice out of my barn. One of ‘em got in the house this morning. My wife thought it was a mountain lion.”
My new quarters are finished. Earl takes me to North Cottage D. We stand in front of the steps and Earl says, “Don’t let the haunted rumors get to you. If you hear something go bump in the night, just tell yourself there’s no such thing as ghosts. I always find reciting the Lord’s prayer helps.”
The otherworldly howl echoes around us. “Oh my God,” I say, “I think I just heard a ghost.”
“I don’t hear no ghosts,” says Earl. The howling continues echoing around us. “It sounds peaceful to me. You should leave the window open. It’ll help you sleep. You’re just imagining things because you’re sick. No get to bed, chop chop.” He starts clapping his hands and gesturing me into the cottage like I’m a dog. I scurry in, and he shuts the door. I notice a lock on the door and immediately lock it. Thank God, at least now I’m safe from Kyle and the other C scouts.
Compared to the cottage I was sharing with Kyle, this one is bigger, but it’s still simple. There are several rooms. I’m in the entryway, which looks like it might also be a small kitchen. There’s a hallway that goes to the backdoor and separates the bathroom from the bedroom. I go to the backdoor and lock it. I go to the bedroom door, open it, and see two twin beds. One is empty, the other has Alex sitting on it.
Alex is somberly staring down at the floor. His mop top hair is dangling over his face, but I can tell he’s sad. “Oh my God,” I say, “Alex! What are you doing here?”
Alex looks up at me. “What? Chuck? Why are you here?”
“I’m sick,” I say. “They put me here so I don’t spread my germs. Why are you here? You might catch what I have.”
“No,” says Alex. “I think . . . I think I have the same thing you have. I am . . . sick too.”
I run to Alex and hug him. I start to cry and hug him tighter. Alex hugs me back. I’m not sure if Alex is crying too. I’d love to look in his face right now, but I love wrapping my arms around him just as much. “They want to kill me, Alex.”
“I know,” says Alex. “They wanted to kill me, too.”
TO BE CONTINUED IN THE NEXT POST
![[-]](https://gayspeak.com/images/duende_v3_local/collapse.png)
Capricorn
![[Image: 51806835273_f5b3daba19_t.jpg]](https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/51806835273_f5b3daba19_t.jpg)
Sagittarius
