You're Not Supposed to Die Tonight: Chapters 4–9

Her wispy gray hair is loose and falls over her face like a veil.

There’s a flurry of panicked footsteps and shouts from behind me, but I don’t take my eyes off the woman.

I try to stifle the fear that is pooling in my chest, but I can barely move.

“You damn kids think you can do whatever you want out here? You think there won’t be consequences?” As the woman rambles on, she keeps the shotgun in the crook of her arm.

I’m running before I can think, my legs pumping under me, my chest heaving. Kyle is at my heels. We barrel toward the office, where Tasha is waiting with the door open.

Backlit by the muted glow from the floodlight in the parking lot and the pitch-black night sky, she looks like she could play the killer in one of our nightly games.

Her stringy gray hair obscures her face; the skin that’s visible is loose and reminds me of weathered leather.

The woman’s footsteps are heavy on the porch, and each time her weathered face bobs past the window, my heart cartwheels in my chest.

I glance at her and realize she’s still got the prop ax embedded in her chest, and the dried fake blood has stained her face and neck.

I know full well that the police aren’t here to protect and serve; they’re here to enforce compliance with whatever set of rules they’re following today.

And besides, she’s just upset. You need to understand that her property butts right up to your little operation here. I don’t blame her for being a little testy.

“I mean, I see how people just get away with anything, but damn. Not a citation, nothin’.”

“It was probably a carp or something,” Kyle says. “They’re all in the lakes out here and they’re huge. They can be three or four feet long. Bigger if they have a food source.”

Soon as we’re all done, I make a beeline to the edge of Mirror Lake.

I’d heard footsteps and a distinct splash not once but twice.

She grabs a stick from the nearby brush and pokes around in the dirt, uncovering a wide piece of gnarled gray plastic.

The morning light makes the lake look so serene.

Shimmying onto the roof, I inch myself across to the skylight, where the bird’s broken body is splayed out across the glass.

Reams of paper from his time at the paper mill sit stacked in the corners.

There were some peregrines and kestrels, other birds of prey, but his favorite were the owls.

There were some peregrines and kestrels, other birds of prey, but his favorite were the owls.

I prod the owl’s lifeless body off the skylight and nudge it down the slope of the roof, where it finally falls over the edge and into the shrubbery below.

Mr. Lamont grumbles something unintelligible into the phone before continuing.

“The sheriff is not so subtly hinting that I could be sued.”

I trudge back to the Western Lodge and sit next to Bezi.

They can’t stay mad at each other for too long, and Paige can never pass up an opportunity to share her encyclopedic knowledge of scary stories.

I nod, and we make our way to the guest cabins that are situated down a steep slope behind the main office.

My gaze drifts to the window, to the lake, where only a little while ago I found the remnants of a swing set. I’m not sure that that means a summer camp existed on these grounds, but I want to know more.

“According to Javier’s grandma, there was a summer camp here in 1971. That’s twelve years before they shot The Curse of Camp Mirror Lake. And she’s saying six people died, but I’ve never heard of anything like that.”
“I hate to be morbid, but you’d think if something like that really happened here, it might get mentioned more,” Bezi says.

“We were scared,” Bezi says. “My adrenaline was pumping. Sorry. I think we can fix it, though.”

Bezi opens another box and finds a stack of moldering paper. She quickly closes the lid and pulls her shirt up over her nose and mouth.

I push around some more boxes and find another one filled to bursting with yellowing newspaper clippings, their edges winnowed by some kind of insect that has an appetite for old newsprint.

I dig through and find another article dated October 1983, panning the release of The Curse of Camp Mirror Lake and saying the only people who are drawn to horror films are deviants and weirdos.

A clipping from the Groton Tribune reads, Summer camp closes. Disappearances attributed to inexperienced campers and camp staff.

The owl’s broken body lies on the welcome mat of the lodge, just outside the front door. Dirt clings to its feathers, and it’s intact except for the eyes—those blank, glassy eyes that were so much like Rob’s hideous collection of dead things—that have been plucked out of its head.

He goes to the closet and grabs a broom. He wields it like a sword, swinging it around in front of him.

Kyle throws a wild haymaker and hits nothing but empty space.

Javier huffs as I lead us down the cramped tunnel in the direction of the boathouse. It’s damp and musty and the ceiling is too low.

I don’t like the confined space. I have to keep telling myself that the walls are probably not closing in on me, but I don’t know if I actually believe it.

A chill runs up my back, and it’s not from the dank air sweeping through the underground tunnel.