Campfire Stories 9 at #OurAuthorGang

 A short story by David W. Thompson

Old Man Jenkins

My old gang and I always agreed that the best stories we’ve known always started in a circle around the flickering flames of a woodland campfire. As we got older, we assumed adult responsibilities like jobs and maintaining our homes. Over time, fishing and camping trips gravitated to changing diapers, soccer games, band recitals, and dance classes. You get the idea. Our outdoor adventures became few and far between, especially as a group. I’m not complaining.  I wouldn’t have had it any other way. But when Sam McDaniels called about an upcoming weekend campout, a bottle of Clorox couldn’t wipe the smile from my face!

My wife, Cathy, and my kids, Josh and Susan, dropped me off at our meeting place, The Olde Village Diner. After our tearful goodbyes, I threw my duffel bag in the back of Jack Dawson’s truck.

“I’ll be back Sunday night, guys. You’ll have a good time with Mommy at the movies. But don’t eat too much popcorn.”

“We promise, Daddy,” they assured me.

Cathy reached through the car window for a hug and goodbye kiss.

“You be safe, Dan. We will miss you. Be careful of bear…”

“There’s hardly any bears up there, and they are as scared of us as…”

“I meant your buddy, Bear Blake. He doesn’t have the best reputation since his divorce.”

“I’ll be good, Cathy. Promise.” I winked and went into the restaurant.

***

Bear jumped up from the table and yelled a greeting over the breakfast patrons’ heads.

“Dan Baker, well as I live and breathe. You ain't changed a bit, buddy. Not counting that gut, of course.” He threw a fake punch toward my midsection.

“Thanks, Bear. You seem to have grown a few pounds and lost a few hairs also.”

Sam McDaniels (Mac) and Jimmy Smith (Smitty) stood to shake my hand. Of the four of us, I was the only one in the “family way,” Smitty lost his wife in a car accident the year before. Mac and Bear were both divorced.

“It’s been too long, Dan,” Smitty said. “The waitress already took our order. We remembered you were a western omelet guy and ordered one for you. Hope that’s OK?”

I nodded. “So, what’s the plan? Are we headed for our usual spot?”

“We were just talking about that. Bear thinks we should camp on the river by the old sawmill. You remember the place?”

“C’mon, Mac. Not where that old hiker was killed five years back?”

“That’s the place, Dan, but it wasn’t the old man. Some freak killed his wife and kids while he was up on the mountain.” Bear said. “I don’t reckon he ever recovered, though. He died a short time later.”

They must have read something in my eyes.

“Don’t worry, Dan,” Smitty said. “That was years ago. I’m sure the culprit was caught. But you always were a Nervous Nellie.” They all laughed.

When we left the diner, I spotted a groundhog dead on the side of the road. It must have just happened, as it wasn’t there when Cathy dropped me off. But vultures had already discovered the grisly feast and fought among each other for the choicest entrails.

“Death sustains life,” Bear said.

***

The campsite was much as I remembered, although the brush was thicker, and the trails were less well-defined. Today’s youth didn’t keep it beaten down as we once did. There were no video games on the mountain or reception, either.

We were old hands at camp setup, and our skills weren’t as rusty as I feared. With our tents up, sleeping backs rolled out, and the campfire started, we tried our hand at fishing. We didn’t catch anything big enough—except to use for bait. We settled on hotdogs and beans over the fire.

“It’s been a while, guys. Anyone remember whose turn it is for the campfire story?” I asked.

Mac and Smitty turned toward Bear. The man’s eyes shone in the dim light of the crescent moon, and he hunched up his shoulders. His lips curled into a dark smile.

“Sure, I’ll go. I’ll piggyback off the old hiker story. It seems appropriate for where we are. As you know, my dad was the Sheriff then, and I guess I heard a little more about it than most folks.

“Mr. Jenkins was a sprightly old man. He was as narrow as a board but wiry, with thick, work-hardened hands like meat hooks. Dad said he could hold his own in a fight with any man. But he was a hot-tempered soul.  I never heard of him hurting his wife or kids, but the screaming matches coming out of that old cabin were the stuff of legends hereabouts.

“This particular night was no exception. It was so intense that folks clear on the other side of the holler claimed dishes rattled in their cupboards.”

An owl’s sudden: “Whoooo! Hooo! HooHoo!” broke the story’s spell. We looked up at the trees, and the great horned owl’s large yellow eyes glared back at us.

Bear picked up a stick we’d collected for the fire and tossed it at the large bird. It dropped from the tree and swooped low overhead. Its silent wings carried it to its next perch nearby, where it continued its haunting serenade.

“Why did you do that? Isn’t that bad luck?”

“No,” Mac said. “You are mixing up your old wives’ tales. It’s worse. Owls mean death is coming.”

“Now, who is the superstitious one?” I asked.

“Probably just smelled our hot dogs and hoped we’d share,” Bear said. “Still, it is interesting as that was the first thing old man Jenkins heard on his fateful night.”

I glanced at my cell phone, but it had no bars.

“See, old Jenkins,” Bear continued, “he enjoyed a little nip of moonshine now and again. But it didn’t much like him. I don’t know what the cause of the ruckus was that evening, but you can be sure some “corn squeezings” were at the root of the trouble.

“Misses Jenkins, the sweetest lady there ever was, by all accounts, had enough of the old man’s shenanigans. She told him to get out and stay out. Jenkins never knew what was good for him, so he headed up the mountain, bottle in hand. He tried sleeping it off in the old mill but said an owl wouldn’t shut up. Kept him awake most of the night. He passed out in the wee hours only to have a flock of ravens wake him at dawn.

“Jenkins told my dad he knew something wasn’t right. He could feel it in his bones and raced home. The scene when he got there was beyond description. The blood began on the front steps. The floors and walls inside were covered with it. Dad said he’d never seen so much, even at community hog killings. I’d like to tell you they caught the murderer, but it never happened. My dad retired, but it’s the one case he never forgot.”   

I suspect we all had a restless sleep that night. My dreams were unnatural, dark, filled with haunted shadows, and too real by far. A shriek from the river jolted me awake. A woman’s scream of horror, only broken by moments of insane laughter. I slipped on my boots and crept towards the sound.

Peering from behind an old oak, I spied an old woman knee-deep in the water. Her gray hair was greasy and matted to her skeletal head. Her dress was of a style long out of fashion. What was left of it anyway, as it hung from her in tatters. She raised her face to the heavens and screeched again. The sound sent shivers down my back.  She was washing something in the river, and I stretched my neck to see. It was Cathy’s favorite dress—covered in blood! She turned towards me and cackled, then smiled with pointed yellow teeth. She raised one shriveled hand toward me, pointing at me with long, yellow fingernails.

“Death comes for us all,” she said. I woke in my sleeping bag, drenched in sweat.

***

I crawled out of my sleeping bag Sunday morning and saw Smitty had revived our campfire. An unkindness of ravens squawked in the trees around camp.

“I know,” Smitty said. “I wish those damn things would shut up. Got some venison sausage cooking if you want some. Did you sleep OK?”

“Did you hear anything at the river last night?”

“Like what? Was Bear up making growling noises like every camping trip?”

“No, more like an old woman screaming…”

Smitty shook his head.

“Guess it really was a dream then—well, a nightmare. It was an old woman dressed in rags who screamed so loud it hurt my ears, then laughed disturbingly, like you’d hear in an insane asylum.”

“Dreaming of banshees, are ya, Dan? Another portent of death—you read too many horror novels, my friend. I’ll bet my ex-wife has a few romance novels you can borrow.”

His joke did nothing to relieve my anxiety. Still, the sausage was delicious, even if the fishing was poor. Otherwise, our day was uneventful.

A heavy fog settled over the camp well before sundown. The woodland came alive with the sounds of night birds and coyotes fooled by the early darkness. As we packed up camp, a swarm of bats flew overhead.

As I tossed my pack in the truck bed, my phone rang. It was Cathy’s number.

“Daddy? Help us. Please! We need you…”

“Susan? What’s wrong, honey?” but the line went dead before she could answer.

***

I’ll give Bear credit; he could fly down mountain roads. The boys tried to reassure me, but the concern written in their eyes betrayed their true feelings.

The four of us rushed toward the house like an avenging army.

The front step was covered in a thick red liquid, and tears sprung from my eyes. I followed its trail to the kitchen, then ran up the stairs, screaming each of my loved ones' names in turn.

“Cathy? Josh? Susan? Where are you?”

“Dan, come quick. Down here,” Mac yelled.

I raced back down the steps, tripping over the section of loose carpet Cathy had been after me to fix, but catching myself before I fell.

My three friends stood at the kitchen window,

“There’s a light. I can’t make anything out, but there’s movement too,” Bear said.

I grabbed a baseball bat from the hall closet and hurried out to save my family!

***

Halfway to the flickering light source, a flashlight beam hit me in the eyes and blinded me.

“Daddy! Daddy! You came to save us!” Susan squealed.

“Mommy figured it out, Daddy,” Josh said. “She said that damn tent is worthless.”

“Let’s not use words like that, Josh. Mommy was upset,” Cathy said. “Welcome home, Dan. The kiddos wanted to go camping just like their Daddy.”

“We had s’mores,” Susan added.

“But the blood? It’s all over the steps and on the floor. Who was hurt?”

Cathy frowned, and her lips pinched together. “Hmm, I’m not sure, but I can make an educated guess.  Josh decided that strawberry syrup would go perfectly with s’mores. I guess it got away from you, huh, Josh?”

Josh ducked his head, “I’m sorry, Mommy. I meant to clean it up.”

Bear, Mac, and Smitty left laughing with another story to tell.

I can’t predict the future; maybe I’ll go camping again—someday. But no time soon.

David W. Thompson

https://www.david-w-thompson.com

David is a multiple award-winning author, Army veteran, and graduate of UMUC. He’s a multi-genre writer and a member of the Horror Writers’ Association, and the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association. When not writing, Dave enjoys family, kayaking, fishing, hiking, hunting, winemaking, and woodcarving.