The kids petitioned me to tell them a story. They begged, actually. I’m not big on Halloween and ghost stories, but that’s what they wanted to hear. Picking the right story to freak them out is a challenge – they’re tweens – it’s that in-between age where they’re still children, but think they’re grown. Kids that age go through big physical changes.
I pick an old scary story from my own childhood memory – you know the one; it’s the one where the monster is under the bed. The five children under my care gather together crossed-legged on the faux bear skin rug. I sit on the floor too, but I’m on a slightly raised platform with a very thick cushion under me. At my age a lotus posture is impossible to maintain. So yes, I’m a summer camp counselor and telling scary stories is one of my many “side” duties. I volunteered to help out at the children’s summer camp this year, mostly because I’m out of work right now. I’m sure Jennifer, the camp manager, appreciates my help. She is short-handed and needs counselors a lot more mature than the preppy college kids who apply for those summer jobs.
I have to make the scary story as real as I can. I start with a dire warning to set the mood; I use suspense and act it out where necessary. Sound effects help too. I moan and groan in a deep mysterious voice. The kids are wide-eyed and frightened. I have them on the hook, and just as they ready themselves for the big surprise at the end of the story, I leave them hanging. The shock on their pretty little faces could kill a cow. A brash Puerto Rican kid raises his hand.
“So, what happened?”
“That’s for you to figure out, Juan”
My answer does little to satisfy the boy. He pouts. I’m sympathetic. I understand that feeling of being let down. As a young boy, it happened to me every Christmas. I would ogle at all the gifts under the tree – the funny shaped ones, the boxy ones and the soft wrapped ones all shrouded in the prettiest holiday paper. But come Christmas morning I never get the toy that I really wanted.
“But . . . is he still under the bed?”
“Well, what do you think, Tabatha?”
The tall-for-her-age blonde unfolds her long legs and sits on her heels. She takes my response as a challenge and quickly backs down. Jamal frowns, turns to his twin sister Jamila sitting next to him and nudges her to say something. She twirls her twisted hair locks and meekly whispers her objection to the story ending.
“That’s not how it ends”
“Ok then. Can you tell us how it ends?”
“My uncle Calvin says that he died . . .”
“And how did he die?”
“In a fire . . . he got burned . . .”
Uncle Calvin must have altered his story to kill off the monster under the bed – probably to appease his frightened niece and nephew. But that seems to defeat the whole purpose of getting the kids to use their imagination. Story telling should be more than just relating a series of events. David, the son of a wealthy local politician, snickers.
“Nah, he didn’t die. I think he’s still under the bed”
That starts a robust exchange between the five children. They each present their ideas as to what happened to the monster under the bed. I smile. The kids are engaged. I feel satisfied knowing that I’m doing something worthwhile. Up to this point, my life has always been about me – pretty selfish, I have to admit. Caring for children can be very uplifting. I don’t have any of my own.
So, I’m currently between jobs. My radical ideas for customer loyalty refunds didn’t sit well with the CEO and he suggested we part ways. I’ve posted my resume but got nothing worthwhile so far. Prospects are slim and my money is quickly running out. I’m still hopeful, but this is new territory for me. I’ve never been unemployed for more than a month. My landlord shows no mercy. Every knock on my door sends shivers up my spine. I’ve already received warnings, late notices and threats of eviction. I’m scared.
I have a girlfriend – sort of. We just started dating and I’m not ready to commit to a permanent relationship. My last attempt was a disaster. I’m simple. She was needy. I like my freedom and the price for that is solitude. The down sides are my clumsiness when dealing with other humans and the occasional loneliness – although there’s this feeling of not being alone sometimes – that’s when I check under my bed . . .
The twins are still convinced that the monster is no longer under the bed, but David holds on to his theory that it’s still there. Juan, who was deep in thought, offers another possibility.
Juan: “Maybe there’s a trap door under the bed and he escaped”
David: “Are you serious?”
Jamila: “Yeah! That’s it!”
Jamal: “Huh?”
Tabatha shrugs her shoulders. Whatever. She’ll go along with any outcome just as long as she gets to go horseback riding in the morning. I admire her nonchalant attitude. Nothing touches her or upsets her. I need to learn to be more like that; I would be less stressed and mentally healthier too.
It’s bedtime. Lights out. The kids will get into their beds, but they’ll never sleep. I guess that’s typical for kids their age. I promise them that I will give them the true ending to the story tomorrow tonight, just before lights out. They moan and grumble but accept the deal.
The following night I take a slow walk to the log cabin to finish the scary story for the five kids as I promised. It’s just minutes before lights out. It’s a nice evening; not too hot, but unusually dark and quiet. The tall pine trees loom eerily against the pale night sky, shrouding the pseudo-log cabin in darkness and making it even more creepy than the rustling in the underbrush at the edge of the camp grounds. It’s a perfect setting for a scary story.
I step up on the stone steps, push open the door and right there on the wooden floor is a body – it’s Tabatha, in a pool of blood. The red body fluid is smeared all over her face and chest and there is a huge gash in her head. A bloody hatchet is lying next to her body. The other four kids are standing around traumatized and in a state of shock.
The horror paralyses me and for what seems like forever, I stand there speechless. I eventually recover and look at each of the kids, looking for bloody hands, trying to figure out who killed Tabatha. No clues. Then there must be a murderer loose in the camp. Why didn’t I check the log cabin for intruders? Why didn’t I check under their beds? Thoughts of Freddy Krueger and Chucky burn my brain. My next reaction is to call 911. I reach for my cell phone and frantically plead with the operator to send help ASAP. My incoherent ramblings reduce me to a five-year-old child and my words tumble over each other. I’m a total wreck.
Jamila comes over to me crying, and hugs me. I feel responsible. I should have protected the children. I’m moved to tears too. And through my boo-hooing, I hear laughter. I open my teary eyes and see David, Jamal and Juan belly rolling with laughter. I’ve been punked. A bloody Tabatha rises from the floor, hugs Jamila and they both laugh at me. My immediate reaction is anger and then humiliation and then acknowledgement that this is just a joke. They got me good.
News about the prank went viral throughout the camp. A secret video taken by David circled among all the kids in the camp. Jennifer got a kick out of it too. The kids are feeling pretty smug about their little prank. I ate humble pie for the remainder of the week and swore that I would never be a camp counselor again.
Today, I open my mailbox and along with the junk mail and the utility bills, there are three formal looking envelopes. Two are responses from jobs that I have applied for and the third is from an attorney – my landlord’s attorney. My heart skips a beat. Thoughts of homelessness invade my mind. Living on the streets and sleeping on park benches and begging for hand-outs terrify me. But even in this dilemma, my thoughts turn to my five kids; that’s one more scary story I can tell them tomorrow night. But this time, I will have the last laugh – they will never know how this scary story ends; I will leave them hanging – again . . .
Carl Ernest currently lives in Atlanta GA, but grew up in Brooklyn, New York. His Computer Science degree has allowed him to earn a living as an avid computer programmer, but writing is the love of his life. So far, Carl’s work has been published in RIGOROUS magazine and he’s looking at a busy future.