The camp, p.1
The Camp, page 1
WATCHER IN THE WOODS
He stared through the binoculars at the camp. Ever since he’d learned they were coming back, he’d been planning.
After a few moments, he stuffed the binoculars back in his pack and returned to the site of the pit. He was digging a grave. A big grave, enough for three. It wasn’t quite finished yet, but it was close.
In his mind, he was already laying the fir boughs over its top. Maybe a thin wire mesh to hold the boughs in place. Something weak enough to drop them into the hole when he was ready for them.
Brooke.
Rona.
Wendy.
With a determined smile, he picked up the shovel and began digging in earnest . . .
Books by Nancy Bush
CANDY APPLE RED
ELECTRIC BLUE
ULTRAVIOLET
WICKED GAME
WICKED LIES
SOMETHING WICKED
WICKED WAYS
WICKED DREAMS
UNSEEN
BLIND SPOT
HUSH
NOWHERE TO RUN
NOWHERE TO HIDE
NOWHERE SAFE
SINISTER
I’LL FIND YOU
YOU CAN’T ESCAPE
YOU DON’T KNOW ME
THE KILLING GAME
DANGEROUS BEHAVIOR
OMINOUS
NO TURNING BACK
ONE LAST BREATH
JEALOUSY
BAD THINGS
LAST GIRL STANDING
THE BABYSITTER
THE GOSSIP
THE NEIGHBORS
THE CAMP
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
THE CAMP
NANCY BUSH
ZEBRA BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Table of Contents
WATCHER IN THE WOODS
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Prologue
Chapter 1 - Camp Love Shack
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2023 by Nancy Bush
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
Zebra and the Z logo Reg US Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4201-5569-3 (ebook)
ISBN: 978-1-4201-5568-6
Prologue
She didn’t believe them . . . didn’t believe him. He’d told her a lot of things she didn’t understand. She loved him. She truly loved him. But not in the way he maybe wanted. She couldn’t tell, and though she’d tried to explain her feelings, she knew she hadn’t been heard.
She hurried along the trail until she came to the ledge above the lake. The fog was below her. It had crept in like it always did, sliding over the deep green depths of the water, a downy gray blanket beneath a darkening sky that tonight felt as evil as some had described it.
She wasn’t sick. She didn’t need medical help. She didn’t need her soul saved.
She’d made a mistake coming here. She just needed to get away.
The camp’s outdoor lights were still on and visible from where she stood; tiny, yellow stars of illumination. But as she watched, the fog reached to the shore and flowed stealthily over the ground and then upward, long gray fingers obscuring the last glowing pinpoints until the camp went completely dark.
She squatted down on the ledge, feeling she should make herself smaller, just in case someone was looking for her.
She glanced north, in the opposite direction of the camp, and shivered. The fog was coming from that direction and working its way up the side of the cliff. Soon it would reach her if she didn’t run.
An owl gave a lonely hoot, then cut itself off as if startled.
The girl jumped to her feet and whipped around, facing the forest. Was someone coming?
Then she heard him, moving quietly but approaching her direction, appearing at the edge of the woods, a dark shape heading toward her in the gathering gloom. He was in a ski mask and carrying white flowers, she realized. She recognized him by the way he moved, but her heart started an erratic tattoo in her chest. She loved him and feared him. What was he carrying in his right hand? Queen Anne’s lace, maybe? Plucked from the trailside? And was that a metal goblet in his other hand?
What?
“These are for you,” he said, thrusting the flowers under her nose. She automatically sucked in a deep breath, reaching up to grab the bouquet and push it back from her face a little as he bent down and placed the goblet on the ground. She thought she recognized the goblet from somewhere but just couldn’t remember where. On a shelf, maybe. Or mantel?
She took a step forward, feeling too close to the edge of the trail. She couldn’t let herself fall into the lake. It was a long, long way down and she doubted she would survive.
She could hear her heartbeat in her ears. Was he expecting her to drink something? Was that why he had the goblet? She didn’t think that would be a good idea.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“Looking for you, my love.” His tone was light, almost singsong.
Immediately she was on alert. “I wanted to take a walk before it got too dark.”
“You were avoiding me.”
“Why are you wearing a mask?”
“I don’t want anyone to see me.”
His honesty was one of the things she’d told herself she loved about him. He never lied to her, even when he uttered truths she didn’t really want to hear. “You don’t want them to know you’re looking for me?”
“I know you’re trying to leave. I’m here to help you on your journey.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sometimes love is so cruel.”
She was feeling strangely light-headed all of a sudden. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. She noted then that he was also wearing rubber gloves. Were her hands stinging? Her throat tightening?
Behind the mask his eyes were clear but the fog was surrounding him, blurring the edges. “I’m not sick,” she tried to say, but her voice came from a long, long way away and she stumbled a step. And now she felt sick, but it wasn’t her soul that was at risk.
“I—”
She never got to finish her thought because his hands suddenly encircled her neck, closing her windpipe. She dropped the flowers and tried to pry his fingers loose, but she couldn’t. Her head was spinning. She envisioned a spiral of fog, wrapping her up like a spider cocooning its prey in spun silk. The spiral would whip her around and around, carrying her upward before dropping her into the depths of the water.
Her fingers scrabbled desperately against the pressure of his, digging hard, but she couldn’t release his hold. When she lost consciousness and went limp, he held her carefully and then helped her body collapse to the ground.
When she stopped breathing he released the pressure on her neck. She’d dropped the flowers. Carefully he plucked them up then tossed them over the ledge and into the fog, knowing they would drift down to the water far below.
Then he laid her on her back and folded her arms over her chest. He picked up the goblet and held it high above her before gently tipping it. A trail of ashes ran from the lip and into the fog. He leaned over her closely, making certain most of the ashes had found their way to her.
You should really burn her. Cleanse her.
But the flames might be seen, even through the fog. The scent of the fire would carry to the camp.
When he finally stood he realized he could no longer see her. The fog had done its duty. Now he needed to melt back into the forest or risk falling into the lake himself. He would wait there for a while. Better to let time pass with this gray menace surrounding him.
He glanced back to where he knew the camp was, but the fog blanketed his vision. He could barely see more than a few inches into its thick depths. Still, he imagined them all sleeping in their bunks. The young campers and the sex-starved counselors. His lips twitched.
Arianna had been there.
Carefully, he squatted down and leaned over her, feeling his way. He let
Wait. Was that a breath?
He bent down and saw that her eyes were open. Black pools. Filled with terror.
She was still alive!
Wrapping his hands around her neck once more he squeezed with all his strength, smashing his lips to hers at the same time. He kissed her as long as he could without taking a breath, his lungs screaming. He then gulped air and then kissed her hard again. She didn’t wriggle much. Her strength was already gone.
He stayed that way until there was no heartbeat. No chance of revival. The fog had kept moving and was now thinning, drifting away from him. He gazed at her slack features and waited, making sure she was really dead.
Finally, he rose and looked back at the camp. The lights had winked on again as the fog passed, though less could be seen as the hour had grown later. Stealthily, he headed down the trail.
He needed to not be missed.
Chapter 1
Camp Love Shack
Then...
Emma Whelan sat on the cold carpet of pine needles around the campfire, narrowing her eyes against the smoke. It was dark outside, no ambient light to push back the deep woods beyond the blood-orange glow off the spitting and grasping flames, rust and maize heat devils dancing toward the sky. Across the campfire, the boys’ faces were up-lit, gallows-like. And beyond them the lake was a black void, a seemingly endless placid surface that stretched to the other end, though Fog Lake was barely half a mile long, both shores along its width in sight of each other.
“Sure you don’t want some?” one of the boys asked, holding up a joint and pointing it in Emma’s direction.
At seventeen Emma was no stranger to weed. She’d done her share of experimenting but she’d never cared for the high. She’d abused alcohol some, too. Got drunk just enough times to regret some of the things she’d said and done, and so her interest in marijuana and booze had fallen off a cliff.
Rona, seated a few spaces over from Emma, jumped up and circled the fire to take the joint, press it between her lips, and inhale deeply. She kept her eyes on the guy who’d offered it up, Donovan, even though he was still looking at Emma. He liked Emma, she knew, but she didn’t care. She was used to male attention. But his interest in her had clearly pissed off Rona, which amused her.
Brooke, on Emma’s right, said, “Joy’s not leaving us overnight by ourselves. She’ll be back.”
“Nah, she’s gone,” another one of the guys answered. That was Lanny. Kind of a douchebag. Kinda funny. Emma wasn’t sure what she thought of him. “The sad sack’s not here. We’ve got the place to ourselves till tomorrow afternoon, so party on, dudes.” Lanny got to his feet and did an impromptu bump and grind with his hips, part sexual, part plain stupid. He wore baggy shorts and a camp T-shirt and made goofy faces. His ears stuck out from beneath a shaggy haircut of brown hair. Everyone laughed and even Emma smiled.
Joy, who was kind of down and mopey, was the midthirty-ish director of the summer camp owned by Mr. and Mrs. Luft-Shawk. The Luft-Shawks had tried to entrench the name “Camp Fog Lake” but everyone still called it Camp Love Shack not only because it sounded like their names, but also because it had the reputation of being a hot, hook-up place. Emma could attest to that last part. She’d spent an exploratory half hour with Donovan behind the mirror, a space about the size of Mom’s broom closet, but in truth her mind had been set on someone else. Donovan and his ilk were just a summer distraction and when he’d tried to jam himself into her standing up, Emma had pushed back as far as the space would allow and let him know that was the end of whatever was between them.
As if realizing her thoughts had touched on him, Donovan, who’d stretched out on the ground after passing the joint, roused himself again and sat up. His longish hair was dark in the shadows but she knew it was brown, streaked blond from weeks in the sun as a lifeguard at the lake. He had a great body, strong arms and chest that showed beneath the unbuttoned white shirt he’d tossed on over a pair of khaki shorts. All the girls wanted to be with him, which was, truthfully, why Emma had considered giving him a whirl behind the mirror. But like Lanny and Owen, Donovan was really just another horny guy looking to get laid. None of them knew the first thing about how to treat a woman. Hell, how to treat another human being. Bring up the word “relationship” and they would run away as if chased by a hive of hornets. Respect, consideration, and basic kindness were foreign concepts as well. All they were good for was quick sex with a hard body, if you were so inclined. She didn’t even like kissing him or his ilk and had gotten a reputation around the camp for “no mouth stuff.” They were all too eager, too slobbery, too much tongue. Took the thrill of a summer fling right out of it.
There was another guy who’d caught her eye. He wasn’t hanging out with any of them around tonight’s campfire and was a bit of a mystery, which was what intrigued her the most. He wasn’t part of the camp as far as she could tell. She was still debating on him. A last hurrah before the rest of her life began. Just thinking about the future made her happy and anxious and determined all at the same time.
She glanced over at Rona and Brooke. They were both regarding Donovan reverently. They knew he’d been with Emma and they wanted a crack at him themselves.
Good luck, girls.
“You know why it’s called Fog Lake, don’t you?” Donovan said. He arched a brow for effect and threw a glance over at Brooke and Rona.
“Let me guess. Uhhhh . . . because of the fog?” Rona smirked at him. She was medium height with short, dark hair that flopped into her eyes in a cute, boyish way and yet she was all curves and knew how to use them. She slid a look Emma’s way as if to say, I’ve got his attention now, bitch.
Emma could feel herself rise to the challenge and reminded herself that this summer was just a pause before the beginning of her real life. Let Rona have him.
“Not just a fog. It’s this dense curtain of—I’m not making this up—water crystals and tiny cells that are part plant and animal in origin,” Donovan said in all seriousness.
Emma squinted her eyes at him. Was he for real?
“Animal?” Brooke questioned, cocking her head. She swept back the curtain of light brown hair that fell across her face. She, too, was medium build; both she and Rona were a bit shorter than Emma. Brooke was seemingly more reticent than Rona, but Emma had caught her assessing her more than once with those green eyes and suspected Emma Whelan had been a very lively topic amongst the “three hottest chicks at camp, after Emma,” according to the boys. Those chicks included Rona, Brooke, and their third friend, Wendy, who was seated one over from Brooke.
Now Wendy, who up till this point had been sitting like a statue, stirred. She was petite with curly brown hair she tried to constantly tame into a ponytail. Her elfin chin quivered slightly and she complained, “You’re just trying to scare us.”
“No shit,” was Lanny’s jovial reply. He grinned and waggled his fingers at her, as if he were throwing a hex on her. Wendy shrank into herself and hid behind Brooke.
“So, the fog is alive?” Emma questioned dryly.
Donovan shrugged. “It’s not regular fog. It’s thicker. And it moves in slowly and creeps across the lake and hangs there. After it recedes, dead bodies have been found. Ask Joy, if you don’t believe me.”
Emma said, “The fog kills people. It’s alive and it kills people. Let me write that down.”
“People die when it comes around,” Owen Paulsen jumped in quickly, shooting a glance toward Donovan. He was shorter and more compact, with longish, dark brown hair and was Donovan’s lieutenant, always ready to defend his friend and maybe catch some of his hero’s hand-offs, where the ladies were concerned.
“So, the fog can think, too,” said Emma. “Very evolutionary of it. If it was just made up of plant crystals, well then, the killing would be more reactionary, like plants, I suppose. But made up of animal crystals . . . that means it can think. If that’s the case, the fog might actually know who it’s killing.”
“Shut up,” said Donovan with admiration.
