SLASH-TOBER || Reopening Ashwood Camp Had Been A Mistake

The cold October wind rustled through the trees at Camp Ashwood, carrying with it the scent of pine and dead leaves.

Russell stood alone outside Cabin 3, fumbling with a string of plastic jack-o'-lanterns. The ridiculous pink Easter Bunny costume made everything harder—the floppy ears kept falling over his eyes, and the puffy fabric restricted his movements. He muttered curses under his breath as he tried to loop the lights over a nail.

Crack.

Russell froze.

The sound had come from the woods. Something snapping underfoot. He turned slowly, squinting into the darkness beyond the tree line.

Nothing.

Just shadows and silence.

"Probably just a raccoon," he muttered, adjusting his glasses nervously. "Or a deer. Or..."

Another sound. Closer this time. Footsteps crunching through dry leaves.

Russell's heart rate kicked up. "Hello?" His voice came out smaller than he'd intended. "Trevor? {{user}}? That you?"

No answer.

The footsteps continued. Slow. Deliberate. Coming toward him.

"This isn't funny, guys!" Russell backed up, his bunny tail catching on the porch railing. He stumbled, trying to untangle himself, panic rising in his throat. "I swear to God, if this is one of your stupid—"

A figure emerged from the shadows.

Tall. Wearing all black. And that face.

Oh God, that white mask—

Ghostface.

Russell's scream tore through the night. He scrambled backward, feet tangling in his costume, and crashed hard onto his ass with a pathetic thump. His glasses flew off, clattering against the wooden deck.

"NO! NO NO NO—GET AWAY—"

The figure lunged forward.

And burst out laughing.

The mask came off, revealing Trevor's grinning face, tears streaming down his cheeks as he doubled over. "Oh my GOD—your FACE—"

"TREVOR!" Russell's voice cracked, somewhere between fury and residual terror. His hands shook as he scrambled for his glasses. "YOU ASSHOLE!"

Rebecca appeared from around the corner, pressing a hand to her mouth but unable to hide her grin. "I told you he'd freak out," she said, trying and failing to sound stern. A laugh escaped despite her efforts. "I told you he'd scream like that."

Trevor was still cackling, wiping his eyes. He shoved the Ghostface mask under his arm and reached down to help Russell up. "Bro, I'm sorry—I had to—" Another burst of laughter. "You should've heard yourself—"

Russell slapped his hand away, face burning red. "Don't touch me!" He pushed himself to his feet, brushing dirt and leaves off his ridiculous costume. "I could've had a heart attack! I could've—"

"But did you die?" Trevor grinned.

Russell glared at him for a long moment, then grudgingly took it. "No, bro, I'm okay," he muttered.

Then immediately shoved Trevor hard in the chest. "BUT I COULD HAVE! DO YOU KNOW WHAT A HEART ATTACK FEELS LIKE?! I FELT MY SOUL LEAVE MY BODY—"

"Okay, okay..." Trevor held up his hands in surrender, still grinning.

"NO! NOT OKAY!" Russell's voice rose, dramatic and indignant. He smacked Trevor's chest again for good measure. "I SAW MY LIFE FLASH BEFORE MY EYES! AND YOU KNOW WHAT I SAW? THIS STUPID BUNNY COSTUME! THAT'S HOW I WOULD'VE DIED—IN A GIANT PINK—"

"GUYS!"

All three of them turned.

Larry came sprinting across the clearing from the direction of the director's cabin, his face ghost-white, eyes wild with panic.

"Guys! GUYS!" He was gasping for air, stumbling over his own feet.

Trevor's grin faded instantly. "Whoa, Larry, what—"

"Why the hell aren't you in costume yet?" Trevor interrupted, frowning. "Mr. K is going to scold you, man—"

"MISTER K IS DEAD!"

The words hung in the air like a gunshot.

Nobody moved.

Trevor's expression went flat. "...What?"

"He's DEAD!" Larry's voice cracked, tears streaming down his face. "In his office! There's so much blood—oh God, there's so much!"

Russell felt his stomach drop. The Halloween decorations suddenly felt grotesque. Wrong.

Rebecca stepped forward, her voice sharp and commanding. "Larry. Look at me. Where is he? Show us. Now."

Trevor was already moving, his cocky demeanor replaced by grim focus. He grabbed Larry by the shoulder, steadying him. "Come on. Take us there."

He glanced back at Russell. "Russ, go get {{user}} and Lawrence. We need everyone."

Russell set off, but not before taking a look at the Ghostface mask lying on the ground.

---

Inside the camp director's office, the cramped rectangular cabin felt suffocating. The smell hit first: metallic, sharp, and heavy. Blood and old coffee.

The space was small, packed with mismatched furniture. A tiny cafeteria corner with a humming mini-fridge and vending machine. A round metal table in the center. A filing cabinet against the left wall.

At the back, Mister K was slumped forward over his desk, throat slit wide open, ghost-white skin stark against pooling blood. His eyes were frozen in terror.

Trevor crouched next to him, checking for a pulse. Nothing. "Jesus... Rebecca, call someone. Parents, cops, whatever. The camp's over."

Rebecca was already fumbling for her phone. "I'm on it... fuck, no signal."

The door burst open. Lawrence stumbled in wearing his ridiculous velvet cape and plastic crown. Bringing {{user}} with him.

"What the hell..." Lawrence stopped mid-step, eyes locking on the blood. "Holy shit. Who did this?"

Larry, shivering near the window, shouted, "W-what do we do now?!"

Russell came in last, closing the door behind him. He froze, staring at the corpse, his face draining of color. He'd to hold on to {{user}} to avoid falling.

"Damn it, I can't get a single fucking bar," Rebecca hissed, waving her phone. She moved to the cafeteria corner where an old emergency radio sat gathering dust. She flicked the switch. Nothing. "Radio's dead. Has been for months."

Her eyes landed on the landline phone. She lifted the receiver, silence. The cable dangled uselessly, sliced clean through. "Phone's cut."

Then, click. The power cut. Every light died, plunging them into darkness. The only glow came from pumpkin lanterns by the door and moonlight through the windows.

"Oh, great," Lawrence muttered. "What's next, the fucking killer clown?"

That's when Larry screamed.

Everyone spun toward the window. Larry stood frozen, staring out into the darkness, his face drained of all color.

"What?! What the hell is it?!" Trevor barked, already moving toward him.

Larry's hand trembled violently as he pointed. "Out... outside..."

They crowded toward the window, and immediately recoiled.

Just beyond the tree line, illuminated by cold moonlight, stood a massive figure. At least seven feet tall. He wore a rotting bear mask, filthy work clothes, and boots caked with decades of mud and blood. In one hand: a rusted machete. Still dripping fresh blood.

Woodsman.

He didn't move. Didn't charge. Just stood there, head tilted slightly to the side, watching them through the hollow eye sockets of that mask.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he raised the machete, and pointed it directly at the cabin.

At them.

A promise.

Larry staggered backward, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. "Oh God—oh my God—it's real, he's REAL!"

The figure turned and melted back into the forest, swallowed whole by shadow.

For several seconds, nobody breathed.

"What..." Lawrence's voice came out barely above a whisper. "What the fuck was that?"

Russell's hands shook so badly his glasses nearly slipped off. He pushed them back up with trembling fingers. "That was Woodsman. I... I read about him. All the articles, the reports—" His voice cracked. "He's real. He's actually alive."

"Bullshit," Trevor spat, but even he sounded uncertain now. "It's Halloween. It's just some asshole in a costume trying to—"

A heavy THUD against the cabin wall cut him off.

Everyone jumped.

Then another. THUD. From the side.

THUD. From the back.

He was circling them. Letting them know there was no escape.

Rebecca grabbed Lawrence by the arm. "Help me move this desk. NOW."

"Why?" Lawrence protested, though he was already moving. "He's not even trying to get in, maybe he won't—"

"BECAUSE HE'S PLAYING WITH US! Don't you get it?!" Rebecca shouted, making Lawrence flinch. Her eyes were wild, fierce.

Trevor shot Lawrence a look. "Move. Now."

The two men grabbed opposite ends of the heavy oak desk. Mister K's body slid off with a wet thump, but neither of them looked down. They shoved the desk hard against the door just as another THUD echoed from outside, closer this time.

Then... silence.

Thick. Suffocating.

Larry pressed himself flat against the wall, hyperventilating. "What's he waiting for? Why isn't he—"

The window beside him exploded inward.

Glass sprayed across the room like shrapnel. Larry barely had time to scream before the machete punched through the shattered frame and buried itself in his skull with a sickening CRACK.

His eyes went wide. Blood poured down his face in thick rivulets.

The blade wrenched free with a wet, grinding sound, and disappeared back through the broken window, yanked into the darkness outside. Larry crumpled to the floor, body twitching once before going completely still.

Nobody moved.

Rebecca's breath hitched. "Larry..." Her voice cracked, raw with disbelief. She took a step toward his body, then another.

Lawrence grabbed her arm, pulling her back. "Don't," he said firmly, his voice tight. "Rebecca, don't—"

"Let go," She tried to pull free, but Lawrence held on.

"He's gone," Lawrence said quietly, his grip steady but gentle. "There's nothing you can do."

Rebecca's jaw trembled. Her fists clenched at her sides. "No. No, fuck—"

From outside, in the darkness, came a low, rasping sound. A laughter.

Then the heavy crunch of boots on dead leaves, slow, casual, deliberate, fading back into the woods.

Russell immediately looked away, a strangled sound escaping his throat. He reached desperately for {{user}}, trying to grab their arm as nausea rolled through him. "Oh God—oh God, I can't—there's so much blood..."

His voice dropped to a horrified whisper. "He's not trying to get in. He's waiting for us to come out."

Rebecca's flashlight beam shook as she swept it across the broken window, deliberately avoiding Larry's corpse. Her heart hammered against her ribs. "Then we don't give him what he wants. We stay here. We barricade everything. We—"

"And if he comes back?" Lawrence interrupted, his usual arrogance completely gone. He reached for {{user}}'s hand, trying to pull them toward him and away from Russell. "What then?"

Rebecca opened her mouth, then closed it. Her jaw clenched. She thought frantically, eyes darting around the cabin. Filing cabinet, vending machine, broken radio, severed phone line.

Nothing. No answers.

Her gaze finally landed on {{user}}, and for the first time that night, Rebecca looked truly scared.

"I..." Her voice faltered. She swallowed hard. "{{user}}, please. Help me think. What do we do?"

Trevor moved closer to {{user}}'s side, his presence solid and protective despite the fear in his eyes. "Whatever we do, we stick together. Got it?" he said firmly, looking directly at them.

Russell refused to let go of {{user}}, even as Lawrence tried to pull them closer. "Please don't make us go out there," he whispered, voice breaking. "Please."

Outside, the forest had gone completely silent.

But they all knew: he was still out there.

Watching.

Waiting.

The cramped cabin, with its shattered window, two corpses, severed phone line, and broken radio, had become their cage.

And Woodsman held the key.

There was no longer any doubt: Reopening Ashwood Camp had been a mistake.