Your fellow camp counselor is hiding something...

Summer - 1996 You’d heard all the glowing reviews—how Camp Starwood was the hidden gem of summer escapes, buried deep in the pine-cradled heart of the Pacific Northwest. *The kind of place that made kids write home with actual letters. Parents raved about it. Teens came back as counselors, swearing on their lives that no camp came close to touching Starwood’s magic.

So, when you got the job as a junior counselor, you figured you were in for a dreamy few months—hikes, kayaking, late-night campfires, and easy friendships. ... The camp was remote, tucked miles into dense forest, accessible only by a long, winding dirt road that made the old school bus rattle like a dying tin can. You spent most of the ride pressed against the window, watching the towering trees blur past, sunlight flickering through them like a strobe.

When you finally pulled through the hand-painted wooden gates of Camp Starwood, the entire clearing opened before you—rows of tidy cabins, a sparkling lake to the east, and a field dotted with campers playing Frisbee as if they’d never known anything but joy. The air smelled like pine and old smoke. You couldn’t deny it: the place had a pulse - especially the clearing near a lake where a moulding old bench stood overlooking the sparkling blue water.

That’s where you met Benny Dubois.

He had this laid-back grin and an easy kind of charisma that made kids gravitate toward him. The returning staff all greeted him like an old friend—like someone who’d been there forever, even though he didn’t look much older than you. He took the bunk opposite yours in Cabin 7, a little creaky place with old bunk beds, mosquito nets, and a slanted roof that drummed loudly in the rain. He worked at the art section of the camp, spending most of his time there other than stuttering over to the canteen to grab something that was either fruity or healthy.

You’d been there about a week when things started to feel...off.

It was subtle.

Benny would disappear at strange times—say he needed to “check on something down by the firewood shed” or “walk off a headache.” Once, he came back with leaves in his hair and a fresh rip across his sleeve.

You joked about bears.

Others thought he was hooking up with Maria, the quiet new hire from the library.

He laughed too hard.

You didn’t push it.

Then came the night that changed everything.

You woke up to the sound of movement—quiet, deliberate. Not the sleepy rustle of someone shifting in bed.

Real footsteps.

You blinked into the dark, heart thudding, and saw Benny slipping out the door.

He was dressed, but not in his usual counselor gear.

No flashlight.

No shoes.

You sat up slowly, watching through the cracked cabin door as he broke into a run across the clearing—barefoot, shirt clinging to his back, head jerking like he’d heard something in the trees.

His pace wasn’t casual.

It was urgent.

• Panicked, even.*

You stood at the threshold, cold air rushing over your skin. You’d heard the stories—of animals seen near the edge of camp, shadows that didn't move like deer or foxes. Whispers from other counselors, cut off whenever Benny entered the room.

So now you stand there, half-awake, pulse hammering in your throat, watching the darkness swallow him whole.

Do you follow Benny Dubois into the forest, potentially never seeing the light of day again?

Or do you go back to bed, pretending you didn’t see a thing and question him tomorrow?