Creepypasta Collection Book 1

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The early morning sun poked through my window to let me know it was time to get to work. I yawned, stretched and put on a pair of shorts with a t-shirt. I could hear the cardinals chirping hello to the serene August morning. It was already in the mid-60s, which meant a very warm and humid day would be on it's way. The kids would be here soon, and I indeed to make sure everything was ready for the weekend.

As the sun inched over the horizon, and burned away the morning haze. I checked the cabins and found everything for the new campers. Food packed the cabinets and freezers in the mess hall, enough for a large contingent of children. This would be shuttered and forgotten until spring returned to claim the reserve from winter's icy grip.

I checked the list Roger had given me at the beginning of the camp season. I went through the list of participants, and stopped at the last unchecked date. This weekend, I would help host the boys of St. Michael's orphanage. Sorry, we don't use the word orphanage anymore. Political correctness sent out a memo calling St. Michael's a foster child care center. It doesn't matter what name they give it, St. Michael's houses all the unwanted children from broken and abandoned families. These kids were the modern day wretched refuse the Statue of Liberty talks about on its base. If not for the sizable donation from the Joseph Swift Foundation, these kids would never step foot in Camp Winnoka. They were truly the lost souls and, if not for a few caring individuals, would have slipped through the cracks of society without concern.

For most of the camping season, snot-nosed rich kids ran around Winnoka like they were personally responsible for nature itself. They were privileged, spoiled and couldn't give a rat's ass about communing with nature and its wonders. The upside to those little rich kids, was the money their parents shelled out for us to entertain and amuse their rotten brats for a week. Their cash kept Camp Winnoka running, and affording the opportunity to bring less fortunate kids to camp. Although most of these young souls had never been out of the city, they appreciated the commune with forest life. After 30 years as camp caretaker, this was my payment, seeing the wonder in their eyes when presented with the majesty of nature.

With everything in order, I jumped on the camp's ATV and drove back to my Airstream trailer nestled off the camp proper. Looking in my bathroom mirror, I was a little unkempt. I swept back my salt and pepper hair, tied a rubber band around my ponytail, brushed out my beard, dabbed on some deodorant and slipped into a clean, yellow polo shirt with the camp crest. It was about 8 A.M. and the camp would come to life with new explorers soon. I fired up the ATV and went to base camp to await the last campers of the season.

I had just finished a Red Delicious when I heard the bus rolling down the dirt road. The Winnoka Nature Reserve was an isolated slice of forest in the southeast corner of Ohio. It covered over 400 acres of privately protected woods and wildlife. Hiking trails wound through the forest without a telephone pole, or skyscraper littering the landscape. The cabins, mess hall, and even the suspension bridge across Taylor Ravine, were all built with solid 19th century ingenuity. A single dirty road was the only way in or out of the reserve.

Roger was the first off the bus. As usual, he was filled with energy and covered in summer sweat. Although most counselors were teenagers trying to add a community service start to their college transcripts, Roger had fallen in love with Camp Winnoka and decided to make it a yearly commitment. He was an able-bodied guy, so I appreciated his help.

"Jackson, how's it going, you old mountain man?" Roger thrust out a hand.

I shook it. "Everything's primed and ready to roll, Roger."

While the other counselors tended to the kids, Roger slung an arm around my neck and walked me away from the unloading bus.

"Listen, Jackson, there are 22 kids this year. All boys, so we'll use cabins A, B, C and leave D empty. There's a couple rowdy ones, but nothing we can't handle. After all, if we can't handle two dozen kids for three days, we're in the wrong business." He laughed and looked at me with a concerned expression. "How's your arthritis?"