Junior year had come and gone like the wind for best friends John and Michael, the summer was beckoning them to New Hampshire for a long awaited camping trip. Michael’s parents were skeptical at first on whether the boys were responsible enough to take such a long camping trip, but with a little white lie from John, the boys were golden for their trip. With a roar from the engine the boys were waving goodbye to Michaels folks and headed north toward what was to become their own living nightmare.
Luscious green mountains, beautiful blue sky and a campsite worth a million bucks; the boys couldn’t have picked a better site to pitch camp. Camp was a small clearing, just big enough for a two man tent and a fire pit, complete with a shallow stream and enough space from the road so the police wouldn’t suspect any troublemaking if they spotted the fire. They were alone and young, too caught up in the idea that they escaped the boring suburbs for two whole months without any adult supervision. Street lights were non-existent along the road which they came so when night fell, it really fell and changed the campsite from extravagantly beautiful to ominously bizarre. In the light of the glowing fire, John and Michael rested on plastic chairs cooking hot dogs while exchanging stories about fishing, sports and girls from the past school years. Michael held his arms wide dropping his cooking stick and exclaimed, “I swear the fish was this big, I had to it wrestle to the ground to get it off the hook pretty much!”
John rolled his eyes saying, “well I hope you catch fish better than you cook your food, because your hot dog is on fire” he pointed to the fire pit laughing. Laughter rang from the campsite and echoed throughout the dark woods, returning no longer as a laugh but some twisted elegy that silenced the boys back to listening to the crackle of their fire.
Once the fire was extinguished John retired to the tent and passed out in his sleeping bag dreaming of catching a big fish. When he awoke Michael was scrunched against him holding a flashlight so tight his knuckles were a ghostly white. When asked about the space Michael merely nudged his answer away by mumbling and heading out to get ready for the day ahead.
Each day Michael grew more paranoid about the night, and would only answer, “I can’t be alone” to John when he asked why he was acting so strange; leaving all of the flashlights on in the tent, sleeping extremely close to John, and keeping his fire stick by his side at all times. Growing tired of Michaels childish fear of the dark, John decided to wake up early one morning and give him a little fresh air to realize that he was fine alone. John hiked up the stream for about an hour then turned back toward camp to check on Michael. Reaching camp a sudden fear gripped John’s chest—his car was gone and the tent collapsed.
While searching through the tent John came across some scribbled notes and drawings hidden in Michael’s pillowcase. As John viewed the images before him, an explosion boomed in the distance causing him to jump scattering Michaels images everywhere. “ MIKE! MIKE!” John yelled into the open sky, “MICHAEL!” as another explosion shook through the air. John didn’t know what to do anymore, except that he didn’t want to be alone, so he ran as fast as his legs could carry him down the road.
Smoke could be seen after about a mile down the road coming from ditch below a broken guard rail, Johns adrenaline picked up his speed to the wreck. Peering over the guard rail John looked down upon the blazing remains of his car and fell to his knees crying for Michael. Hearing a slight rustle John turned and was faced with Michaels images, the tall, faceless man.