Hooper Craven

The campfire that once hissed and popped as its flames licked at the night sky was calm now … mostly just a glowing bed of embers that provided more ambience than heat.

Hooper Craven – already sufficiently drunk – released a rattling burp, pawed at the melting ice in the cooler, and fished out another cold one.

“Well, boys,” he said. “I think we’ve solved most of the world’s problems tonight, so it’s time for an old-fashioned campfire tale. Raise your hands if you wanna hear a ghost story.”

No one raised their hand.

“Nah, me either,” Hooper said, mindlessly scratching his belly. “Everybody knows ghosts are bullshit. Hell, I knew that when I was a kid. I remember my uncle took a bunch of us campin’ right here at Lake Halcyon and we roasted marshmallows and weenies and he told us about a lovesick lumberjack who had died here … dude was cuttin’ down a tree under the light of a full moon so he could build a cabin for his sweetheart, and a limb fell on him and crushed him. Supposedly – late at night – you could still hear him off in the distance, howlin’ and runnin’ his chainsaw. Some of the boys got spooked, but not me.

“First off, why would a ghost need a chainsaw? And second off, wouldn’t a lumberjack be smart enough to cut limbs while the sun was out? That story just never added up to me.”

Hooper laughed and took a long pull off his beer.

“Nah, the stories I liked were the ones that were more real. The ones that – if you really thought about it – could easily happen. Now, that guy who had the hook for a hand that killed the teenagers who went parkin’, that’s possible but it’s still a stretch. I mean, it’s just not likely. Raise your hands if you think that’s likely.”

No one raised their hand.

“Nope, if I was gonna do a scary campfire story, I’d keep it simple and make sure people could relate to it. Take tonight, for example. We’re all out in the middle of the woods. If we sit real quiet, we can hear hoots and squawks and all sorts of animal noises that we can’t quite identify. None of that’s all that scary, though, is it? I mean, that’s nature and we’re campers. Of course, if you hear somethin’ trompin’ through the woods you might think it’s a bear or Bigfoot or that Friday the 13^th fellow, and I guess that might give you a little bit of a tingle if you’re the nervous type.

“But to me it’s all about the element of surprise. Just people out enjoyin’ themselves, sittin’ around shootin’ the shit and gettin’ smashed. Not a care in the world. Then all of a sudden, one of ‘em stands up, pulls out a big machete and WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!”

Hooper rose to his feet, finished off his beer and crushed the can.

“Anyway, a couple of days go by and nobody hears from the campers. Finally, their wives or mothers or whoever get worried and call the police, and the police search the woods. And guess what they find? Yep … four campers’ bodies and four campers’ heads. Then they have to figure out what head goes with what body ‘cause they ain’t connected anymore. You know … on account of the machete. Next thing you know, it’s all over the news. ‘Manhunt on for sadistic killer!’ ‘Gruesome massacre at campsite!’ ‘Machete-wielding maniac at large!’ That’s the kinda story people can sink their teeth into.”

Hooper picked up his machete and proceeded to wipe the blood off the blade.

“A few years from now, people will gather ‘round this very spot and tell the story of the Lake Halcyon Massacre. And they’ll wonder … is Hooper Craven still out there, lookin’ for his next four victims? Raise your hands if you think they’ll ever catch me.”

No one raised their hand.