Bloody Footprint at Camp Larva
It was my first day at summer camp, a new place called Camp Larva. My name is Taylor, and I have a thing for good names. Camp Larva? Not so much. Why would you name a summer camp after bugs? At least it’s catchy.
I got to my cabin and unpacked my things faster than my cabinmates so I could go explore. I wandered around for a while, admiring the new facilities and the paths carved into the woods.
“Watch out!” someone called, and I ducked to avoid a flying Frisbee, bumping into another person with my abrupt movement.
When I recovered, I reached out to help up the person I’d knocked over. A tiny, slick hand grasped mine and threw weight against me; I braced myself and pulled up a small girl with slick black hair and bright green nail polish. She was wearing a neon green tank top that said “FIGHT THE POWER” on it.
“I’m Alia,” she said before I could apologize.
“I’m Taylor,” I said, grimacing by way of apology, and so we were friends.
We kept wandering around Camp Larva, talking about everything from the horrible name to what we expected out of the cafeteria food. Then Alia asked, “Did hear the story about the girl who disappeared from the camp?”
I shook my head.
“One summer,” she began, in one of the best storytelling voices I’d ever heard, “before this was Camp Larva, it was Camp Butterfly.” That struck me as odd, but I let her continue without interruption. “About seventy years ago, there was a girl; it was her first time here. On her first night, she awoke her whole cabin by screaming in the middle of the night. Then, on her second night, she was gone when the other girls woke up. They hunted all around the camp and finally found her in a bathroom stall. She had red handburns on her wrists and wouldn’t say a word.
“Then, on the third day, she was gone again. They looked everywhere, scouring the bathrooms in particular, but she had completely disappeared. They say she still haunts the camp to this day.” Alia had a smug look on her face as she concluded her tale.
“That’s hecka freaky,” I said, but before I could add more insights, the intercom interrupted me.
“Campers, please report to your cabins for bedtime. All campers are required to be awake by ten a.m. Thank you.” The voice clicked off and chaos ensued: the campers came pouring out of the woods and from the river to fill the cabins.
By 11, all the campers were in their beds and clicking on flashlights to read or tell ghost stories. Alia and I stayed up for two more hours, chatting to each other and letting the other girls join in when they were curious. I fell asleep halfway through a conversation.
In the middle of the night, someone shook me awake. I opened blurry eyes to see Alia. “Really? I was dreami – ”
She shook her head. “Larva means ‘ghost’ in Latin.”
That brought me awake. “What?”
“Larva. It means ‘ghost.’ And I think I saw one.” Her face in the flashlight beam was white, terrified. I grabbed my jacket and a flashlight and followed her outside.
Crack. Snap. The sounds behind us made us whirl around, but there was nothing there – just the treeline and a few bushes. Then we saw them: two glowing yellow eyes, peering from one of the bushes.
I blinked and they were gone. Alia grabbed my hand. “We have to follow it!” she whisper-yelled, and I found myself stumbling after her.
Whatever it was did not want to be pursued, for once we had crossed the length of the camp in hot pursuit, it paused long enough to throw something invisible at us. Visible or not, it hit us hard, and we tumbled to the ground, winded from the impact. When we recovered enough to look up, it was gone.
Alia staggered to her feet and stumbled a few steps forward. She fell to her knees, pointing. “Taylor, look!”
It was a bloody footprint.
