SquidgeWorld Archive

Chapter Text

Prologue

1998
A Youth Camp Somewhere Lonely in the Midwest

There were an even dozen pre-adolescent girls gathered around the campfire-and their seventeen year old councilor just thanked God that they'd given her the smallest group. It was a good thing that they were the younger ones, too, because that made them easier-and more fun-to scare. Scary stories around a campfire were a fine old tradition, and if she could keep the little twerps shaking in their bunks all night long, too scared to make the short trip to the outhouse, so much the better.

The teenager's name was Melissa (she insisted on being called 'Missy'-a fact that was going to get more and more ridiculous as she grew older-and fatter). She'd passed out the peeled sticks and marshmallows, and waited till most of the campers had set at least one marshmallow on fire before casually mentioning a horrid true story that had happened 'just up the road from here'. "But maybe I'd better not tell you about it," she said solemnly. "It's pretty gruesome. If they made it into a movie it would be, like, rated R. You guys couldn't even get in to see it."

Well, of course they had begged and pleaded, swearing that they could take it. She told the story in a hushed voice, with many a dramatic pause and significant glance at the dark surrounding woods. "...so the couple was parked on Lover's Lane, making out, right? They're going at it, hot and heavy, and the guy left the radio on for, like, mood music. Well, all of a sudden the music stops, and there's this emergency bulletin. They say that a maniac has escaped from the asylum just a couple of miles away. Maybe some of you saw it when you came here-it's this really big brick building, with bars on the windows?" Some of the campers nodded nervously. No need to tell them that building was actually owned by company that manufactured cough medicine, and the bars were to keep out the codeine fiends. "Anyway, he killed two guards, just ripped 'em to pieces, and escaped. Everyone should stay home and lock their doors and windows till further notice, and if they saw him, contact the police right away. He'd be easy to recognize, because he'd lost his right hand, and it had been replaced by a HOOK! Not only that, but he'd secretly SHARPENED the hook till it was like a razor, and that was how he killed the guards."

Melissa saw with satisfaction that several of the campers were clinging to each other, their expressions filled with dread. "So the girl is 'oh, m'gawd, we have to get home right now!', and the guy is 'don't worry, baby, he won't come here, and if he does, I'll kick his ass for you'." There were several faint titters at the word 'ass'. "See, he wanted to keep making out. He even told her that if they stopped, he'd hurt real bad from all his unfulfilled lust." Her voice became matter of fact. "That's a lie, by the way. All guys say that, and it's a crock. They might not be comfortable, but it isn't gonna be anything mortally damaging."

She got back to the story. "But the girl was 'no way, take me home NOW'. The guy was all pissed off, but he knew he wasn't gonna get anywhere that night, so he drove the girl home, but he was so mad that he really peeled out when he started the car. I mean, it was like he was at a drag race-sprayed gravel everywhere."

"They got to the girl's house, and he was feeling a little ashamed of himself, which is really rare, believe me. So he decided to be a gentleman, and open her door for her. He gets out and goes around to the passenger side, then suddenly he faints. He just passes out cold, drops flat. Well, the girl gets out to see what's the matter with him. She swings the door open fast and jumps out, and kneels down by him to check him out, and she hears this 'clink, clink, clink' sound. She looks back at the car..." Melissa let her voice drop dramatically, and said slowly, "and there was a razor sharp hook hanging from the passenger door handle."

She felt smug gratification at the horrified squeals from most of the little girls. One or two of the littler ones were even near tears. But there was one...

It was that Verity Carmichael. At barely thirteen, she was the oldest of the group. Verity was sitting there with an _expression like she'd just bitten into a lemon. Melissa didn't like the way she was looking at her, either. It was... Melissa wasn't very bright. She wasn't really sure of the concept of 'contempt', but she knew that Verity didn't think much of her. "So, Carmichael, that didn't scare you?"

Verity shrugged, brown pigtails (and what girl over the age of six or seven wore PIGTAILS, unless they were a cheerleader, Melissa thought) shifting. "Oh, it was pretty well done for a STORY. But that's what it was-a story. Why do you have to pretend like it's real?"

"Hey, it IS real!" Melissa protested, indignant.

"So, if I go down to the local newspaper and dig through their files, I'll find articles about it?"

Melissa hesitated. "Well, they had a lot of news to cover when it happened. But I KNOW it's true, because out cleaning lady's son dated a girl who knew the girl it happened to."

"Uh-huh. Let's see-I first heard this story when I was seven. That time it was in Florida, and the maniac only killed one guard. Then when I was nine we moved to New Jersey. In that one the guy made the girl open her own door, and when she fainted, he got out and found the hook. Then we moved to Indiana when I was eleven, and the maniac had been locked up for killing people on Lover's Lanes to begin with. And that one was true because the guy who told it to me had a cousin who used to shoot pool with one of the guards who was hired to replace the guard who was killed."

By now all the girls were looking at Verity, open mouthed. One of them said slowly, "You know, it seems kind of funny that the same thing happened in so many places, so many different times."

"That's because it didn't," Verity informed her. "It's what's called an 'urban legend'. It's a story that gets told so often that people will swear that it's true, but it's usually just a load of hooey. Maybe sometime, a long time ago, there was an itty bitty, teeny tiny bit of truth, but the more it got told, the farther from the truth, and the more... I don't know... extreme it got. Heck, they even have a movie out about that sort of thing, called Urban Legends. It's even got that cute guy from Mighty Ducks in it, and BOY does he get killed in an icky way. Now, if you wanted to tell a scary story that was REAL, you could tell us about the serial killer that buried the bodies of a couple of his victims probably not a mile from here. You can still see the dip in the ground where they dug them up.~"

Melissa, irritated that the girls no longer seemed terrified, now that they had a logical explanation for the story, stood up angrily, hands on her hips. "Okay, so maybe it isn't one-hundred percent gospel. Why do you have to make such a big thing over it?"

"Because I enjoy a good story, but I don't like it when someone tries to pass off a load of, um, manure as the real deal. It just grates on me. Fact is fact, and fiction is fiction. There's such a thing as dramatic license, but Missy, you not only didn't have a license, you were hunting out of season, and you were WAY over your limit."

"I don't know why you have to be such a SNOT about it!"

Verity stuck another marshmallow on the end of her stick and began to turn it carefully over the flames. As it puffed up and turned golden brown, she said, "Blame it on my mother. She believed in doing like the Puritans used to-naming a child with a virtue or quality she wanted them to have. You know, they used to have Patience, Chastity, and Charity? Well, my Mom named me Verity." Just before the marshmallow could catch fire, she pulled it away from the flames, removed it from the stick, and popped it in her mouth. "And Verity means truth."

~I truly attended a camp in Zavalla, Texas where this particularly gruesome spot was pointed out to me. I didn't sleep well the rest of my stay.

OFFICIAL WORD TOTAL--1517

Scribe--Nice Writer Lady and #1 Official Strife Air Groupie

When it comes to competing with dogs--cats couldn't care less.--Moe Rocka

Randall Bart's comment on one of Mrs Kim's declarations about keeping a family happy (off a menu in a Mongolian restaurant)--"One claim: 'Eighty percent of divorces involve a gamboling problem.' I suppose it depends who one gambols with."