Off Season

For three months, Camp Tawonga had been a cacophony of screaming children. As the last yellow school bus departed, the silence began to cling to the leaves like morning dew.

Sam, Angel, Brandi, and Sara stood on the porch of the arts and Crafts building. It was a wooden hall filled with half-finished tie-dye shirts and clay sculptures that looked like melting animals.

"Eww, my lungs actually feel clean. It's disgusting," Sam muttered, flicking her Zippo. The flame illuminated her round features before she drew in a lungful of menthol smoke. She exhaled a cloud of gray into the darkening woods. "I feel like I've been breathing in glitter since June."

"Don't get used to it," Brandi said, leaning against a railing that groaned under her weight. She sparked her own cigarette, the cherry glowing like a firefly in the dusk. "We're going to the Green. I need to drink enough tequila to forget the smell of lanyard."

"Seriously," Sam blew out another smoke cloud. "If I see one more friendship bracelet, I'm gonna yack."

"Is Jeff coming?" Angel frowned. None of the girls liked Jeff, but they tolerated him because he was Brandi's boyfriend.

"He's finishing up in the kitchen," Brandi replied, rolling her eyes with a heavy sigh. "He's stuck with Lana. The bitch is deep cleaning the industrial fridge, which we all know is code for eating the left over Choco Tacos and staring at Jeff's ass."

Sara hugged her elbows and looked toward the kitchen. "Lana's just... lonely. And bitter. Mostly bitter."

"She's a fucking gargoyle, Sara," Sam spat, flicking ask onto the dirt. "She's got that mole on her forehead that looks like a second head trying to sprout, and she spends half her shift making sure we know how much she hates us for being able to see our own feet. She's hateful because she's miserable, and she's miserable because she's a slob. It's a self-sustaining cycle of grossness."

"Fair." Brandi shrugged.

The sound of an engine broke the stillness. A battered white pickup truck rumbled down the dirt path, kicking up plumes of red dust. Ray, the grizzled finance lead with a beard that smelled eternally of stale coffee and cigarettes, waved a calloused hand out the window. Winston, the paddle boat coordinator, sat in the passenger seat. Winston was a tall, lean black man with a quick smile that usually put the kids at ease, but tonight he looked ready for a break.

"Lock up tight, ladies!" Winston shouted. "We're hitting Sonora for the weekend to pick up supplies and drop the cash at the bank. You girls be safe!"

Ray honked the horn and the truck disappeared down the road, the sound of the engine fading until the silence reclaimed the camp. The girls stood there for a moment with the weight of the isolation settling in. There were no campers, no counselors, and now, no senior staff. It was just them and the trees.

The Evergreen Lodge was packed with locals and the last of the seasonal tourists. The air was a cocktail of spilled beer and pine needles. The girls sat in a corner booth, the wood scarred with over forty years of rowdy nights. Jeff had joined them, his apron replaced by a flannel shirt. He seemed relieved to be away from the kitchen and the suffocating presence of Lana.

"She tried to corner me in the walk-in," Jeff shuddered and leaned into Brandi. "She asked if I ever got tired of blonde bimbos who can't cook. I nearly barfed on the last of the frozen food."

Sara rolled her eyes. She knew Lana was a desperate ghoul, but Jeff looked like the kind of guy that liked to punch holes in the drywall to intimidate women and she was sure he was exaggerating to make Brandi jealous.

"She's a fucking psycho," Brandi said, slamming a shot of tequila and pounding the glass back onto the table. "If she touches you, I'm gonna rip that mole off her face with my bare hands."

"Eww." Angel cocked an eyebrow.

As they laughed, a group approached their table. The tall man who seemed to be leading them was named Roland. He looked like a shark waiting for the scent of blood. Behind him stood Joe, a heavy-set guy with a buzz cut. Two others hovered in the periphery, including a girl with short brown hair.

"You guys look like you're celebrating something," Roland said, his voice was a smooth, low baritone. He leaned a hand on the table, his long, dark fingers tapping.

"End of season," Sam said. "Just us left at camp. We're celebrating the fact we don't have to hear 'Kum Ba Yah' for another nine months."

"Tawonga?" Roland asked. "Beautiful spot. But ya know... that place has history. Locals don't talk about it, but there's a reason the indigenous tribes stayed out of that part of the canyon."

Angel leaned in. "What history?"

Roland smiled. "They call it the 'Hollow Man' legend. They say a caretaker went mad one winter. He demolished the people left over at camp. All that was left of 'em was their skins... which he hung over the rafters of the Arts and Crafts building like drying laundry."

Sara rolled her eyes.

"It's true!" Roland smiled. "He wanted to turn the camp into an urban legend that would keep people out forever. They say he's still there, or something is anyways..."

"Just waiting for the camp to go quiet so he can start collecting again." chimed in Joe.

The table had gone silent.

"That's a charming story." Angel said.

"It's just a story," Roland said, his gaze shifting to Sara. "But... stories have power. They give a place it's soul. Or... they take it away."

He leaned closer, his breath smelled of peppermint. "Just remember when you're up there alone, every creak of the floorboards might just be the Hollow Man looking for a new coat."

The girls tried to get back into the spirit of the night, but Roland's words clung to them like cobwebs. When they stood to leave, Roland and Joe watched them from the bar with blank expressions.

"See you around." Roland smiled.

They arrived back at Camp Tawonga after midnight. The forest felt different with the campers gone. It wasn't a playground anymore, but a dense and suffocating thicket. The Hollow Man story sat in the back of their minds, making every whistle of wind sound like footsteps.

"I'm gonna go check the kitchen," Jeff said, kissing Brandi. "I think I left my stash in there and I need a bowl before I crash. That story creeped me out a bit more than I'd care to admit."

"Hurry back," Brandi said, "I'll be in the cabin."

The four girls walked on, their flashlights cutting weak and shaky paths through the dark. They didn't notice the dark SUV parked deep in the brush near the camp entrance or the shadows detaching themselves from the trees, moving with a practiced, predatory grace.

Inside the kitchen, the air was cold. The pilot lights of the massive stoves cast a dim, blue glow over the stainless steel surfaces. Jeff clicked on his flashlight, the beam bouncing off of the industrial refrigerators.

"Lana?" He called out. "You still here?"

He heard a wet sound from the back of the pantry. It sounded like someone dropping a heavy, waterlogged towel on to the floor.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Thwack.

"Lana... if you're eating the bacon grease again. I'm telling Ray. Seriously, it's gross," he joked, though his heart began to thud against his ribs like a trapped bird.

He rounded the corner and stopped dead. The flashlight slipped from his sweaty grip, clattering to the floor.

Lana was pinned to the massive wooden prep table. A heavy-duty meat hook had been driven through her throat, anchoring her to the wood. Her massive frame was slumped, her eyes bulging in a final, silent scream. Her stomach had been slit open and her intestines were draped over the table like a grotesque, steaming centerpiece.

Her blood dripped off the edge of the table in rivulets, pitter-pattering onto the floor.

A scream was beginning to race up through Jeff's throat. But before it had time to escape, a black, gloved hand clamped over his mouth from behind, the fingers smelling of peppermint. A serrated blade slipped between his ribs, grating against the bone with a sound that Jeff felt more than heard. The person leaned into his ear, the voice a calm whisper.

"She was right about one thing, Jeff," the voice said, twisting the blade slowly. "You really do have a nice ass."

They pulled the knife upward, zipping through Jeff's diaphragm. His world went black as his life leaked out in hot, desperate bursts.

In the Arts and Crafts building, the girls were lingering, unwilling to go to their separate cabins just yet. Sam was sitting on a workbench, dangling her legs and lighting another cigarette.

"Where the fuck is Jeff?" Brandi asked, checking her phone for the tenth time. "No bars. Big surprise."

"He probably went to the cabin," Angel said, filing a nail with aggressive focus. "You did tell him you were gonna be there."

"I have a bad feeling," Sara said. "Did you hear that?"

"It was just the wind, Sara. Everything echoes and sounds like a horror movie." Sam said, though her hand shook slightly as she flicked her ash.

Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the Arts and Crafts building creaked open inch by inch, while the hinges screamed in protest.

A round object rolled across the floor, thumping softly against the wood, stopping at Brandi's feet and leaving a dark trail smeared behind it.

It was Jeff's head. His face was frozen in a mask of agony, his tongue lolling out of a mouth that had been stuffed with pine needles. His eyes were wide, staring up at Brandi with a hollow gaze.

Brandi screamed. She fell back against the pottery wheel, her hands over her mouth, her eyes fixed on the severed head of the man she loved.

A large frame stepped into the doorway. He was wearing a leather apron over his clothes, now slick with fresh gore. In his right hand, he held a machete. In his left, he held a heavy, sharpened iron spike.

He moved with terrifying speed. Before Sam could even scramble to her feet, Roland swung the machete. The blade caught Sam across the throat. It was a clean, powerful stroke. Her head stayed on for a fraction of a second, held by a shred of muscle, before it toppled into a bucket of blue paint with a wet splash. Her body slumped forward, pumping fountains of hot crimson onto the floor. It was mixing with the blue paint in a sickening violet swirl.

"Run!" Sara screamed, grabbing Angel's arm.

They bolted toward the back exit, but Brandi was paralyzed with fear. She was staring at Jeff's head, her mind snapping under the weight of the gore. Roland reached her in three long strides. He didn't use the knife. He grabbed the back of her hair and slammed her face into the sharp, brick corner of the pottery kiln.

The sound of her skull shattering was like a dry branch snapping under a heavy boot. He didn't stop. He slammed her face again. And again. And again. By the fourth strike, Brandi's face was a pulp of bone, teeth, and brain matter. He let her body drop like a sack of flour, her blood splattering the unfinished clay pots on the drying rack.

Sara and Angel burst out through the back door and into the woods. The branches whipped at their faces..

"The road!" Angel sobbed, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. "It's the only way out!"

"We just have to pray like Hell a car will be passing by!" Sara panted.

They sprinted through the darkness, the terrain a nightmare of roots and loose rocks. Behind them, they could hear the heavy footfalls of a hunter who wasn't in a hurry.

"I can hear him!" Angel shrieked, her voice cracking.

They reached the dirt road that led toward the highway. Their lungs burned, the cool mountain air was tearing at their throats. Angel was faster, her terror had given her a supernatural burst of speed, but Sara was right behind her with shaking legs.

A glimmer of the paved road was just in the distance. Maybe a mile to freedom and safety.

A figure stepped out from behind a massive cedar tree. It wasn't Roland. It was Joe, the man from the bar. He wasn't carrying a weapon and he didn't need one. He stepped into Sara's path and clotheslined her with one arm.

Sara hit the dirt with a sickening thud, the wind knocked out of her. Before she could roll over or even gasp for air, Joe was on her. He used his knees to pin her shoulders to the gravel.

"Help!" Sara screamed.

Angel stopped running. She found a rock the size of a bowling ball. She lunged forward, swinging with every ounce of desperate strength she possessed. It connected with the side of Joe's head with a heavy crunch.

Joe groaned, his eyes rolling back as his temple caved in. He slumped sideways, blood pouring from his ears.

Angel reached for Sara's hand. "Get up! We're almost there!"

Roland emerged from the brush like a shadow made of solid malice. He wanted the fear to last. He drove the iron spike through Sara's thigh, pinning her leg deep into the dirt.

Sara's scream echoed as Roland made a fist. He looked Angel dead in the eyes as he punched Sara in the mouth.

"Go!" Sara choked out, blood bubbling at her lips. Roland reached down and gripped the head of the spike, twisting it further into the earth. "Angel, fucking run! Don't look back! Run for your life!"

Angel hesitated for one heartbeat, her eyes welling up with tears. She saw Roland raise the machete high above his head. She saw the cold, dead light in his eyes. He wasn't a person anymore, he was a vessel for the legend he had created. He was the Hollow Man.

Her heart shattered into a million pieces as she turned and ran, leaving Sara to face death alone.

She didn't look back when she heard the heavy blade hitting meat or when the screaming stopped. She ran with her vision blurred by the influx of tears until her heart felt like it was going to burst through her ribs and her bare feet were shredded by gravel.

She reached the paved road, and her legs gave out. She collapsed, sobbing onto the asphalt. Her feet were raw and bleeding and her breath was coming out in short, heavy sobs.

A pair of headlights appeared in the distance. She wanted to run, but there was nothing left in her.

"Please," Angel whispered, her voice a broken rasp.

The dark sedan slowed down as the driver saw the blood-soaked girl in the middle of the road. It stopped and the driver's door opened. A man stepped out.

"Oh shit," he said, rushing to her. "Are you okay? What happened? You're covered in blood!"

Angel grabbed his jacket, sobbing hysterically, her fingers staining his clothes.

The man lifted her up and helped her into the passenger seat. "It's okay. you're safe now. I've got you."

As the car began to pull away, Angel looked out the window, her face pressed against the glass.

Back at the tree line, standing just where the shadows of the forest met the pale moonlight of the road were two people.

Roland stood there, the machete resting on his shoulder. Beside him stood Shana, the woman with the short brown hair from the bar. She was twisting a hunting knife in her hand as she watched the car drive away with a small, chilling smile of satisfaction.

Shana leaned her head against Roland's shoulder. "She'll tell the story, Roland. She'll tell them about the Hollow Man."

"A legend is born." Roland smiled. "People love scary stories. They'll come here now just to feel the fear. And we'll be waiting for them."

Roland reached out, his hand stained dark and tacky with the accomplishment of the night's work. He cupped Shana's blood smeared face and pulled her into a deep, passionate kiss. Their lips wrestled in a smear of copper-scented wetness that tasted of iron and salt. The blood on their skin mingled as they pressed against each other in a silent, grotesque vow.

Angel sobbed into her hands, unaware that the driver was looking at her with pity. She was the witness they had chosen to carry the infection of their twisted myth back to the world. The one who would ensure the Hollow Man was spoken in whispers around campfires for decades to come.