Camp Hollow

The arrival

I really didn’t want to come to this darn camp.

My parents, in their infinite wisdom, decided that sending me off to the middle of nowhere for an entire summer would somehow fix me. Make some friends, get some fresh air, try something new, they said. As if forcing me into a cabin full of strangers was going to miraculously turn me into the bubbly, outgoing daughter they wished they had.

I slump against the car door as we roll up the long gravel driveway, staring out at the dense wall of trees surrounding the camp. It’s not what I expected. No happy campers running around with marshmallows and friendship bracelets. No cheerful music playing over loudspeakers. Just rows of cabins, a main lodge with peeling white paint, and a lake in the distance, its surface so smooth and glassy it looks fake.

The car slows to a stop. My mom turns around in her seat, smiling way too much for someone who’s about to abandon their child in the wilderness.

“Come on, sweetheart. This will be good for you.”

I grunt in response.

Dad honks the horn twice—an impatient reminder that I don’t have a choice. So I sigh, grab my backpack, and step out onto the gravel. The air smells like pine needles and damp earth, the kind of scent that would be peaceful if I weren’t already in a bad mood.

A crooked wooden sign swings above the lodge entrance, its paint faded and cracked:

CAMP HOLLOW

The moment I see it, something inside me tugs—like a warning, quiet but insistent. The place looks… off. Maybe it’s the eerie stillness, the way the trees seem too tall or the fact that the lodge windows are so dark I can’t tell if anyone’s inside. The wind shifts through the trees, rustling the leaves, and I swear—for half a second—it sounds like whispering.

I shake it off. Just my imagination.

Behind me, the car door slams. “Bye, sweetie! Love you!” Mom calls.

Before I can turn around, before I can even think of some last-minute plea to escape, the tires crunch against the gravel, and they’re gone.

I stand there, gripping my backpack so tight my fingers go numb.

A whole summer. At this place.

I swallow hard, force my feet forward, and walk inside.

A cheery man greets me the second I step inside. Too cheery. Like the kind of guy who either genuinely loves his job or is just really good at faking it.

He’s wearing a gray cap with the camp’s logo stitched across the front—a mountain range with a lake running through it. The design is simple, almost boring, but my brain immediately locks onto it anyway. I always notice unnecessary things.

“Come this way, uhh…” The man squints at a clipboard, waiting for me to answer.

I blink, snapping out of my thoughts. “My name’s Seren.”

He nods like he already knew but wanted me to say it anyway. “Nice to meet you, Seren. I’m Joel. I’m in charge of the West Wing, where you’ll be staying.” He motions for me to follow as he heads toward a long hallway. “Your cabin is number thirteen.”

I pause for half a second.

“Thirteen?”

Joel chuckles. “Not superstitious, are you?”

I shrug. “No. Just… weird number to give a cabin.”

“Eh, it’s just a number. Camp’s been around for decades—most of the good numbers were taken before I even got here.”

Something about the way he says it unnerves me. Maybe it’s how casual he sounds, like this camp has been standing for far longer than it should.

Still, I don’t argue. I adjust my backpack strap and follow him down the hall. The floorboards creak under every step, and the walls are lined with old, faded pictures of past campers—groups of smiling kids in front of that same mountain-and-lake logo. Some of the photos are so old they’re black and white.

Joel keeps talking as we walk, something about camp rules, dinner times, and activity schedules. I half-listen, but my focus keeps drifting back to the photos.

Most of them are normal. But some… some feel wrong.

There’s one in particular—a group of kids from what looks like the 1970s. All of them grinning, arms slung over each other’s shoulders. Except for one boy on the end.

He isn’t smiling.

His face is pale, his eyes dark and hollow, almost like the shadows in the picture are swallowing him whole. His hands are at his sides, stiff, unlike the others, and something about him makes my stomach twist.

I don’t know why, but I lean in a little, squinting. Maybe it’s just an old photo, just bad lighting. Maybe—

“Alright, here we are!”

Joel’s voice jolts me, and I snap my head away from the picture.

We’ve stopped in front of a heavy wooden door with a tarnished metal number 13 nailed to it. My new home for the summer.

“Your cabin mates should already be inside,” Joel says, pushing the door open for me. “Get settled in, and dinner’s at six. Oh, and—” He winks. “Try not to get spooked by the ghost stories, yeah?”

I raise a brow. “Ghost stories?”

He just grins. “Every camp has them.” Then, before I can ask anything else, he turns and walks off down the hall, whistling to himself like he didn’t just say something incredibly ominous.

I exhale slowly and step inside.

The cabin is bigger than I expected. Six beds, wooden walls, a small window overlooking the lake. There are duffel bags and backpacks already tossed onto some of the beds, meaning I really am the last one here.

And that’s when I see them.

My cabin mates.

Five strangers.

The one closest to me, sitting cross-legged on a bottom bunk, is a tall, scrawny boy with glasses too big for his face. He adjusts them quickly, like they’re always slipping down his nose, and gives me a friendly grin.

“Hi! My name’s Leo!”

His voice is light, easygoing. The kind of person who probably talks a lot when there’s silence to fill.

The boy above him—perched lazily on the top bunk—barely reacts. He looks like he’s been through this routine a thousand times before. But after a second, he forces a polite smile, running a hand through his ginger hair. Freckles scatter across his nose and cheeks.

“I’m Rory,” he says, sounding bored but not unkind.

I glance at the next bunk over. A massive guy sits there, arms crossed, his muscles straining against his t-shirt. His expression is hard to read—somewhere between uninterested and irritated, like he got stuck here against his will.

He grunts. “Aiden.”

Underneath him, a girl leans forward eagerly, her bright eyes full of energy. Her skin is a warm brown, and tight curls frame her face. She seems way too excited to see another girl in the cabin.

“I’m Alexis!” she says quickly, then gestures to the girl sitting just behind her. “And that’s Caiji.”

Caiji barely moves. She’s small, delicate-looking, with long straight blue hair that catches the light like silk. Her deep blue eyes flicker toward me before darting away, and she shifts slightly behind Alexis, like she’s used to letting other people speak for her.

I open my mouth to respond, but something in the back of the room makes me pause.

There’s one more bunk. Shoved into the shadows.

Someone is sitting there, barely moving.

A boy.

His posture is relaxed, but there’s something off about him—something unsettling. His dark eyes stare at me, empty and unreadable, and I can’t tell if he’s studying me or looking right through me. His face is expressionless. No smile. No irritation. Nothing.

After a long, uncomfortable moment, he gives the smallest nod.

“Ezra,” he says flatly.

Then nothing.

Just silence.

I don’t know why, but a chill creeps up my spine.

This summer just got a whole lot more interesting.