Chapter Twenty-Six Goldie
Chapter Twenty-Six
Goldie
“Good morning, sunshine. Happy Thursday.” My sister’s sipping her coffee, already fully dressed, as she smiles down at me.
“What time is it?” I groan, pulling the pillow over my head.
“I don’t know, but the sun just came up, so I’m guessing early.”
I roll over in my twin-size bunk to look at the clock with one eye open, groaning because the bed’s hard and lumpy. People hate children if this is where they sleep. Huh, I think as I get a good look at the time, the time’s wrong.
“This one’s broken,” I say, picking it up to show her before smashing the pillow back over my face again. “It says 11:59.”
Evie laughs, “That’s a Shining reference.” She smacks my bottom. “I gotta go. I only have today to set up, and what’s a scary camp without dead bodies? Time to work my magic. Whenever you’re up, come find me. I’ll put you to work.”
“Pass,” I gripe before closing my eyes again.
But I only half fall asleep, never truly reaching the coveted REMs before I give up and toss the blanket off, sitting up in the quiet cabin. It’s small, almost too small for two people.
“Overrated,” I say to myself, thinking about what Evie said about us never going to camp as kids.
My bare feet touch the cold ground before I yank them back up and wiggle my toes as I search under my blanket for the socks I discarded last night.
Truth is, when the bonfire ended, we made our way to the assigned cabin. Of course ours was number thirteen. I was too exhausted to shower, so I wrapped myself up in my uncomfortable bunk and passed out, smoky clothes and all.
I take a whiff of my hair and turn my nose up before I dig deeper under the covers and find my socks.
I drag them over my cold toes before padding to the bathroom so I can take a shower.
I’m still blinking my eyes open and yawning as I reach past the white shower curtain to twist the handle for the hot water.
But as I do, our cabin door bangs open, making my head whip toward it as my sister yells, “Goldie, wait!” But it’s too late, because the fucking screeching sound from Psycho plays, scaring the living hell out of me.
I scream, startled almost to death as I just barely miss falling into the tub. My arms flail as they get entangled with the white curtains, and I shriek, “For fuck’s sake.”
“Sorry . . . sorry. I forgot to warn you,” my sister laughs, trying to help set me free, but I slip on the water that’s now making its way outside the shower and land squarely on my ass, the wet shower curtain covering my head.
Silence fills the small space, with only the sound of running water grating my nerves.
“Evie,” I say, extremely calm. “Get out.”
I hear her footsteps retreating before the door closes behind her.
Son of a bitch.
My eyes shut as I feel the water hitting the back of my head. I take a deep breath, forgetting about the shower curtain, and instantly almost kill myself by sucking the cheap plastic into my mouth, cutting off my airway.
I scramble to rip it off, half suffocated and panting but free to live another day as I shake my damn head.
“This is why Norman Bates’s mother went crazy,” I rant to myself. “Day in and day out with this kind of shit will make anyone batshit. Wait for me, Mrs. Bates . . . I’m coming.”
“Actually . . .” Evie pokes her head back inside from eavesdropping. “He killed his mom and was dressing up as her.”
I don’t know what I grab, I think an extra toilet paper roll, but I launch it through the air. It hits her before she shuts the front door again, saying, “Ow.”
“Heard you had quite the morning with the showers.” A kind-faced man smiles next to me in line at the cafeteria. I recognize him.
Last year at the party, his wife was Pennywise, and he was the balloon. It was hilarious. I just can’t remember his name.
“Hi . . . yeah, it was terrifying,” I chuckle, trying to seem friendly, even though I’m not really in the mood to people. So much so, I came straight to the cafeteria after taking a shower . . . with the curtain open.
“I feel like I should apologize,” he presses, accepting a roll on his tray.
“Ah,” I say, half smiling. “You must be part of the team that arrived Monday.”
“Guilty.” He winces.
I nod as the cafeteria lady holds up a spoon with some kind of hash-looking stuff. Man, I miss Chase . . . Fuck, I can’t even escape Noah-adjacent thoughts.
“Well,” I breathe out as I turn my face to my new friend. “As the head of research and development, I can say if you’re aiming for people to have a heart attack before showering, you’re on your way.”
He chuckles, and I take a scoop of the weird runny potato-like substance. “Are they feeding us the same stuff they give the kids? Because I think that’s child abuse. We should call someone.”
“What do you mean?” he says, taking his turn with the same future food poisoning.
I motion with my head as I hold my tray. “You know, because the guy throwing this wants a whole realistic experience for everyone. Like this is what the kids would’ve had.”
“Oh yeah,” he chuckles. “I thought that you meant this camp was still active. Like you thought kids had just been here.”
I start to say something, but he keeps talking.
“From what I’ve heard, Weonoke was a real camp. But it closed down. Some of the locals said it was the site of a massacre back in the mid-nineties.”
I suddenly realize I’m just standing there listening, but it looks like I’m waiting for him, so I turn to leave, but he follows. Still talking.
“Yeah, I guess some local kid who was a janitor went full slasher on the counselors at the end of the year, and it’s been closed ever since.”
What the fuck? I know this was the alternative to a heady situation back home, but I’m feeling like we jumped the gun.
I swallow hard. “I’ve never heard anything about that . . . I feel like if this was true, Evie would’ve been salivating over it. She’s . . . morbid.”
He smiles as if I’ve given her the greatest compliment as we put our trays down and sit.
“You know how it is with news that happened pre-internet.” I watch him dig into the potato massacre in current times, trying not to dry heave. “There’s probably a thousand and twelve things we’ll never hear about.”
I laugh nervously, hating every word he’s saying. “So many . . . wow . . . yeah, that’s a lot to think about. Especially since it’s such a specific number . . . I don’t . . .” Love that.
My sister’s voice bleeds in behind me, saving me from trying to hijack the death-log truck so I can escape.
“Russ, are you telling my sister that freaking urban legend nonsense? You’re really trying to make that happen, aren’t you? Gretchen Wieners, you gotta let fetch die.”
She sits down next to me, and I look at her, wide eyed, as Russ ruminates on who Gretchen Wieners is.
“It’s not true,” she dismisses.
But Russ disagrees as he takes another bite of that gross shit. “All urban legends are based on some truth.”
I look down at the mush on my plate, then back at my sister. “I hate it here.”
She laughs. “I mean, if it was true, then we’d probably be in the cabin of a dead person . . . You know, because we’re in the staff quarters. Ooo, who here has a Ouija board?”
Russ perks up as I shake my head. Yep. I absolutely hate it here. Before I can say anything, a voice invades the moment: “I do, but only if I can join in on the fun.”
I look up and see Remus, the enthusiastic camp guy from last night, holding a brown paper bag. “May I join you?”
He’s smiling directly at me, although he’s standing next to Russ. My sister nods happily. She says “Absolutely” and gestures for him to sit.
I smile tightly.
Actually, he’s probably a super-nice guy who likely gives to children’s charities, but everyone here is an enemy to my state of mind.
Remus smiles, then pulls an apple out of his lunch bag, making my mouth water. God, it’s so shiny and plump. I stare down at my food again, moving it around with my fork, before I look back up.
“Hey, where’d you steal the meal?” I shoot out, grinning.
Evie laughs. “Dino nuggets aren’t for her.”
She’s being nice. I would 100 percent demolish nuggets over the slop I have.
His eyes lower before he slides his lunch over to me. “Peanut butter and jelly with the crusts.”
“No,” I say, half laughing, and slide it back. “You don’t have to do that. I was just holding out hope there was another option. No offense.”
“None taken.”
Remus leans over the table, beckoning us with his hand so we can hear a secret. Like a bunch of little kids, we follow his lead.
He keeps his voice low. “I think the cafeteria lady is acting suspicious . . . Yesterday, I saw her making tonight’s chili with rat poison on the counter, talking to herself about her sister.”
My eyes pop open, but Evie and Russ laugh as they sit back up. But I’m still leaning in. What the hell is happening?
Evie pats my arm with the back of her hand. “It’s from a movie, Golds, called Cobweb.”
Remus winks at me. “Gotcha.”
I grin, feeling tricked as I sit back up. He holds his hands up in case I’m mad. “Sorry, you make it so easy.”
Yeah, I don’t like him. Evie pipes up, maybe feeling my vibe. “What do you know about the camp? Like its history and stuff.”
He grins. “I take it you’ve heard the lore.”
Evie’s fork hangs midair as her eyes widen. “Wait, so it’s true?” She looks at Russ, who seems just as riveted.
Remus shrugs. “Who knows, but it was good marketing either way.”
Russ chuckles, and so does Evie, but not me. I shiver.
“You don’t agree?” he says, opening his paper bag.
All the eyes at the table land on me. Shit. I clear my throat, ignoring how my sister is discreetly shaking her head, trying to tell me to be quiet.
“I think Stephen King’s shown us the dangers of messing around in burial grounds. And if what everyone thinks happened actually did happen, then it’s kind of creepy to be here. Movies are fun because they’re fiction. Real life is full of consequences that hurt people. So no, I don’t agree.”
The table is silent, and I know I’m probably going to get a lecture from my sister about my loyalty to her and my fake role in research and development, but I don’t care. If people died, that’s not marketing for a spooky Coachella.
He tilts his head, our green eyes locked. “Well, you know what they say about art imitating life . . . The inspiration has to come from somewhere.”
Goose bumps blaze a trail over my arms under the long-sleeve camp shirt I was give upon arrival.
But before too much silence passes, he chuckles and says, “Gotcha . . . again.”
Everyone breathes at the same time, all the smiles tainted by how freaked out we all were.
I’m truly starting to hate this game.