Death at a Campsite

  Blood! So much blood. Where is everyone?

  I stood in the woods alone, the fire down to its embers, in shock at the horrific sight before me. The tents, sleeping bags, the leaves on the ground, the entire camp was covered in blood. I felt sick. What if they were all dead? Rachel? Tom? What about Jamie? I was so cold, ice cold. I pulled myself together to search the tents, praying that my friends weren’t part of this massacre. The blood felt cool as I pulled the sleeping bags out. I looked at my hand as the cool, crimson liquid trickled down it, making me look even paler than I usually was.

  As I wondered around my bloodied campsite I was relieved not to find any of my friend’s dead bodies, nor any drag marks in the damp ground; so they weren’t killed or chased bleeding to death out of the camp, as the blood was only within the camp. I quickly looked at myself, realising that I hadn’t thought of seeing if I was okay at the start. What I saw was bizarre; I had slashes all over me, but unlike the scene, no blood. The cuts were deep, very deep, but still no blood. The eerie atmosphere that hung around me made me shiver. I hadn’t heard a noise since I’d been here, no birds, no annoying crickets; it was just dead.

  The remains of the fire suddenly died out. Darkness. I fumbled around on my hands and knees trying to find Rachel’s matches or her lighter, until I found Tom’s torch. As I shone it around I saw footprints leading out of the camp; three pairs of footprints, so naturally and with the help of curiosity I followed them. The prints ran in neat lines through the forest, like they were just going for a casual stroll. Suddenly the prints came to a stop and then the rest of the ground looked like it had been wiped over or changed. An outline of what looked to be a rock was up ahead, as I walked closer to it more shivers rushed through me then as I shown the torch onto the ground I felt worse. A neat, fresh pile of patted down soil was in front of me, a grave. I was standing on a grave, I moved the torch over to see whose it was, and then a sick feeling of realisation rushed through me.

  ‘This is the grave of H P Lovecraft’, was carved into the rock. Hayley Paige Lovecraft… Me. Why did they kill me? That was my blood all over the camp, that’s why there was no blood drips outside of the camp, they had bled me dry, then carried me here and buried me, smoothing over their guilty footprints as they walked away.

Blood. So much blood.