Camper's Diary

Chapter 2: Threads of Suspicion

The old farmhouse loomed ahead through twisting branches and swirling fog. I paused at the tree line, every sense on high alert. According to Tyler's journal, this is where he saw men loading heavy equipment under cover of night. What dark secrets were they hiding all the way out here?
Gripping a fallen branch like a weapon, I crept toward the ramshackle structure. Boards creaked underfoot as I circled the perimeter, peering into grime-caked windows. Rotting furniture and torn wallpaper spoke of long abandonment. At the back, a rusted door leaned precariously on squealing hinges.

My heart leapt into my throat at distant shouts in the woods. I scrambled inside, flattening against the wall just as two burly men emerged from the trees. One kicked at the door in frustration while the other muttered angrily into a radio.

"...don't know how, Jenkins, but the place has been compromised. Yeah, get the crew in and erase all traces, then meet me at the rendezvous."

Their boots crunched off into the brush. Peering through a knothole, I watched the men vanish into mist and foliage. What kind of operation were they covering up? And was it connected to Tyler's death?

Once the coast seemed clear again, I began exploring in earnest. Past tattered curtains, moonlight filtered onto moldering photo albums, fishing tackle and other remnants of former life. A rickety ladder creaked as I climbed to the shadowy second floor.

Floorboards groaned underfoot. Slivers of daylight showed empty bedrooms frozen in time, their quilt-covered beds silently witnessing events long past. In the attic, dust swirled through cracks where weathered shingles bowed inward. My weak beam illuminated webbed rafters—and something else.

A streak of faded crimson caught my eye, staining splintered planks underfoot. Beside it lay a glint of silver—a forgotten Campho-Phenique antiseptic tube, just like those dad kept in our cabin's rusty med kit. My light's sweep revealed more drops spattered across the grime, as though someone dragged an injured limb all the way up here.

My blood turned to ice. What grisly scene had unfolded overhead, and who was its victim? A muffled crack echoed below, nearly stopping my heart. Scrambling down the ladder, I peered through dust-clouded windows overlooking the rear clearing just as two men emerged from concealing brush.

One had a hulking build and thick beard, but it was the man beside him that sent cold fingers clawing down my spine. Clean-shaven, with combed brown hair and a pressed flannel—it was Joe Porter, my dad's foreman from the lumber yard.

Their eyes scanned the perimeter as Joe spoke hurriedly into his radio. "...nobody inside but we need to accelerate the demolition. Yeah, tell Jenkins we're blowing this place sky high at dusk, so get a move on."

I stumbled backward, snapping a floorboard like a thunderclap. Shouts echoed as heavy boots thundered up the steps. Wheeling around, I scrambled down the ladder three steps at a time—and bolted headlong into a granite slab of a chest.

Thick fingers encircled my wrist in an iron grip, jerking me around to stare into a beard-framed scowl. "Well, well, what do we have here?"

His companion loomed behind him, surprise melting into cold calculation. "Get the tape," Joe said flatly. "We have some cleaning up to do."

Panic roared in my brain as I struggled vainly against the larger man's hold. He grinned, revealing crooked teeth. "Never could keep nosy brats outta places they don't belong, could you, Porter?"

"Just shut her up before she causes more trouble," Joe growled, gaze shifting warily around the decrepit upper floor.

A strip of duct tape tore free with a sinister hiss. I thrashed to get away, kicking at shins and scratching anywhere flesh was exposed, but my captor simply chuckled. "You're making this harder than it needs to be, little girl..."