"Camp Scott":
I was just a kid, twelve or thirteen, when I first heard the story. It was one of those unforgettable nights: the kind where the air felt sharp and crisp, and the stars above seemed brighter than usual, piercing through the inky black sky. We were gathered around a campfire, the flames crackling and snapping like they were trying to warn us of something. The smell of smoke mixed with the earthy scent of the woods, and every now and then, the wind would carry a chill that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
My cousin Jake had that kind of presence that could make you hang on to every word he said. He leaned forward, the firelight casting eerie shadows across his face, his voice quiet but deliberate. The woods around us were alive with sounds—leaves rustling, branches creaking, the occasional distant hoot of an owl—but when Jake started talking, it was like the forest itself stopped to listen.
“This story,” he began, “happened not far from here. A place called Camp Scott, back in Oklahoma. You probably haven’t heard of it—it’s not the kind of place people like to remember. But they should. They should never forget.”
He paused, letting his words sink in. I could feel the mood shift around the fire. Someone shuffled uncomfortably, but no one said a word. Jake had us hooked.
“It was the summer of 1977,” he continued. “June 13th. The first night of camp for a group of Girl Scouts. The kind of night that’s supposed to be fun—campfires, ghost stories, roasted marshmallows. For most of the girls, it was just that. But for three of them—Lori Farmer, Michelle Guse, and Doris Milner—it became something else entirely.”
Jake’s voice dropped, and even though the fire was warm, I felt a cold knot forming in my stomach.
“They were just kids,” he said softly. “Eight, nine, ten years old. They’d been placed in Tent 8, the farthest tent from the counselors’ quarters, right near the trail that led to the showers. It was a bit isolated from the others, tucked away in the shadows of the trees. But it seemed safe enough. Why wouldn’t it?”
He paused again, letting the firelight flicker in his eyes. “What nobody knew—what nobody could’ve imagined—was that someone else was out there that night. Someone who didn’t belong.”
The fire popped loudly, making a few of us jump. Jake leaned back, his face serious.
“A week before the campers arrived, one of the counselors had found something strange in the woods. A note. Scrawled on a piece of paper. It said, ‘Three kids will be killed.’ They brought it to the camp director, of course, but everyone thought it was just some sick joke. A prank. I mean, what else could it be? Nobody took it seriously. Not until it was too late.”
The group around the fire was silent now, barely breathing. Jake’s voice dropped even lower.
“The first night of camp, the weather turned. A storm rolled in out of nowhere. Rain lashed against the tents, thunder growled in the distance, and the wind howled through the trees like it was trying to tear them apart. Most of the campers stayed awake, too scared to sleep. But in Tent 8, Lori, Michelle, and Doris eventually drifted off. The storm masked the sound of footsteps.”
I shivered, pulling my jacket tighter around me. Jake’s voice became more intense, his words quickening.
“Sometime during the night, someone crept into their tent. We’ll never know exactly what happened in there. There were signs of a struggle—torn fabric, bloodstains—but by the time the sun came up, it was over.”
He let those words hang in the air for a moment, the weight of them pressing down on all of us. The wind picked up, rustling the branches above, and I couldn’t help but glance over my shoulder, half-expecting to see someone standing in the shadows.
“The next morning,” Jake went on, his tone quieter now, almost reverent, “when the girls didn’t show up for breakfast, one of the counselors went to check on them. She stepped inside the tent and screamed. The girls were gone.”
The silence around the fire was deafening. Jake’s face was lit only by the dim glow of the flames as he continued.
“They found their bodies not far from the tent, near the trail. They’d been killed—brutally—then stuffed back into their sleeping bags. Blood spattered the ground and the canvas, and the area was torn up like there’d been a fight. But the killer left behind almost nothing. Just a red flashlight, smeared with blood, and a single barefoot print in the mud. That’s it. That’s all they had.”
A shiver ran through me. I wasn’t the only one. The others huddled closer to the fire, as if its warmth could protect us from the story. Jake’s voice was steady, but there was a hint of something else in it now—something darker.
“The police swarmed the camp. They searched the woods, brought in dogs, questioned everyone. But it was like the killer had vanished into thin air. The camp shut down immediately. Parents pulled their kids out, and the place became a ghost town. For a while, it felt like everyone just wanted to forget it ever happened.”
Jake paused, letting the firelight dance in his eyes. “But then they caught someone. Gene Leroy Hart. He was an escaped convict, had been on the run for years. He’d grown up in the area, knew the woods better than anyone. They found some evidence—DNA that might’ve linked him to the girls. But back then, the technology wasn’t great. It wasn’t enough to convict him.”
He leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper now. “Hart went to trial, but the jury couldn’t decide. Some people swore he did it. Others said there was no way. He was acquitted for the murders but stayed in prison for other crimes. He died of a heart attack a few years later, and with him died any chance of getting the truth.”
Jake sat back, his expression grim. “To this day, no one knows for sure if he did it. Some say he was just a scapegoat, that the real killer is still out there. And some people—” he glanced around the circle, his voice dropping even lower—“think the killer never left these woods.”
The fire seemed to dim, its flames shrinking as if they, too, were afraid. The forest around us felt suddenly darker, the trees pressing in closer. Every snap of a twig, every rustle of leaves felt like a warning.
Someone finally broke the silence. “So…they never solved it?” Sally asked, her voice trembling.
Jake shook his head. “No. The case is still unsolved. And every time someone goes into these woods, they wonder: what if the killer is still out there, waiting?”
That was it. No one spoke after that. The fire burned lower, and the shadows around us grew longer. I could feel the weight of the story pressing down on me, heavy and cold. When it was finally time to go to bed, I crawled into my sleeping bag, but I couldn’t close my eyes. Every sound outside the tent—every snap of a branch, every gust of wind—felt like it could be something…someone.
Even now, years later, I think about those girls, about Tent 8, and about that night in 1977. And sometimes, when I’m out in the woods, I wonder: what if the real monster isn’t in a story? What if it’s still out there, walking among us, waiting for the perfect moment to strike again?
"The Hi-Fi Shop":
I was just a kid when it happened—barely 15—living in the small, dusty town of Odessa, Texas. The year was 1982, and the summer days were so hot they felt like they could melt the soles of your shoes. Nights didn’t bring much relief either. The heat clung to everything like a damp, suffocating blanket, and even the occasional breeze felt more like someone exhaling hot breath on your neck.
There wasn’t much to do in Odessa, especially for a bunch of restless teenagers. My friends and I? We had our rituals. We’d wait until our parents were asleep, climb out of our windows, and meet at the old quarry just outside town. It was our sanctuary—a forgotten corner of nowhere that seemed to belong only to us. The air was always a little cooler there, the stars a little brighter. But the quarry wasn’t just a place. It had a vibe, an edge, like it was waiting for something to happen.
That night started like most others. There were five of us—me, Tommy, Jake, Sara, and Beth. Tommy, the ringleader, was always coming up with ways to keep things interesting. He wasn’t just brave—he was reckless, the kind of kid who would jump into the quarry’s black water on a dare, not caring if there were jagged rocks below. Jake was Tommy’s opposite: quiet, thoughtful, but with a streak of curiosity that sometimes got the better of him. Sara and Beth were inseparable, more like sisters than friends. And then there was me, the tagalong, happy just to have a seat at the table.
We built a fire near the quarry’s edge, the flames crackling and throwing shadows that danced on the jagged cliffs around us. As usual, we started swapping stories. Ghosts, monsters, urban legends—anything to see who could come up with the creepiest tale. But that night, Tommy had something different. Something darker.
"I’ve got a story," he said, leaning forward. His face, lit by the fire, seemed older somehow, his usual cocky grin replaced by something serious. "And it’s true."
Now, Tommy had a reputation for being a lot of things—wild, fearless, even a little stupid—but he wasn’t a liar. When he said it was true, the air around us seemed to shift.
"You all know the Hi-Fi Shop over on 14th Street, right?" he began. We nodded. Of course we knew it. Even if you didn’t go there, you knew of it. It was one of the few places in town where you could browse records, tapes, and stereo equipment.
"Well," Tommy said, lowering his voice like someone might be listening, "back in ’74, something happened there. Something bad."
The fire popped, sending a shower of sparks into the night. None of us said a word.
"Two guys—Dale Pierre and William Andrews—decided to rob the place. It was supposed to be simple, you know? In and out. But it didn’t go that way. Not even close."
Tommy paused, letting the words sink in. I remember the way the night felt then—like the quarry itself was holding its breath.
"They waited until closing time," Tommy went on, "then busted in with guns. There were five people inside—two clerks, two customers, and this kid. The kid was just there waiting for his dad to finish shopping. They tied everyone up, forced them into the back room. And then…" Tommy looked around the circle, his voice dropping to a whisper. "They made them drink Drano."
The words hit like a gut punch.
"What?" Beth asked, her voice shaky.
"You heard me," Tommy said. "Drain cleaner. They told them it was just to knock them out, but it wasn’t. That stuff... it burns. It eats you from the inside out."
I felt my stomach turn. Even Sara, who usually rolled her eyes at scary stories, looked pale.
"One of the clerks, Stanley Walker, tried to reason with them," Tommy said. "He was a Vietnam vet, tough guy. He said, ‘You don’t have to do this. Take the money and go.’ But Pierre... Pierre was ice-cold. He told him to shut up and drink or he’d shoot him. And when the Drano didn’t kill them fast enough, Pierre… he just started shooting."
Tommy poked at the fire with a stick, the flames flaring up as if in response.
"But here’s the thing," he said, his voice softer now. "One guy didn’t die. Orren Walker. He was barely alive, but he managed to crawl to a phone after they left. He called for help, but all he could say was ‘Hi-Fi Shop’ before he passed out."
Tommy leaned back, letting the firelight play on his face. "The cops got Andrews pretty quick, but Pierre? He was gone. For months, nobody knew where he was. People said he’d fled to Mexico. Others thought he was hiding out in the woods somewhere, living off the land. But then, one day, he just shows up. Walks into a police station in Canada like it’s nothing. Says he wants to turn himself in."
"Why?" Jake asked, speaking for the first time that night.
"That’s the crazy part," Tommy said. "He didn’t feel bad about what he did. He just couldn’t sleep, kept thinking someone was gonna catch him. He was more scared of getting caught than of what he’d done."
A long silence fell over the group, broken only by the occasional pop of the fire.
"They both got the death penalty," Tommy said, his voice barely above a whisper. "But here’s the thing. Some people think there was more to it than just a robbery gone wrong. They say Pierre wasn’t in his right mind. That something… took him over."
Beth shivered, wrapping her arms around her knees.
"Like what?" Sara asked.
"Like the devil," Tommy said, his voice dead serious.
A low, mournful howl echoed in the distance, and I swear to this day it wasn’t just a coyote. It sounded too close, too real.
We didn’t talk much after that. The fire burned low, and the darkness seemed to creep in around us, heavier and closer than before. Eventually, we put it out and made our way back to town, the gravel crunching under our feet. Nobody said a word, but I could feel it—we were all thinking the same thing.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, hearing every creak of the house, every whisper of the wind. I kept thinking about the Hi-Fi Shop, about how something so terrible could happen in a place so ordinary.
Years later, I drove by that building. It was boarded up, abandoned, but it didn’t feel empty. It felt alive, like it was holding onto the memories, the screams, the pain. And every time I think back to that night at the quarry, I wonder: was it just a story? Or was Tommy trying to warn us about something bigger, something darker? Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this—real monsters aren’t hiding in the dark. They’re walking among us, wearing human faces, waiting for their moment to strike.
"The Axeman":
It happened when I was 13, during one of those oppressive summer nights where the air felt heavy with humidity, and the scent of pine trees lingered everywhere like nature's perfume. My cousins and I were camped out in the woods behind my uncle's old house. His property was on the edge of nowhere—a sprawling stretch of forest where the nearest neighbor was miles away, and the only sounds at night were the chirps of crickets, the hoot of the occasional owl, and the whisper of the wind through the trees.
The campfire burned bright, casting dancing shadows on the tall pines that loomed around us like silent guardians. The orange glow reflected off our faces as we sat cross-legged on old blankets, sharing ghost stories, laughing, and roasting marshmallows. It was one of those rare nights where everything seemed to click—the crackling fire, the sticky sweetness of the s’mores, and the thrill of being away from the adults, left to our own devices.
I remember how it started. Jake, the oldest of us at 15, had just finished telling some lame story about a haunted railroad track. Everyone laughed at the end, more out of relief than genuine humor, because his delivery was clunky, and no one was buying it. That’s when I decided it was my turn.
"Alright, I’ve got one," I said, poking the fire with a stick. Embers shot up into the night like tiny fireflies. The group fell silent, all eyes on me. I felt the weight of their attention and leaned forward, letting the firelight cast ominous shadows on my face. "This one’s real. And it’s not about ghosts or haunted tracks. It’s worse. It’s about the Axeman of New Orleans."
Jake snorted. "No ghosts? Boring."
"Not boring," I shot back, narrowing my eyes at him. "Because this actually happened. It’s not a made-up story to scare kids. This guy was real, and what he did… well, you’ll see."
That shut him up. Even Jake couldn’t argue with something that had the weight of truth behind it. The younger cousins, especially Sara, were already hooked. She clutched her marshmallow stick, her eyes wide, the flames reflecting in them like tiny sparks.
“It all started back in 1918,” I began, lowering my voice to a near whisper. “In New Orleans, during a time when the city was already teetering on the edge. People were struggling with the aftermath of the Great War, and the streets were alive with jazz. But in the shadows of that lively city, something dark was lurking. Something... evil.”
The fire popped loudly, making Sara flinch. I continued.
“They called him the Axeman because, well, he had a thing for axes. He’d break into people’s houses at night, always through the back door. If the door was locked, he’d leave it alone. But if it was open…” I paused, letting the tension hang in the air, “he’d come inside.”
The group was dead silent now, even Jake.
“He didn’t just rob people,” I said, lowering my voice even further. “He killed them. Entire families, sometimes. And he didn’t just kill them—he made it brutal. They’d find his victims with their skulls crushed, the axe still lying there, coated in blood. No one was safe. The rich, the poor, young, old—it didn’t matter. He’d strike without warning, then vanish into the night.”
The forest around us seemed to grow quieter. Even the crickets stopped chirping.
“The city was in a panic,” I said. “People started locking their doors, but it didn’t help. The police had no leads, no clues. The Axeman was always one step ahead. It was like he was toying with them, playing a game no one else knew the rules to.”
Sara whispered, “Did they ever catch him?”
I shook my head. “No. And that’s the scariest part. No one knows who he was. But it gets worse. One day, the Axeman wrote a letter to the newspapers. He said he wasn’t a man at all. He claimed he was a spirit, a demon from hell. And he loved jazz.”
“Jazz?” Ben asked, his voice breaking the eerie silence.
“Yeah, jazz,” I said. “In the letter, he wrote that he would kill again on a specific night, but he’d spare anyone who was playing jazz at midnight. Can you imagine that? The whole city was terrified, and everyone—everyone—started playing jazz that night. People hired bands to play in their homes. Others cranked up their gramophones. Even the bars stayed open all night, with live jazz pouring out into the streets.”
I leaned forward, my voice dropping to almost a whisper. “And guess what? It worked. No one died that night. The Axeman kept his promise.”
The fire popped again, and Jake shifted uncomfortably. I wasn’t done.
“But here’s the thing,” I said. “He wasn’t finished. After that night, he killed three more times. Always with an axe. Always at night. And then, just like that… he vanished. No one knows what happened to him. Maybe he died. Maybe he moved to another city. Or maybe…” I let my voice trail off, looking at each of them, “…he’s still out there, waiting for the right moment to return.”
Sara was practically shaking now, clutching her blanket like it was her lifeline. Jake tried to look unimpressed, but I could see his jaw tighten.
“Why would you tell us this?” Ben asked, his voice cracking slightly.
“Because it’s important,” I said, leaning back and letting the firelight flicker across my face. “You need to remember to always check your doors. Always lock them. Because sometimes, it’s not the monsters under your bed that you should be afraid of. It’s the ones standing outside, watching. Waiting for you to forget.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. One by one, my cousins muttered excuses to head to bed. I watched them check the zippers on their tents—twice. Some even pulled their flashlights out and shined them into the woods, as if expecting to see a shadowy figure lurking just beyond the firelight.
I lay awake long after they’d all gone to sleep, staring at the stars through the mesh ceiling of my tent. The night was quiet now, almost too quiet. As I started to drift off, I thought I heard something—a faint crunching sound, like footsteps on dry leaves. My heart skipped a beat, and I froze, straining my ears.
It came again, closer this time. A deliberate, measured crunch, like someone—or something—was walking just beyond the firelight. I held my breath, my pulse pounding in my ears. Then, nothing. Just the wind stirring the trees.
I told myself it was my imagination, a trick of the night and the stories I’d told. But as I closed my eyes, I couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere out there, in the darkness, someone was listening. Watching. Waiting.