atOptions = {
'key' : '6d5894da9ace874b50df9c1f677db071',
'format' : 'iframe',
'height' : 600,
'width' : 160,
'params' : {}
};
Stay tuned for the next story at 7:30AM (GMT/UTC) tomorrow 🙂 You can check out more of this year’s stories here.
I can’t believe I’m actually writing a diary – in an actual notebook – like some relic from the seventies, but my phone has only got five percent charge left and I found this notebook under the rusting bed. Someone must have left it here way back god knows when. Whenever notebooks only cost fifteen new pence, I guess. The blue biro ink on the first page has already faded to little more than a ghost that I’m writing over. I think it was just a shopping list or something anyway.
At least I found an old pencil even further back, resting against the splintery wall. “Throckmorton Stationers & Company. Aniline Copy-Pencil #3“. The lead is actually purple as well, which looks cool and everything but I can’t shake the feeling that it’s probably poisonous. Like more poisonous than actual lead. Maybe, if things continue, I’ll give it a lick or something.
Anyway, the – alleged – holiday. It was Julian and Sally’s idea. Get the old group together again. “Come on Laura, it’ll be fun!“. Phoebe and Dan had jumped at the chance and found somewhere cheap, an off-season week at what the website made out to look like a picturesque Scottish lake with rustic cabins around it. “Camp Prune Lake is a charmingly peaceful collection of authentic bothies” or some bollocks like that.
Lots of beautiful shots of the mirror-water reflecting fiery sunsets. Stock images of Americans sitting around campfires with acoustic guitars. Apparently, it was popular for youth camps and Christian retreats. But, at the very end of summer, they would take anyone. For just a hundred quid a week each. What a rip-off!
Julian and Sally had insisted on giving me a lift. We’d booked three sheds cabins, two for the couples and one for me. Third wheel, as always. And that’s the thing. When we stopped off for lunch at Wetherspoons on the way up there, the other four had so many stories and in-jokes and stuff like that. I tried to follow along and everything, but even the scruffy old man – reeking of bitter – I met on the way back from the counter, a deranged gleam in his eyes as he warned me about the “Cursed cabins“, seemed like better company. Well, until he tried to get my phone number. I gave him a fake one.
Everyone barely even noticed when I returned to the table with our drinks. Too busy talking about Phoebe’s work trip to Egypt a month ago. Like she hadn’t documented the entire thing – extensively – on her Instagram. And DMed me about it twice.
And, of course, there was no-one there at Camp Prune Lake to greet us. Not that we really needed keys or anything. The GPS in Sally’s car said that we were in the right place. That it wasn’t like that old episode of Ab Fab where Eddie and Patsy stayed in the wrong place. But three of the cabins, on the shore of the lake, were open. Like, literally wide-open. No graffiti or beer cans or needles or anything. I didn’t know whether to feel reassured or worried. And that beautiful lake? The one in so many photos on the website? Just grey fog and dirty water.
And, of course, autumn had arrived early up here. I’d hoped that summer would stick around into early September. I’d packed for summer. Lots of summer dresses that would look good in photos and stuff. But I was naïve to assume that – in the year of our Lord twenty twenty-five – everywhere had wi-fi. This place didn’t even have electricity or running water. Just a standpipe, a bucket and some sort of smelly old out-house near the tree-line with a moon carved into the door. Yee-haw.
The couples rushed off to the two best cabins, leaving me with the smallest one. The tool-shed that I’m writing this in. There’s an actual gap between two of the rough wooden planks on the walls. The single-pane window is covered with lichen, almost like frosted glass. There’s one of those old Victorian oil lamps which sloshed when I moved it and a faded box of flat matches with giant dollops of shiny red goop on the end. And the bed takes my weight but the thin sheets and old grey blankets smell like they’ve been in a cupboard for sixty years. The only new thing is a single-ring burner with a shiny new gas canister.
Luckily some old camper had left their cagoule here. Because I was not dressed for the weather here. It was a hideous shade of dark blue. It smelled like pipe tobacco and tarpaulin when I undid the white half-zip, flecked with orange spatters of rust, and threw it over my head. But it was weirdly cosy, even if it messed up my hair. Even if it crinkled and crackled like an old radio with every move that I made. Whatever. At least I could laugh about it with the others.
But, when I went outside, they were nowhere to be seen. I could see a glow from behind the windows of both cabins, but it felt too awkward to knock. I could hear laughter from one and quiet arguing from the other.
The leaves crunched under my sandals almost as loudly as my cagoule rustled. There was an icy bite to the wind which shivered goose-pimples across my legs. The picturesque lake was, as before, nothing but a grey cloud above a murky pool. A cold shiver tapped me on the top of my head half a second before the heavens opened. So much for merry sing-songs around the campfire.
Perhaps the worst of the website’s crimes was stating that meals would be included in the holiday. The sad-looking vegetables in the cupboard beneath the burner. A dinged and dented saucepan with a cracked black plastic handle and some dirty-looking cutlery. “Popular for youth camps and Christian retreats“. If those things have one thing in common, it’s the faintly sickly smell of boiled vegetables. I think I’ve still got a chocolate bar in my handbag.
Yes! Thank you past me for stopping off at the vending machine at work last week and forgetting about it. Even with the bloom and the squashed corner, it’s still the most appetising thing here.
And, here I am, lying on the musty old bed. The rain has only gotten heavier, crackling almost as loudly as this old cagoule does whenever I move. I’m sure I heard thunder as well. And the middle of the ceiling is dripping. Guess that’s what the bucket by the standpipe was for. I’ve been using my phone as a light but it’s down to five percent and I should probably take my chances with those old matches and the lamp. Worst thing that can happen is that I get a free cremation….
…Oh thank goodness! Before I struck the match, there was a flash of lightning behind the window. It was difficult to see with all of the lichen but there was a big dark splotch on the side-window of Julian and Sally’s cabin. One that hadn’t been there when we’d arrived. Outside the door, I caught a glimpse of a tall man wiping a meat-cleaver on his overalls. Couldn’t see his face though.
And, here I am, underneath the bed. Covering my phone light and writing. My heart is hammering, there’s an ice-shard in my chest and I’m pressed against the splintery wall. I should stay perfectly still. Even a single movement could give me away. This cagoule is awful. God knows if any of this is even legible. …Whew! Ok, I heard the door open. Icy breeze. More lightning. Heavy footsteps. A smell like one of those old butcher-shops you still sometimes find in posh villages. A dejected grunt. More footsteps. The door slamming shut again. Rain and wind.
This time round, I heard screaming. Phoebe’s shrill shrieking was like catching a moment of a song on an old radio half a second before the batteries abruptly cut out. I didn’t hear anything from Dan though. And then nothing but the faint sound of a door slamming below the pattering rain.
I waited until I heard the car engine revving and sputtering and fading into the background noise before I slowly got out from under the bed. Guess I’m the final girl now, or something like that. Whatever. It’s still better than being a third wheel. And, hey, at least this stupid holiday is over.
