April 24, 2024

​Site 23
By James Rumpel

 
 Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai Podcast.



The last time I was camping was ten years ago. I was fourteen and my family was doing our annual camping week. That year, we had chosen a state park a few hours from our home. We got there a little late because Tina, my little sister, had insisted on going to her summer school dance class before we left. It was a hot and muggy evening and everyone was sort of crabby by the time we began setting everything up at the site we had reserved.

Sweat was running down my cheeks when I finished putting up my one-person tent. I saw that Dad was struggling to set up the larger tent that my parents would share with Tina. I was on my way to help him when I noticed an old man standing in the woods at the edge of our area. He was dressed in bib overalls with a white t-shirt underneath. On his head was a grimy trucker’s hat.

“You shouldn’t stay here tonight,” said the man.

My dad, who was busy trying to feed a tent pole through a canvas tube, was startled by the stranger’s voice, almost toppling the half-erected tent. He steadied his handiwork before turning toward our visitor. 

“What?” asked my dad.

“You shouldn’t stay at this site,” repeated the old man.

I looked around campsite 23. It wasn’t the biggest site but it had quite a bit of shade. The picnic table was old and warped but the fire pit was nice. I thought it was an okay site. It wasn’t a long walk to the nearest pit toilet but it was far enough away that we weren’t inundated with noxious smells.

My dad must have felt the same way. “What’s wrong with this site?” he asked.

“Site 23 is cursed,” replied the man.

My mom, who was putting a checked tablecloth on the picnic table, looked at the man and asked, “What do you mean, cursed?”

My dad just snickered.

The man ignored my dad’s response. “There have been four deaths at this park: a heart attack, an accidental drowning, a suicide, and a young child was hit by a car. All the deaths occurred ten years apart on this date and all the people who died were staying at site 23. If you leave, maybe the curse can be broken.”

“Oh, my god,” said Mom.

Dad just shook his head and laughed. “I don’t know what your game is, mister, but I’m not going to stand here and let you scare my family with some cockamamie story.” 

The sound of an approaching vehicle drew our attention. A white pickup, the kind used by the local rangers, was coming up the road.

When we turned our attention back toward the old man, he was nowhere to be seen.
My mom waved down the ranger.

The truck stopped and a young woman, barely old enough to be out of high school stepped out.

“Is there a problem?” she asked.

“There was a man here, telling us to leave because this site is cursed,” said my dad. “We shouldn’t have to put up with that kind of garbage. Is there some way you can find him and kick him out or something?”

“Uh . . .” stuttered the ranger. “I suppose I could go look for him. What does he look like?”

“He was old and dressed like a farmer,” answered Tina from her spot under a large shade tree.

“More importantly,” interrupted my mom, “he said that four people staying at this site have died. Is that true?”

“I don’t know,” said the ranger. “I’m only a summer intern. I haven’t ever heard anything about any deaths. None of us rangers have been here very long.” She headed back toward her pick-up. “I’ll make a report and look around for the man.”

“I’m sure it’s just a story he made up to scare us,” said Dad. “It’s just a cruel joke and I’m not going to let it ruin our vacation.”

The ranger drove off and we finished readying the camp. By the time we had everything in place, it was time for dinner. Dad started a fire and we roasted some hotdogs. We were all pretty quiet, especially Dad.

Finally, my mom spoke up. “Maybe we should leave. It’s going to be humid tonight and there might be thunderstorms. We could go find a hotel for tonight and come back tomorrow.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Dad. “We’ve tented through rain before. You’re just worked up by what that old coot said. Forget about it, he was just causing trouble.”

“I don’t want to die,” said Tina.

“Nobody’s going to die,” announced Dad. “Now let’s just forget about it and enjoy the evening.”

About then, the sound of approaching thunder interrupted our conversation. We spent the next half hour staring at each other and the fire. When the first drops of rain started to fall, I got up and grabbed a flashlight. “I’m going to my tent to read,” I announced.

Within an hour, the rain had turned into a full-fledged storm. Darkness came early; the sunlight concealed by thick, black storm clouds. I sat in the middle of my tent, no longer able to focus on my book. Instead, I watched the shadows that danced on the side of the tent with each bolt of lightning.

I told myself that I wasn’t afraid. There was nothing to be scared of. It was just rain and the old man was nothing but a liar. I had almost convinced myself when an extra loud crack of thunder, accompanied by a bright flash of lightning made me jump. I could have sworn the shadow that appeared was shaped like a man hanging from a tree, a noose around his neck. A few moments later, another burst of lightning gave off the same shadow. Was there a man hanging from a tree outside my tent? I wanted to look but couldn’t bring myself to do so. Instead, I closed my eyes.

I nearly jumped out of my skin when the zipper on my tent started opening. Dad stuck his drenched head inside my tent and ordered, “Come on. We’re leaving.”

Without a word, I grabbed my backpack and followed my dad to the car. My shoes got soaked as I walked through the small river of water that ran through the middle of the site. Without a word, Dad gave Mom an icy stare and started the car. We had only driven about twenty feet when Dad slammed on the brakes, jolting us all forward.

“What was that for?” snapped Mom. 

“I thought I saw something,” said Dad. “Didn’t you see something cut in front of the car? It looked like a little girl on a tricycle.”

I thought about telling Mom and Dad about the shadow I had seen from my tent but decided it was not the time. I most certainly didn’t tell them about what I saw as we drove through the park entrance. When we passed a small country cemetery, the headlight beams barely captured a figure standing behind a large gravestone. I am certain I spotted the old man who had visited us earlier, standing in the rain, waving.
We spent the night in a hotel in a town about fifteen miles from the park. I doubt that more than twenty words were spoken the entire night.

The next morning, we went back to site 23 to pick up our stuff. To our surprise, there were two white pickup trucks and four rangers there. 

The young, female ranger came over to our car and met us. 

“It’s a good thing you decided to head into town last night,” she announced. “Things got pretty rough here. We’ve got quite a bit of cleanup to do. If you pull your car into site 25, we can help you get your things. It might take a while to get the small tent, though.”
Dad started to pull the car forward but the ranger stuck out her hand, signaling for him to stop.

“I never did find that stranger who came to your camp,” she added. “I did find some old records. There have been four deaths just like he said. I couldn’t find the dates or campsites involved but it seems like he may have been right.”

Dad just looked at her for a minute or two. A couple of times, he started to say something but stopped. Finally, he managed to say a quiet thank you and slowly drove forward. We turned our heads to look at campsite 23. The sound of Mom gasping broke the silence.
​
Two rangers had chainsaws and were cutting a fallen shade tree; the same tree Tina had been sitting under the day before. More shocking still, was where the tree had fallen. Its tire-sized trunk had landed directly on top of my small tent. 
And that’s why I don’t go camping anymore.

                                                                  💀💀💀


James Rumpel is a retired high school math teacher who has greatly enjoyed spending some of his free time turning a few of the odd ideas circling his brain into stories. He lives in Wisconsin with his wonderful wife, Mary.

---