The Incarnate

“The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window.”

“What kind of candle?” asked Tommy.

“Uh, I don’t know. It’s not really important to the story Tommy, now stop interrupting,” I answered back to the inquisitive boy.

“Well I think it does matter.” Tommy crossed his arms defiantly. “If it's a candle from the smell good store, I don’t think that’s scary at all.”

It took everything in me not to snap at the kid. “Tommy, how many times do we have to have this conversation? I’m here to tell a scary story, not debate the inner workings of it to a fourth grader.”

Tommy was smarter than most nine-year-olds. He was also smaller than most nine-year-olds. He was always questioning everything we did around camp. His never ending interrogations from behind red rimmed glasses became routine these final days at Shadow Lake.

“If you must know, Tommy, the candle was made from…human fat! Is that scary enough for you?”

Tommy looked down and began to swing his feet that hung over the bench, one shoe untied, laces dragging in the dirt. “I guess that is pretty scary,” he muttered.

“Good,” I said, feeling almost shameful for scaring the poor boy.

“Well, who would want to make candles out of fat?” Tommy perked back up as if the question somehow made him less afraid.

I'd had enough at this point, if he wanted scary—I’d deliver. “The Witch of Shadow lake would,” I answered back smugly.

“The Witch of Shadow Lake? There's no such thing!” Tommy smiled, believing he’d outsmarted me.

“No? What makes you so sure Tommy? Do you know what happened here in 1952? In Cabin 13?”

“N-No I don’t. What h-happened in Cabin 13?” he stuttered.

“Now there's a question I’m happy to answer Tommy.” I watched as he drew his knees to his chest, the other children copying the motion, leaning in—their full attention was mine as I spoke next.

“The summer of 1952 wasn’t unlike this one. Camp was full of kids and counselors that year, so full, that they had to build an extra cabin. Cabin 13. It was built on the other side of Shadow Lake, the farthest cabin from any other building.” I watched as the kids turned their heads in unison to peer across the lake’s dark surface. I delighted in their gasps as they beheld the abandoned bait shack across the water.

“That’s what that is?” whispered one of the more quiet campers.

“Cabin 13 was home to 10 boys that summer, however, only 9 returned home.” I jumped back into the make believe legend before another question could be uttered. “The boys say that on their last night in the cabin, their bunkmate Thomas couldn’t sleep. He kept everyone awake talking about a woman standing outside his widow. When they finally got him to shut up, it was too late.”

“B-But my name is Tommy!” squeaked the boy whose questions inspired this tale.

“Hmm. What a spooky coincidence.” I continued, “Thomas was not in his bed the next morning. He was known to sleepwalk, but he had never left the cabin before.”

The campers were on the edge of their seats now, tuned in to the horror as much as I was.

“They searched for little Thomas for days, but he was just—gone. The only clue they found was a human shaped candle wrapped in scraps of his pajamas, left on the steps of Cabin 13. The woman outside his window was the Witch of Shadow Lake, her hunger for little boys returning every seventy years.”

I marked the faces of the campers as my story made its end, pure terror on each one.

“Sleep tight boys,” I said while standing up from my seat around the campfire. “Now follow me back to your cabin for lights out.”

“Wait!” exclaimed Tommy. “How are we supposed to sleep now? That story was way too scary. Plus it’s been seventy years since the Witch took Thomas, what if she comes for us tonight?” His face was red and his breathing labored.

I suddenly felt really bad for the kid, did I have to scare him this badly just for a few minutes of auditory respite?

“Tommy, calm down buddy. Do you have your inhaler?” I kneeled down next to him, his tiny hand reaching into his front pocket and emerging with the little blue pump. “Let's take a big deep breath okay?”

“Oh-” Tommy wheezed, “kay.” He raised the inhaler to his mouth and took a calming breath. I brought him under my arm as I stood, facing my group of campers.

“Now listen up everyone. The story was just that—a story. I made it up to scare you. There was no Cabin 13, there was no boy who died, and there definitely isn’t a Witch of Shadow Lake. Okay?” Looking down at Tommy, my heart softened. His familiar inquisitive smile had returned, and I mentally prepared for the onslaught of his questions as we made our way to Cabin 3.

We never found Tommy's body. The police investigators searched for days, but there was no trace of the scrawny and curious boy with red rimmed glasses. The only evidence he had left the cabin—his inhaler was found fifty feet behind it in the woods. The other boys of Cabin 3 said that despite my reassurance, Tommy still couldn’t sleep that night. They told me about his persistent warnings that someone was outside his window. The campers of Cabin 3 thought maybe it was me, playing one last summer prank. I wish it had been, but it wasn’t.

Camp Shadow Lake was shut down after that summer. The campers were too scared to return, so were the counselors. I pulled out of camp for the last time, looking back as Shadow Lake fell into darkness. Across the inky water, on the rotten window sill of the old bait house, stood a burning candle.