The Week it Rained

There’s a naivety to childhood and a beauty that surrounds summer camp. All these years later I cannot walk outside after a rainstorm without smelling Camp; I cannot walk down a gravel path without hearing Camp; and for a very long time, I could not sleep completely through the night without remembering Camp.

When you ask a child to describe their camping days, they’ll usually answer positively—a retreat from the modern world that allowed them a rare chance to bask in overwhelming simplicity; friendships that held true years after they said their Saturday goodbyes; the way the lake was the closest thing to a bath some took all week; the fireflies dancing through the tree lines…

When you ask a counselor to describe their camping days, they will lie. Maybe not intentionally, but they’ll hide away their strangest encounters experienced while living far from civilization. Whether for the love of their Camp or for a desire not to remember, some stories aren’t uttered to another living soul. I believe in the opposite; I learned that I couldn’t move forward without finally acknowledging him.

In my experience, the scariest thing about camp isn’t living alone in the woods, absent from modernity. The scariest things about camp aren’t the stories that are told late at night surrounding the fires and accented by the howl of the woodland winds. No. The scariest things about camp are the children.

I remember the excitement of Sunday afternoons. You arrived after a short respite from the week before and groggily accepted your assignments—always hoping for the oldest boys, always dreading the youngest. It’s not that I didn’t connect with the little ones, but running a cabin of sixteen six-year-olds was torturous. This could be offset with the assistance of a Co-Counselor—someone with whom to share duties and responsibilities. The problem with excelling at your job, however, is that you become entrusted with accomplishing all of this by yourself. Needless to say, I wasn’t surprised when I was assigned to Cabin 1.

Cabin 1 actually slept twenty-four so I couldn’t complain about sixteen. Disappointed as I was, I plastered a smile on my face and greeted the campers and parents warmly. For most it was their first time away from home and away from their children—I had to assure both parties that Camp would be an amazing experience.

This is probably why I read his parents as being apprehensive about leaving him behind. Looking back on it, though, their apprehension existed from the fear that he might follow them home.

His name was Luke, an Americanized version of Luca that had been “corrected” with his adoption. His curly dark hair emphasized his steely eyes—alluding to his Eastern European heritage, while creating a stark difference to his blonde-haired parents. Luke didn’t speak when I introduced myself, but stared through me towards the sounds of children playing and unpacking in the cabin. After collecting the necessary paperwork, I tried to initiate a conversation detailing our activities and the mission of Camp. Midsentence, his parents walked away. No goodbyes, no parting hugs. Zero affection was transferred between these adults and their child. Oddly none of this seemed to bother Luke. He regarded his adoptive parents as less significant than broken playthings. Pushing past me, he entered Cabin 1 and stood watching the other boys. Their merriment died as they tried to introduce themselves, and were rejected by his gaze and off-putting demeanor. No one dared approach him further. I witnessed fifteen kids remain stationary as one claimed a bed. It was during the height of July, but I’ll never forget how chilled I felt in that moment.

Sunday was always a short, uneventful day. The kids attended swimming lessons for the first time (to check their skills and see which levels of the lake were appropriate for them), had dinner, and then participated in evening activities—all the while being pestered with rules and regulations. Following this, they returned to their cabins for lights-out. Since counselors were required in the Dining Hall on Sunday nights (for announcements and further scheduling) the care of Cabin 1 was left to my good friend, J.P.

I finished the meeting around midnight and headed toward the boys’ settlement to relieve J.P. of his duties. Upon entering the courtyard, I saw him sitting on my porch’s railing; his vision unbroken through the window. Exhaustedly he turned when I advanced and asked, “Who’s the foreign kid?”

No one was ever surprised by problems from the youngest boys’ cabin, especially on the first night. We weren’t allowed to say “homesick”—the connotation of “sick” lent credence to the fact that something was wrong. Instead we had to say “missing home.” It was a positive sign if you could get through Sunday without 60% of your cabin crying for their moms. Yet Luke didn’t strike me as a child who would miss his mother. “What happened?” I inquired.

“He hasn’t even unrolled his sleeping bag.” J.P. paused. “When I tried to encourage him, he growled at me.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “He growled at you?”

“Yeah. He’s still sitting on his bunk with his pack next to him.”

“Doing what?”

“Watching…”

I wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed, but I wasn’t going to let a six-year old run my cabin. After dismissing J.P., I went to Luke and offered politely to help unroll his sleeping bag. My kindness was met with more growls.

“Are you growling at me?” I asked him. “You’re six-years old. Do you think I’m scared of you?” For the first time that day he spoke to me. In a deep, guttural voice he claimed, “I’m the devil…”

I easily brushed this off. “Even Satan sleeps, Luke. Luckily for him, though, he doesn’t have to get up by 7:30 for flagpole.” With that, I unrolled his bed, did a quick head count of my campers, and retired to the counselor’s quarters.

My room was small and separated from the kids by a sheet stapled in the doorway. For some unexplainable reason (and this still happens today) when a camper needed you, instead of calling your name, they knocked three times on the wall next to the sheet. As annoying as that sound is, I made it a point to have the kids wake me for whatever reason, without worrying that I would be mad. I’d much rather lose sleep and know where my campers are than the opposite. So when I heard the knocking on that first night I answered back in the politest tone I could muster, “What’s wrong?”

A quiet voice sifted through the sheet. “It’s Luke. He’s being too loud.” I glanced at my alarm clock and saw that it was 4:31. “Great,” I thought. “Just three more hours...” I rose from my comfortable bed and entered the main part of the cabin. I found Luke thrashing back and forth on top of his sleeping bag, speaking a language I didn’t recognize. I tried gently tapping on his shoulder but to no avail. As his cries became deeper and throatier I resorted to shaking him. “Luke,” I said, “Luke, wake up!” His eyes flicked open at the sound of my voice. At first he looked confused. “Hey buddy, it’s ok,” I told him, “You were having a bad dream.” He angrily furrowed his brow in response to my statement and rolled over to face the wall. I ushered the other kids back to their beds and then returned to him. “Do you want me to sit with you until you fall back asleep?” I whispered. His growls answered in the negative. I waited a few more minutes in case he changed his mind. When it was apparent he wouldn’t, I returned to my bed, pulled the covers up to my chin and listened. Amidst the ensuing silence I should have been able to sleep. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t.

Monday

A few hours after flagpole I left my campers at the beach for swimming lessons (which happened every day) and headed towards the Staff hangout. This blessed time of the morning was my period off, so I happily relaxed and chain-smoked. During my final years on Staff, I learned this was the only vice that calmed my nerves when working with children—actually most Staff became aware of this at some point or another. I stayed only until 10:20 when I had to return for the kids and was shocked to be greeted by sixteen smiling faces.

It honestly was night and day with Luke. Somehow, in the course of fifty minutes, he had managed to shred his repellent demeanor and become friends with the rest of the cabin. He still didn’t talk a lot—possibly due to embarrassment over the foreign drawl to his words—but when he smiled the others weren’t dissuaded from associating with him.

Crafts followed lessons, and while most of the kids were busy making lanyards or building things out of popsicle sticks, Luke sat diligently coloring. When he finished, he proudly held the drawing for me to see. Artistically he had used the broken pencils and mostly-spent crayons of the Craft Shop to depict a Victorian-style home with four people standing in front—two parents and two little boys. “Who are they?” I asked, intrigued. In a very thick voice he responded, “My family.”

He drew the parents with hair as dark as his.

I wouldn’t think about this picture again until Saturday.

The boys were extra rowdy Monday night, but I was so grateful they were getting along I didn’t mind. Sure a cohesive cabin made my life easier, but it also increased the positive reactions that kids had at Camp—we could accomplish more activities and there would be a higher propensity for them to return. I was convinced I’d sleep soundly through that night.

The screams started at 4:31.

Instantly I lunged from my bunk. In the process I must have become entangled in the blankets and fallen to the floor—this part I don’t remember; it was only assumed later after I discovered rug-burns on my knees from the carpeting. I saw lights popping on in the other cabins around me and quickly found the switch in my own. Luke was violently rolling from side to side, banging his body against the wall and repeating the same words over and over—his pronunciation losing meaning as the speed of his phrasing and screams intensified. While it was difficult to clearly ascertain what he was saying, I did hear the name “Alin.” It sounds crazy, but even through the deafening sounds coming from this small child’s throat, the repetition of “Alin” almost sounded apologetic. With one final, ear-splitting scream, Luke sat up, drenched in sweat. For a moment there wear tears streaming down his cheeks as he shook, taking in his surroundings.

That lapse was fleeting. Upon realizing that he was the center of attention, his gaze hardened. With a hostile glance at the campers gathered around him, he rested his head back on his pillow (as if nothing had happened) and returned to facing the wall.

Tuesday

The next morning I went to the main office to sort through Luke’s medical paperwork. It was our job every Sunday to take note of any special conditions the campers may have, but it was always possible to overlook things. I read every page in Luke’s file, only to find that there wasn’t anything clinically wrong with him. This didn’t surprise me—many times parents omitted items out of a refusal to accept there could be something wrong with their child. My thoughts on this matter, however, were interrupted by my friend Michael entering the room.

“You don’t look well,” he said, helping to pick up the medical files I scattered across the floor.

“I haven’t been sleeping.”

“So does that mean you’re staying in tonight?” he asked. Twice a week Staff were permitted to leave Camp, without having to return until flagpole. If I chose to leave, Michael would be assigned to spending the night in Cabin 1.

I answered honestly, “I’m not sure.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” he said, “At least you could get a full night’s sleep away from here. You’re no good to any of us if you get sick.”

“That’s true.”

“In the meantime, is there anything I need to be aware of?” he asked pointing to the medical files.

“On the record? Clean bills of health all around.”

“…And off the record?”

“Be mindful of Luke,” I warned.

It was also required that once a week counselors take their campers for an overnighter somewhere on the grounds. At lunch was when I read the disastrous forecast for the next few days—rain every evening. This promptly canceled all plans I had on sleeping outside with the kids.

“It’s just another setback,” I said to my best friend, Jake, handing him the newspaper. He set it aside and added yet another large glob of sour cream onto his tacos.

“Yeah I heard the screams last night. I assume things aren’t going well…”

“I feel bad for the other kids,” I told him. “They were looking forward to sleeping under the stars, making s’mores, and telling stories. I’m just worried that the negativity of the past two nights might eat away at their perception of how great Camp is.”

“You’re not leaving tonight until 10, right?”

“Yeah, Michael convinced me to go out.”

“Then when evening activities are over at 9:15, bring your kids back to my cabin and we’ll have a fire,” Jake proposed. “The rain’s not supposed to start until 11. That’ll give us 45 minutes to attempt an extremely deconstructed version of an overnighter…and you can still leave Camp on time!” As much as I hate to admit when he’s right (as much as I ALWAYS hate to admit when he’s right), Jake had a great point.

Being counselor of the oldest boys, he was privileged to have a secluded area in the woods with a fire pit right outside his front door. It was close enough to our settlement for my boys to feel secure, but far enough away to add an air of excitement. Before lunch ended, then, we decided on a big brother/little brother-styled event to create something positive from the few hours of respite the rain would give us.

This was the beginning of an almost deadly mistake.

We were preparing to leave later that night when Jake texted of his need for a lighter—he had plenty of fluid and wood to build the fire, but lacked a way to start it. Mine was almost out of fuel so I rummaged through the stack of drawers nearest my bed and found a large box of matches. I packed these into my knapsack, grabbed a crate full of s’more guts, and led the kids down the path to Jake’s cabin.

The trail curved through some of Camp’s remaining pine trees; had it not been for the white Christmas lights Jake hung as guidance, we could easily have tripped on their very large, exposed roots. The home of the oldest boys’ was small and rectangular—housing only ten (including a counselor) in one room. To the left was a creek that drained from the swimming lake and to the right was a large cluster of Black Cherry, Maple, and Tulip trees that separated the oldest boys from the rest of the settlement. Finding Jake, I handed over the matches and watched as a fire roared to life—the smells of Camp happily infiltrating our nostrils.

For 45 minutes Jake’s boys helped mine with their gooey treats and told PG versions of classic ghost stories. Had we stayed longer, a guitar would have emerged and ridiculous songs would have been sung—but the clock ticked ever towards 10. Finally, we collected our wrappers, put the lighter fluid back in the milk crate kept alongside the cabin, thanked everyone for their hospitality, and corralled the matches back into their box. Packing these once more, I said my goodbyes and led the little boys back to Cabin 1.

Michael was unenthusiastically waiting for our arrival. I quickly changed my clothes, put a few toiletries in my knapsack, wished him well, and left Camp for the evening. As I walked down the hill towards the parking lot, I had the strangest sensation of being watched. When I turned around, Luke’s face hurriedly disappeared from the window and out of sight.

Wednesday

Michael was wide awake when I entered the cabin at 7:20 the following morning. “How’d everything go?” I asked opening a can of Mountain Dew (I wasn’t a coffee drinker and the tea at Camp is sadly decaffeinated).

“Things were alright until about 4:30.”

“What happened? Did the storm keep the kids up?”

“No,” Michael replied. “We all slept soundly…yet somehow I still heard the floor creaking over the rain.”

“The floor creaking?”

“Yeah. When I opened my eyes I saw that kid you warned me about—Luke. He was standing next to your bed just looking at me. I must have surprised him because when I moved to get up he jumped back.”

I was stunned. “Why on earth was he in here?” I wanted to know.

“I asked him, but he refused to answer me.”

“Did he growl?”

“Growl?” Michael nervously chuckled. “I wish.”

“What did he do then?”

“He just creepily laughed.”

“He laughed? Well,” I concluded, “I guess it’s an improvement from the screaming.

Over breakfast I pulled Luke aside. He appeared like he did on Monday—friendly and normal, albeit still lacking with his words. He was confused when I questioned him about the counselor’s quarters, almost eliciting sincerity from his manneristic responses. So, following this, on my period off, I once again checked his medical paperwork. I was still hoping to find an answer to his strange behavior and alleviate my concerned mind. There wasn’t anything documented in relation to sleepwalking or night terrors; this time, however, I did notice something I’d missed before—Luke’s address was listed as a P.O. Box.

One of the biggest activities we had that Wednesday was a double period of horseback riding. The Stables Staff had ingeniously taken into account that some of the kids might be scared of these large creatures—thus, before we arrived, they had set aside apple and oat flavored treats. By feeding one of the horses it was hoped that the campers would see their tame, kind nature, which in turn would minimize their fear of riding.

Luke was the only one who refused. I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable or force him onto a horse, but after five minutes of convincing, I managed to talk him into feeding one. Luke was still a little nervous, so he stood behind me as I gently coaxed a horse over to the fence. When the elderly mare came near, I stepped aside so that Luke could show her the treat he held in his hand. When the mare caught sight of him, she thunderously reared onto her hind legs and whinnied so as to alert the other horses. A few in the yard began to buck, causing the campers to race back to where I stood. All of this came as a shock to Luke, who (though removed from the mare by a fence) fell backwards into the mud.

“Stupid horse,” he screamed, finding the largest rock within his reach to launch in her direction. He didn’t even come close—the mare had galloped away so rapidly that she broke through the fence on the other side of the enclosure.

Luke rose slowly, dusting his pants. Mumbling to himself, he spat in my direction and then walked to join the others at the safety of the picnic tables.

Like J.P. on Sunday night, everyone was assigned an evening in charge of their respective settlement—Wednesday was mine. It was my duty to make sure the boys from the other cabins were asleep at a reasonable hour and kept safe until their counselors returned (or until another Staff member was tasked with staying the night in their cabin). Nothing out of the ordinary transpired—a few stories, kids refusing to sleep… All in all my night was unremarkable. Still, I was appreciative when the settlement finally went quiet. I removed The Picture of Dorian Gray from my knapsack and relaxed with some light reading. A few chapters later, there was a Staff member in every cabin, so I returned to mine. Tiredly I opened the separate entrance to the counselor’s quarters and stared at the mess before me—all of my possessions had been searched through. It took me an hour to clean everything; thankfully (upon checking multiple times), nothing seemed to be missing. My gut reaction was never to blame the campers—Staff pulled pranks constantly. I was actually impressed that someone was able to sneak in and create this kind of chaos without me noticing. By the time I had finished restoring order and my head hit the pillow that night, the sound of the rain beating on the uninsulated roof immediately put me to sleep.

Thursday

I woke for flagpole to find the front door open with muddy footprints leading to Luke’s bed. It was common for kids to walk to the bathroom in the middle of the night, but uncommon to do so without alerting a counselor. Perhaps he didn’t want to wake me—I wanted so much to believe this simple truth. If I only knew then what I know now…

Thursday was my second evening off. Instead of leaving Camp I decided to stay and spend time with friends—leaving Camp was always fun; having Camp to yourself was a blast. I never told my campers I would be returning. When I entered through my door to go to bed, then, I was extra quiet. I didn’t want to alert them of my presence, or scare them into thinking someone was breaking in (it might sound ridiculous, but you’d be surprised). The rain had started in earnest when I drifted off to sleep…

The loud pang of thunder woke me. Through the flashes of lightening I saw the small frame of a child standing by the wall. I reached for the light switch, knocking over my alarm clock that was again reading 4:31. I saw the figure start to approach. As soon as the lights snapped on, Luke stopped in his tracks. The continued bursts of lightening oddly emphasized the animalistic features of his face, as water ran down his heaving chest to pool at his muddy feet. We both stared at each other.

“Luke,” I yelled. “What the hell are you doing?”

His flashlight dropped to the floor, shattering the glass bulb. He was flustered and distracted, searching the room with his eyes, apparently unsure why he was standing near the head of my bed.

When he didn’t answer, I stood and cautiously directed him back to his bunk. I don’t think either of us slept the rest of that night.

Friday

The last full day of Camp was usually bittersweet. Not this time. Not for me. I was ecstatic knowing that Luke would be going home tomorrow. I just needed to make it through the night…

It was at our last Crafts period when I truly became scared.

As before, Luke sat diligently coloring. This time, when he finished and proudly held up the drawing, it was of our cabin. Through one of the windows you could see a crude depiction of me—that is if you looked closely past the flames that were engulfing the structure. The Crafts Director happened to see this. Astonished she asked Luke, “Is that supposed to be Jonathan?”

With a sickening smile he answered, “Hopefully.”

I was too ashamed to report what was happening; realistically how could I be scared of a six-year-old? So instead I hatched a plan—I would stay awake through the night to ensure Luke didn’t harm himself or another camper.

When the evening activity finished, I walked my kids back to our settlement. Through the trees I could see flames rising from Jake’s fire pit—the rain was supposed to hold off until midnight; Jake was going to give his boys one last fire.

As the rambunctiousness of my cabin slowly died, I felt my eyelids growing heavier. For good measure I set my alarm clock for 4:15, just in case... Then I waited.

I remember wetness dripping onto my forehead and being startled to feel my chest compressed. Jerking awake I saw him—Luke was perched on top of me, his mouth wide open; drool running from his bottom lip. He screamed as he slashed ferociously at my face. The searing pain of my flesh ripping was trivial in that moment—I had to get away from him more than anything. Without regard for his safety, then, I forcefully shoved him onto the floor.

Realizing that I much outweighed him, Luke lunged for the door of the counselor’s quarters. I tried to chase after him, but tripped over my discarded and broken alarm clock. In turn, I fell down a short flight of stairs, my body rolling into the storm raging overhead.

The constant flares of lightening ruined my night vision. Instinctively I covered one eye to at least give me a fighting chance as I searched through the trees.

The harshness of the rain overpowered any sound Luke might have made; the downpour obscuring any trace of his footprints.

This explains why I didn’t know he was behind me.

I felt the blow to my knee first, knocking me down and rendering me breathless. I then saw one last flash of lightening before millions of stars blurred my line of sight. Next came the darkness.

It was J.P. who saved me—J.P., who had taken an interest in Luke’s antics from that first night; J.P., who sat during meals listening to me speak of Luke’s behavior; J.P., who had the Crafts period following mine and heard the Director tell the story of Luke’s drawing; and, J.P., who had tirelessly stayed awake...

His sudden, unexpected appearance diverted Luke from his mission. Frantically searching for a way out, Luke swung the log he had used as a weapon in J.P.’s direction. Those subsequent, opportune seconds of distraction (that elapsed when J.P. moved to distance himself from impact), allowed Luke to flee to the safety of the woods.

Saturday

I spent a few hours at the hospital as the police assisted Staff in searching the grounds for Luke. From what I understand (though I wasn’t privy to all the information), the number listed on Luke’s medical form had been disconnected. Even his generic last name, “Smith,” systematically helped prevent locating his parents. I don’t know what became of him after that.

I was told to rest, but ignored this in favor of returning to Camp. After my last camper had been claimed that Saturday morning, I diligently set to cleaning the mess that only a week of little kids could create. Luke’s belongings had been removed by this point, but as I lifted his mattress to sweep the wooded boards underneath, there, balled up, was the picture he drew of his family.

Upon closer inspection of the happy quartet, I glimpsed something I hadn’t previously. Erased from the background were the imprints of flames hungrily licking the Victorian home and the faces of those in the foreground.

I decided to keep the picture—in its current state the drawing looked almost remorseful; I figured the detective I’d spoken to would like to see it. As I left to empty my trashcan into the larger barrels outside, I noticed an assortment of objects laying near the cabin. Stooping to pick them up, I discovered the container of lighter fluid from Jake’s fire, bits of charred paper, and the remains of my knapsack...

...I likewise found the scattered pile of spent matches that for the past few days had resided inside that bag.

Inclement weather is the natural enemy of camp counselors. Had you asked me before these events, I would have never thought to be grateful for the rain.

People ask me many times about what happened. For some questions I have answers—Jake kept the lighter fluid inside, save for that last night…I assume this was where Luke would go when everyone else slept; returning each night until he found it—and for others I don’t—I’m still unaware of 4:31 a.m.’s significance or where Luke currently is now.

People also ask why that was my last summer on Staff. Up until this writing, I’ve cleverly given many reasons as to why I left—the pay wasn’t high enough; I needed to focus on collegiate studies…

But now they’ll know. Those who are reading this will finally be made aware how much that week changed me; how much the remembrances of that week still keep me awake at night.

You’ll often hear it said that the scariest thing about a summer camp is living alone in the woods, or the stories that are told late at night surrounding the fires. No. From firsthand experience, the scariest things about camp are the children.