“Stories of old?” Clara muttered. Was there any meaning to the words? A frown won out over all other expressions. She pulled her sweater closed, the chill returning in the form of goosebumps. It was probably a good thing there wasn’t time to dwell on the phrasing.
The tent was up, but supplies still lay scattered about the site. Darkness was already threatening to take over the sky. It was only one night, but preparations for the evening were still needed. She placed the cooler by the outside of the tent doors, taking stock of its contents: it was literally all junk food and soda pop.
Clara picked up the bag of supplies beside her future sugar rush. If she’d been a little more conscientious, she might have had the forethought to pack her own survival kit. As it was, she hadn’t. Afterthoughts came easy, but meant little. They alone weren’t able to change the past. Whatever her peers threw together for her was all she had to survive the night with. That amounted to only a smidge more than a battery operated lantern, which wasn’t going to last all night, some matches, and a can of pepper spray. At least there’d be fire and she didn’t have to hunt for the wood. There were stacks of sticks and logs piled up for her to use.
Clara’s hand came down heavy on her opposite arm. The bugs were already out in full force. Bug repellent was a luxury she wasn’t afforded. She wasn’t in the city anymore. Trees, plants, bushes were the only things visible.
Breath halted, her feet spinning her around. She had no idea where she was or which way was back. There were no markings. There was no trail of crumbs to follow. She’d forgotten even the most basic of rules of survival: keeping her bearings straight. North, south, east, west, they meant nothing to her. Her normal directions were limited to turning right at a coffee shop and left at the pharmacy. In the wild that meant nothing.
She was lost.
Chapter 17
Clara sighed. It was bad enough the others had her crawling around in the dirt looking for rocks, without adding the pain of total incompetence. Another strike of the match failed. Lighting a fire always seemed so easy, yet in the middle of the forest, it was anything but. Rubbing two sticks together probably held a greater chance for success.
Adding salt to the wound, she had everything needed to roast the giant white marshmallows sitting right beside her. A little warm gooeyness was exactly what she needed to take her mind off the evening’s events. Without something to toast them over, however, they were obsolete, nothing more than soft lumps of pure sugar.
Clara fell back, landing on her bottom. This was surrender. There came a time in every girl’s life when she needed to admit her strengths and weaknesses. She wasn’t cut out for roughing it. There was nothing wrong with being a city girl. Her head buried in her arms, wanting the night to end.
The scent was familiar. Over the years she’d inhaled the same fumes numerous times, but never once paid any attention to them. To her a match was worthless, but with a little help it was unstoppable. This was no longer a measly campfire meant for wieners and marshmallows. It was a blazing inferno—a bonfire. A sprinkling of gas made that much of a difference.
“What are you doing?!” Clara exclaimed, scooting back a few feet. She’d made a small ring of stones to keep things under control, but these flames were high enough to need a full pit to be dug.
“Relax,” Hank snickered, “it’s fine. The initial burn will only last a few more minutes... then things will settle down.”
“All the better to tell you the truth by.” Beth intertwined her arm with Clara’s. “This is the part where you become a real member of the group.”
Great, she’d been right. If the whole point to the night was to scare her, however, she had a poker face to deal with whatever they threw at her. “Let’s get started.” Clara rubbed her hands together. “I love a good story.”
Hank chuckled, sitting on the opposite side of the fire, segregating girls from boys. There were a half-a-dozen faces she’d never seen before flanking his sides. “Are you in a hurry to learn the legend of Wendigo Forest?”
Wendigo. It was silly how easily she’d dismissed the word earlier. Clearly there was some connection between them and this area. “They are man-eating beasts, aren’t they?”
“The girl knows her stuff,” a new voice said, the owner’s face hidden behind blaze and shadow. “Why is that?”
“They are a native myth,” Clara answered. “They came up in an Internet search about this area. I read about them before we moved here. They aren’t real, though.” She exchanged glances with the others.
“Probably not,” Hank agreed. “At least, we have never actually seen one. That doesn’t mean these lands are completely safe, though.” He glanced up at the bright orb almost at its highest point in the night sky. “That’s why we have these outings on the night of a full moon. Tonight is a bit special. It’s a blood moon.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Clara admitted.
“The land is magic,” Beth said. “For as long as anyone can remember, the woods have served the people of our town, protecting them.”
“Protecting them from what?” Clara blurted out. “You just said the Wendigo don’t exist.”
“Not Wendigo, per se,” the boy to the right of Hank replied. “But wicked beasts similar in nature: shifters. I’m sure you’ve heard
