Site 47 by Ronan Blight

Site 47 by Ronan Blight

Tim sighed as his truck bumped along the dark campground road. Why couldn’t Sarah be happy? She always assumed the worst—that was her problem. The truck parked in an empty lot next to a wooden structure. A sign in the shadows read “Restrooms.” Was positive thinking so hard?

“This is it?” Sarah asked.

“You wanted to shower.”

“It’s dark.” Sarah said. “And filthy.”

“You haven’t seen the inside. For all you know—”

“I’ve seen plenty.” Sarah’s grip on her towel resembled a stranglehold.

So maybe the lighting was not the best. Outside was completely dark, except for dim beams of light escaping through doorways to the men’s and women’s rooms. But if Sarah had ever once been camping, she’d know to appreciate any shower at all.

“Baby, you’re being negative.”

“I’m being observant. A disgusting, old shack is not going to look like a five-star suite inside.”

“You don’t know what’s inside.” Tim massaged his temples. “Don’t judge a book by—”

“Fine!” Sarah said. “I’ll go. But watch that door. I’m not having some perv walk in on me.”

She disappeared into the women’s room while Tim waited outside. He grabbed the empty five-gallon water jug from the back of the truck and looked for a pump, squinting through the blackness. Distant campfires sent convulsing shapes through the pines. The scent of ash filled the air. There would’ve been silence, but for the chanting crickets and the crunch of gravel under Tim’s boots.

Tim found the pump at the corner of the building and smiled. Camping was easy, Sarah would realize that soon enough. She’d feel better after a shower, after they sat around the fire and enjoyed s’mores . . . after they cozied up in the tent . . .

A figure moved in the darkness. Tim’s heart seized.

“Hello?” Tim called. A chill caressed the back of his neck. His ears strained to extract any sound from the silence. He dropped the jug and fumbled for the phone in his pocket, finally activating the flashlight.

From the shadows emerged a pair of muddy boots, oversized jeans, and a frayed shirt. The light reflected in round eyeglasses, making them flash like two high beams on a deserted highway. Tim lowered his phone to reduce the glare, and a man’s face appeared, a face with shifting eyes.

No. With searching eyes . . .

“Good evening,” the man said in a high-pitched voice. A shiver rippled down Tim’s spine.

They stood motionless. Tim tried to steady his breath as the man’s eyes fluttered behind his glasses, first looking at Tim’s lone truck, then flicking to Tim, then studying the restroom building, then flitting back to Tim . . .

Tim offered a weak smile, but said nothing. Jeez! He was starting to act like Sarah! There was nothing to be afraid of! The man was just a fellow camper, probably waiting to use the pump. No reason to worry! Tim proceeded to the water pump. He set his phone against a rock for some light.

The man took one step and vanished. A sinking sensation flooded Tim’s body. He rose and bolted toward the truck.

“Campsite 82?” The man called.

Tim froze. “I’m sorry?”

The man gestured to Tim’s truck, where his campsite registration tag hung from the rear-view mirror, illuminated by the light of Tim’s phone. “82” was displayed in large print.

“Beautiful site,” the man said.

Tim’s pulse quickened. Why couldn’t Sarah hurry up? Where was she? The silence was torturous, Tim couldn’t bear it.

“Where—where are you staying?” Tim asked.

The man smiled. “I’m at site . . . 47. Just me . . . and my daughter.” He avoided eye contact for a moment and seemed to push something pointed into his pocket. “If you’ll excuse me . . .”

The man proceeded to walk toward the restrooms. Tim’s heart pounded. Sarah!

The man got closer and closer, ascending each wooden step, and then turning toward the restroom doors. He stopped in front of the women’s room. He leaned in.

“Jane?” the man called. “Everything okay in there?”

Silence.

“Jane?” The man called again. “Oh, excuse me—”

Sarah darted out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. She dashed down the steps toward Tim and the truck.

“Get inside.” Tim said. “Quick.”

“Who is that?” Sarah said.

“Inside now!”

Tim thrust the truck into reverse and sped out the lot. Spotlighted by the truck, still at the women’s room door, was the man. He turned, headlights flashed in eyeglasses, and then there was darkness.

#

The next morning, Tim and Sarah returned to the campgrounds from the motel in the adjacent town. There was no way they would have slept in the tent after their . . . “encounter.”

And yet, maybe there was nothing to it. Sarah always overthought things; maybe her worry was contagious. Tim didn’t know the man. Tim had no proof they were in any danger.

Just as they had no proof that a thin slash through the rear-side of their tent was due to anything other than a woodland critter foraging for a midnight snack. No reason to be alarmed.

“I’m looking forward to the city,” Tim said, his truck bumping down the campground road. Campers on either side were preparing breakfast, children were laughing.

“Told you camping was a bad idea,” Sarah said.

“Still think you jump to conclusions,” Tim said, passing site after site, each site number written on posts in the ground. “You just have to—” Tim slammed on the breaks. He began to sweat.

“Are you crazy?” Sarah said.

No, no, no . . . .

Tim reversed past the posts: site 44, site 45, site 50 . . . site 44, site 45, site 50 . . .

No . . .

Tim snatched the map and poured over it, again and again, until all doubt was erased by one dreadful conviction: there was no site 47.

—

Ronan Blight holds a degree in English Language and Literature from Boston University. He is an aspiring writer, and particularly enjoys writing short stories in the horror genre.