The Camp Never Ends.

At eighteen, William thought he was an expert on horror movies. He knew which footsteps belonged to the killer, which doors would be locked, and exactly when someone was about to make a fatal mistake.

“If I ever ended up in one,” he told his little brother, “I’d survive.”

He even kept a list pinned above his Desk:

Never split up. Never investigate a strange noise. Never run upstairs. Stay out of the woods and basements. Don’t read the cursed book. And whatever you do, never say, “I’ll be right back.”

His brother read the list while William slept. Then he took the little brass charm he’d found at the fair and whispered a wish into it.

Let’s see.

William woke in a cabin deep in the woods.

For a moment, he thought he was dreaming. Then he saw his reflection in the dark window: long blonde hair, a young woman’s face, and a summer camp counsellor’s uniform. A name tag pinned to his shirt read:

WILLA.

Outside, children laughed beside a lake. Farther away, at the edge of the trees, someone was chopping wood.

A voice rustled through the cabin, thin as dry leaves.

“Survive the night, William. If you fail, you’ll wake here again.”

William gripped the windowsill. “Who said that?”

The chopping stopped.

By sunset, the children had gone home. Willa and the other counsellors were closing the camp when a figure stepped out of the trees, dragging an axe through the dirt.

William knew what to do. Stay together. Find a car. Keep moving toward the road.

One counsellor whispered, “We should split up.”

“No,” William said.

Then the figure lifted its head.

Its face was hidden behind a cracked wooden mask. Beneath it came a wet, rattling breath. The counsellors scattered, and William’s carefully memorised rules vanished beneath a rush of fear. He ran after them, missed the path to the car park, and plunged alone into the woods.

Branches caught his hair. Something heavy moved between the trees behind him.

He found a cabin and threw himself through the door. There was no telephone. The windows had been boarded shut. The only other way out was a narrow staircase leading up into darkness.

William stared at it.

“Don’t run upstairs,” he whispered.

The front door creaked open.

He ran upstairs.

The last thing he heard was a delighted little laugh.

William woke in a cabin deep in the woods. Children were laughing beside a lake. Farther away, someone was chopping wood.

On the bedside table lay his list, written in his own handwriting.

Someone had crossed out the first two rules.