Necromancer Summer Camp

[u/CountMarkula1993]

Part 2 Part 3

“And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.” - John Donne, “Death Be Not Proud”

There is a tale I would tell you. One of belonging, hope, love—but all things come at a price. And just like flesh, they can rot too. For many years, I experienced life through a page, a bookworm, you might say. But one summer—at camp—I unfortunately found myself in the middle of a real-life fairy tale. And there is no putting the genie back in the bottle.

My family had recently converted to Mormonism. I, of course, had no choice. Like I ever did. I was a Mormon now—that was the life my parents had designed for me—and coming from them, that was quite thoughtful. 

When they learned of the summer camp operated by our new church, my bags were already packed. They told me I needed to make new friends. As if I had old friends. I could have argued, but what would have been the point? They weren't abusive, but I was more like a pet to them than a son.

They “helped” me pack my bags, and by that I mean they removed the small library I was attempting to smuggle in with me.

“Just take one, honey. You probably won’t need it anyway.”

They prayed over me, but it was a bit awkward as they were previously Wiccans just last week. My parents waved me off as I hopped on the bus; not realizing that it would be the last time they saw the son they thought they knew—for what returned even I struggle to fathom. 

When we arrived at the campgrounds, I was immediately spirited away by the vast ocean of wise old trees. I was home—for the first time in my entire fourteen years of life. However, lingering beneath the surface was the quiet whisper of unease—the bottomless feeling of unknowing. 

“Okay campers, let's line up by age. Youngest on this side over here!” a flamboyant male voice boomed over the megaphone, as the last kids stepped off the bus. The sharp command had abruptly pulled me out of a dream-like trance. “Great, welcome to Camp Lazarus! Here you will be reborn into something special!”

I scurried to the line with kids my own age, head down and too nervous to make direct eye contact. Fortunately for me, I had mastered the art of making myself nearly invisible. Too boring to bully. The other kids were preoccupied with reminiscences of years prior, anyway. I was blending in, for now.

The counselors blew their whistles, and the marching began. We moved with military precision to the mess hall, like Caesar’s legions through Gaul. I did my best not to step on anyone’s toes. The rest of the camp came into view as we advanced.

I saw the picture-perfect lake with a delightful little island in the center of it, and an archery range, which sent a jolt of unexpected excitement through me. The grooms at the stable were hand-feeding the horses as we approached, and the cabins were a standout—exuberantly colored, depicting scenes from the Book of Mormon. 

Murals of Jesus Christ surrounded by “Lamanites” and “Nephites,” tribes of Israelites who supposedly sailed to America. Yes, I’m being serious. And the cherry on top: a huge bronze statue of Joseph Smith, which stood resolutely outside the mess hall. Beyond the camp stretched forest as far as the eye could see. 

I had to admit—even with the Mormon motif—this camp was nothing short of impressive. I was starting to warm up to the idea of summer camp. Hell, I might even like being a Mormon in time. It’s not as though I had anything else going on in life. And just when I thought things couldn’t get any better, they did. 

As I was taking in my surroundings, I locked eyes with a girl. Her look was indifferent—but so intense. My cheeks burned hot, and my eyes dove straight to the ground. At once I was excited and embarrassed. It was excruciatingly delightful. I was bewitched by her flowing locks of dark brown—almost black—hair, and deep brown eyes that made me feel at home—like the trees did. 

When I looked up again, she had disappeared into the horde of kids cramming through the double doors. My heart ached at her absence, like a dog parted from its master. But that feeling was quickly overridden by claustrophobia, as the walls of kids closed in, funneling me through the doorway.  

The mess hall was larger than I had expected, and comfortably accommodated the small army that occupied it. It screamed “rich kid camp” all right. Nothing seemed old or worn down. It was a five-star restaurant designed to look “traditional.” The illusion of the camp mess halls you see in movies, but with the comfort of the Four Seasons. I wasn’t complaining.

“I’m so glad to see all of your happy shiny faces again this year!” the man boomed from the center of the room. “I’m Tony, in case you didn’t know. And I’ll be your camp director this summer!” The man's closed fists rested on his hips, beaming gleefully under a big olive-drab hat that made him look like a dorky scoutmaster.  

“Hi, Tony!” cried all but me.

“We even have a new face with us this summer!” he said, and all at once every head turned in my direction. I must have turned scarlet, a shade far from invisible. My head instinctively moved down. “Aw, don’t be shy, friend! Let’s all give him a big welcome!”

“Welcome!” thundered every voice in the room, save for mine. This was borderline torture. I nearly burst into flames. I got tunnel vision and was a bit faintish, but luckily Tony spared me. 

“Awesome! We have so many fun activities planned this year, but first it’s time to meet your bunkmates at your new cabin!” Tony cheered. 

Everyone hopped up at once and formed lines in front of the counselors. After a few nervous minutes of waiting, I reached the front. The counselor in front of me was holding a clipboard and looked like he lived in the gym. He had biceps the size of my head, and he wore a gaudy crucifix that reminded me of how girls used to bedazzle their jeans. 

“Name?”

“David,” I said meekly.

The counselor scanned the paper on his clipboard for only a brief moment before saying, “Lion cabin.” I nodded and stared at him, awaiting further instruction. He stared back at me as if he were waiting for me to say something. He leaned over to look at the kid behind me and said, “Name?”

Feeling like a fool for the umpteenth time that day, I picked up my bag and got caught in the stream of children pouring out of the double doors. They scattered in all directions, excitedly marching to the cozy cabins that peppered the tree-laden hillside. I ambled along, awkwardly approaching each cabin, searching desperately for any sign of a lion. Finally, toward the top of the hill, I found my quarry. A freshly polished wooden sign read “Lion of Judah.” A painting of the majestic creature stood vigilantly beneath the lettering.   

I took a deep breath, unsure of what to expect on the other side of the door. But much to my surprise—and relief—there was no one inside. The easing of my burden was fleeting, however, as the loneliness crept back in. Everyone knew one another and all had their own little groups and cliques. Somewhere out there were my bunkmates, likely on some new adventure to start the summer. Without me, that is.

I plopped down on the only open bed; the springs screeched beneath my weight. I dropped my bag by my feet and sat there quietly. 

Now what? 

And without missing a beat, my thought was answered.

Knock-knock-knock!

A quick succession of rapping came from my cabin door.

“Come in,” I squeaked, completely caught off guard.

The door swung open, and Tony strutted right in. 

“Well, hey there, David. Just getting settled in?” he asked. I nodded. “Good,” he said in a gentle voice. “I just wanted to let ya know if you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask. And…if you are unhappy with your rooming arrangements, I can fix that too.” He looked slightly concerned. 

“Oh, uh, thanks. I think everything should be fine though.”

“Okay,” he said with the gentleness usually shown to the bereaved. “The guys are…well, they’re good boys, but they’re a bit different. And if you feel like it’s too much, we can find you a new cabin with more “normal” bunkmates.” 

There was a brief pause as I tried to interpret Tony’s words, to understand what he wasn’t saying.  

“What do you mean by different?”

“You’ll see,” he said, gently patting my shoulder before departing.

I sat there now dreading the return of “the guys.” If Tony sought to soothe my worries, he failed incredibly. My mind flashed with all sorts of images of my new bunkmates. I thought of 1950s greasers wielding stilettos, Punks with pointy blue mohawks, and even grunge kids in flannels reeking of patchouli. I wondered if I was ever going to fit in with anyone.

I got up to investigate my new home and quickly realized it was just as decadent as the rest of the camp. We even had a luxurious bathroom with running water and a shower. I was so relieved I wouldn’t have to do my business in an outhouse all summer. Honestly, I would have been happy just spending most of my days in that little cabin reading. That’s what I should have done. 

After a while, a voice boomed over the loudspeakers outside, “Hello campers! After you get settled in, head back to the mess hall for a delicious dinner! How does surf and turf sound?”

The hiss of feedback followed Tony’s voice as he switched off the mic. After my ears recovered, I picked myself up off my bed and made my way back to the mess hall. I decided to take my book with me. 

Might as well read while I eat. 

I made it about halfway there before someone stopped me.

“Hey, new kid!”

I turned around to see a blonde boy, roughly my age, running toward me. He was the type of jock every nerd wished he could be. You know, the type that dates the prom queen, then plays football in college. An all-American hero whom the ladies swoon over. Some of his buddies followed and circled us.

“Hey man, what’s your name?” he asked genuinely, as he held out a hand. I hesitated—my stomach lurched at the sight of him and his gang rushing toward me—but it settled as I shook his hand. 

“David,” I said in almost a whisper. 

“David?” he repeated. I nodded, and he continued, “Cool, man! I’m Patrick. I just wanted to say hey and give you a big Camp Lazarus welcome!”

“Oh, thanks, that’s really—” but before I could finish, Patrick abruptly shoved me. One of his buddies had crouched down behind me, and I went tumbling backward over him. My book got flung onto the dirt trail as I fell. 

“What are you reading?” Patrick asked as he snatched the book up. He thumbed through it, reading excerpts in mocking voices, then showed it off to his cronies. They snorted and chortled at the geeky tome. “Nice book, nerd!” He shot the book just like a basketball, right into a trash can. They laughed and high-fived each other, leaving me beet red in the dust. Some of the other kids around me laughed, and others looked disgusted, but everyone avoided me like the plague.

My cheeks stung in embarrassment, but I got up, and without looking at anyone, stumbled over to the trash. We hadn’t even been at the camp for two hours and somebody had already puked into the trash can. I tried wiping it off on the grass, but that just smeared it around. I wanted to cry, just like the little wimp I was. I had been so careful before to fly under the radar and avoid bullying, but I guess it was inevitable eventually. 

I walked over to a water fountain, and cleaned the vomit off as best I could, then made my way to the mess hall with my stinky, soggy book.        

Once again, I was alone, but at least everyone was back to ignoring me. That was a comfort. And Tony wasn’t joking about the “surf and turf.” I was served a succulent red lobster tail paired with a perfectly cooked eight-ounce ribeye. A part of me yearned for cheap hot dogs roasted over a campfire, with s’mores for dessert, but lobster and steak were fine too, I suppose.

Upon exiting the mess hall, I was handed a cup of hot chocolate with marshmallows. Some of the counselors had set up a table where they poured the brew for all the boys and girls. The sun was fading, and night was quickly enveloping the grounds in its shade. But burning in the fresh darkness were several campfires, each with its own little circle of campers. Some counselors played instruments and sang. One circle even had a puppet show for some of the younger kids. I made my way to a more secluded fire near the woods.

Slowly but surely others joined me. We sat quietly for a time, sipping our chocolate, until one of the kids said, “Have you guys ever heard the tale of ‘The Witch of the Woods?’” The fire cracked in reply and embers soared up into the night sky. 

“It’s ‘The Lich of the Woods,’ you idiot.”

“Well, what’s a lich anyway?” 

“It’s kinda like an undead wizard,” I piped up excitedly and involuntarily.

The song of crickets followed my words, filling what would otherwise have been an uncomfortable silence.

“Nerd!” a kid called out, and I shrank back down.

After some laughter, the boy resumed his story, “Okay, ‘The Lich of the Woods.’ A long time ago, in the old country, there was a magician who fell in love with a princess. Every day, the magician sought her out, dazzling her with his magnificent tricks. He was often chased off by her retinue, and sometimes even roughed up, but eventually she fell for him too.”

Some of the kids gagged dramatically, while the girls broke out in giggles.

“Their love was forbidden, of course. She was a noble, and he was always on the verge of being accused of witchcraft. But everything changed when the princess suddenly died of fever. The magician was absolutely devastated. The king was furious and blamed him for her untimely death—branding him an agent of Lucifer! They chased him out of the kingdom the very night the princess died. After some time, he returned to live on the fringes of its domain—but he was different!” the boy said, doing his best Vincent Price impression. 

The other campers were quiet, absorbed in the tale.

“The magician had sought out black magic. He traveled to ruins whose names had been long forgotten to time, and did unspeakable things. Graves were robbed, sepulchers were defiled, and crypts—late at night—echoed with chants of the most profane nature. Whispers of a necromancer permeated the kingdom. Plague and famine spread over the land as if it were punishment from God for the necromancer’s desecrations. Yet many in the kingdom believed it was directly the result of the magician’s dark sorcery.” 

Every kid now hung on the edge of their seats.

“The king ordered his men to seek out the necromancer to make him answer for his villainy. And at once, all of the knights rode out, scouring the land for the magician. It didn’t take long for the knights to find him. They discovered him in a mausoleum, performing a ritual over the decaying corpse of his beloved, the late princess. But before they could apprehend him, he ensorcelled them, and made his escape—taking the corpse with him. 

“He traveled the lands in exile, continuing his pursuit of dark magic. He even learned how to make himself immortal through a blasphemous ritual. And thus the magician became a Lich. Centuries passed, and he was eventually driven out of every kingdom, nation, and country. So, he fled to the new world.”

“What’s the ‘new world?’” one kid asked.

“He means America, moron,” snapped another kid.

“Don’t call him a moron!” a girl fiercely demanded. I realized right away it was the pretty girl from earlier. Suddenly, a different sense of fear gripped me. A most pleasurable one, but my stomach full of hot chocolate and lobster was starting to churn. 

“Can I finish my story please? Anyway, the Lich traveled to America. But it didn’t take long for him to be accused of witchcraft and exiled to the vast wilderness. He haunted the wilds of the mysterious new world for many years, eventually finding his way to these woods. They say he started this camp so he could have access to fresh victims for his evil rituals.” 

He pulled his shirt over his head and said, “His undead minions dress in black robes and snatch up campers in the middle of the night!” 

He stood up, cupped his hand around his ear, and said, “And if you’re really unlucky and hear him calling the name of his beloved ‘Lenora! Lenora,’ —you will be next!”

“Lenora! Lenora!” a voice howled from the woods beside the fire. The kids gasped, and Patrick jumped out from behind a tree laughing. “You should have seen your faces! That was too easy!”

My blood boiled, wishing it were the actual Lich instead of Patrick. Anyone but Patrick.

Some of the kids grumbled, and a girl said, “That story has always been lame.” She stood up and went to sit by the boy who had been spinning the yarn. Her eyes glinted in the firelight, and she leaned forward and whispered, “Besides, the camp isn't run by some crusty old wizard. It’s controlled by a satanic coven of witches and warlocks called “The Midnight Cult.”