Camp Unus Annus: The Author

The following story was written based on concepts and characters from the self-destructing YouTube channel Unus Annus and the YouTube videos Danger In Fiction and Danger In Fiction | Chapter II. 

    The bonfire had finally settled down into a pile of glowing embers at the center of camp when Counselor Amy peered around at the circle of campers. Empty marshmallow bags and chocolate bar wrappers littered the ground, and everyone had smears of marshmallow and chocolate around their mouths. The full moon which had been casting a soothing bluish light over the camp and its inhabitants disappeared behind a thick bank of clouds driven by a sudden chill breeze leaving only the ruddy glow of the fire to light the night. Somewhere out amongst the trees, she heard an owl hoot mournfully into the darkness.

    “Hey Mark, did you and Ethan remember to tell the campers why it’s so important for them to always remember their buddy?”

    Counselor Ethan leaned forward to look past Counselor Mark, “Of course we did, Amy,” he mumbled through a mouthful of s’more spraying Mark with graham cracker crumbs in the process. “We went over it on the first day of camp,” he continued, ignoring Mark’s frustrated glare when more crumbs landed on his lap, “We’re not idiots, you know.”

    Mark quickly brushed the crumbs off his white camp uniform before placing a hand on Ethan’s chest and pushing him backward off the log they were sharing. “Seriously Amy, you were there when we filmed the whole thing about how dangerous it is to be in the wild without a buddy. You had to get in the tent because of that bear, remember?” Mark snorted and rolled his eyes as he turned to Ethan while pointing at Amy with his thumb. “Can you believe she forgot that we went over the buddy system?”

    A muffled thump sounded as Amy smacked Mark over the head with her clipboard. “No, I didn’t forget that stupid video,” she huffed, “and if you’ll remember there wasn’t actually a bear it was just Evan with a branch in his hand.” Noticing that neither Ethan nor Mark was paying attention she grabbed each of them by an ear and pulled them in close, checking on the campers over her shoulder before whispering in their faces, “I’m talking about you know who.”

    Mark took a deep centering breath and Ethan rubbed at his ear as Amy let go of them. Ethan looked at Amy and shrugged unconcernedly then stared at Mark. Mark glanced at Ethan out of the corner of his eye then pushed him backward off the log again before turning to face Amy with a sigh. “Amy, we talked about this. No one has seen or heard anything about him for years. It’s probably fine.”

    

    “It’s probably fine. It’s probably fine? It’s probably fine? Really?”

    “Yeah! It’s fine! Probably.”

    “If it’s so fine, why haven’t you put your writing workshop on the schedule yet?”

    “I…”

    “If it’s so fine, why don’t you ever tell stories around the campfire?”

    “I…”

    “If it’s fine, why do you make one of the campers do the Camp Chronicle instead of doing it yourself like you said you would?”

    Mark put a finger to his lips and pointed at the campers with a tilt of his head. Amy turned to look in the direction he’d indicated and caught the concerned looks on some of the campers' faces. She looked back at Mark and a mischievous grin quirked the corner of her lips.

    “Amy, don’t.”

    “Hey, campers! Who wants to hear Counselor Mark tell a scary story before we hit the sack tonight?”

    As one, even the sleepiest amongst the campers began to cheer excitedly at the prospect of a story from Mark. Amy stared pointedly at Mark with a grin on her face as he glared at her.

    “Thank you so much, Amy,” Mark ground out through a strained smile as he stood up.

    “You’re welcome,” Amy replied sweetly, resuming her seat on the log.

    Ethan slid over to fill the gap Mark left on the log next to Amy and leaned toward her conspiratorially. “Are you really sure this is a good idea, Amy?”

    “It’s fine,” she reassured with a wave of her hand. “Probably.”

    Mark took another deep breath and let it out slowly. “I don’t know that you guys really want to hear this story. They say there’s power in a story and that it grows every time someone tells it. So, I’ll leave it up to you to decide whether it’s worth the risk.” He refused to look at the campers’ faces and stared instead into the remains of the bonfire. Before continuing he picked up a big stick and poked at the dying embers, coaxing a few tired flames back to life. Instead of making the clearing brighter, the fire seemed only to deepen the shadows surrounding them. Not a single camper moved as they waited for him to continue. “Well, if there are no objections,” he trailed off with a sigh. “Okay,” he stabbed at the fire to punctuate his thought and sparks flew into the air causing a few of the closer campers to jump then laugh at themselves for being frightened.

    “Did you know that a best-selling author used to live not too far from here?” He paused as the campers looked at each other before shaking their heads. “I didn’t expect you to, but I’d be willing to bet you’ve probably read one. Well, a few years back a couple of young men came staggering out of the woods near the cabin the author lived at and told the police this crazy story. They said that the author had been using his writing to control them and the world around them. Now one of these young men, Daniel, had told this same story to the authorities before and had been placed in a mental institution as a result but had recently escaped. His friend, Ryan, said that the author had kidnapped him and taken him to his cabin.”

    Somewhere in the woods, a branch snapped loudly startling everyone around the campfire. Some of the campers fell over with a yelp then started laughing when they saw how big their neighbor’s eyes had gotten in the darkness. Mark stared out into the darkness trying to pinpoint the source of the sound, unconsciously gripping the fire poking stick tight enough to turn his knuckles white. Amy kicked a rock at his ankle, bringing him back to the moment, and nodded reassuringly at him when he turned to look at her.

    “Anyway,” he continued, “the two friends told the police that Daniel had shot the author in the back to protect Ryan who he had been looming over with a baseball bat. They said that when the author was controlling them, they could hear his voice inside their heads like he was narrating their lives and that they were compelled to act accordingly.” Mark paused and looked out at the campers and the firelight reflected in their eyes. “Can you imagine it? One moment you’re living your life and then suddenly an unfamiliar voice invades your thoughts and forces you to play out a scenario beyond your control. Like a puppet with invisible strings guiding your every action and reaction? Being at the mercy of a madman who cares nothing for you, only how your suffering will enhance his work?” With every word, Mark’s face grew darker and his eyes began to take on a haunted feral glow. Some of the campers began to fidget uneasily when his gaze would brush across them. “Can you imagine trying to fight against that kind of mental assault? Fearing what that voice might make you do next? Will it force you to run, fearing for your life, from unseen monsters? What if it decides to turn you into a monster? What would you do? What could you do?”

    “Mark.” Amy leaned forward and tried to get Mark’s attention by swatting at the back of his leg to no avail. “Mark.”

    Mark continued to speak as started moving among the campers, pitching his naturally baritone voice even lower. “The Author’s control was far from total. With effort, you could go against his wishes, at least for a little while.  But he would always find a way to get what he wanted. He would find ways to make you cooperate. And the longer you could manage to resist, the worse he would make things for you in the long run.”

    Amy tried again to get Mark’s attention by calling his name. “Mark!” This time Mark spun around to face her across the fire. “It’s getting late, why don’t you finish up your story,” she prompted him.

    “Right, the story,” he muttered smoothing his hair back from his eyes as he moved back around the fire to stand in front of the log Amy and Ethan occupied. “The story… Where was I?”

    “The two friends had told the police about shooting the author,” a teal haired camper sitting close to the fire chimed in.

    “Thanks. So, the two friends told the police their story and, naturally, the police went out to the cabin to investigate. They found the room where Ryan had been tied to the chair, the baseball bat, the gun, and a shell casing. But they didn’t find any sign of the author. No blood. No body. No sign that the author had even been there recently. On his desk, they found a piece of paper with just three words written on it, “To be continued.”

    Shanoa dragged herself to the dining hall for breakfast the next morning. The hall was filled with the usual cheerful morning chaos of campers eating and planning out the day that lay ahead but she hardly noticed. Dark bags shadowed her eyes as she picked at her scrambled eggs.

    “Are you okay, Shanoa,” a fellow Thicc Water camper asked from across the table. “You look terrible.”

    “Wha? Yeah, no I’m fine,” she muttered sticking a forkful of scrambled eggs into her mouth before quickly spitting them out again. “Blech! I can’t believe they’re serving cold eggs.”

    The campers sitting with her exchanged a quick look before responding. “They aren’t, Shanoa. You’ve been staring at your plate for 20 minutes just stirring them around.”

    “Oh.”

    “Are you sure you’re okay? You look like you didn’t get much sleep last night.”

    Shanoa set her fork down with a sigh and rubbed at her eyes with the heels of her palms. “Honestly, I didn’t. I’d start to relax and then I’d start thinking about that story Counselor Mark told around the campfire and I was wide awake again. Did he seem a little, I don’t know, off, to you guys?”

    “Nah,” a boy from Taser Fire interjected while leaning across the table to grab more syrup for his pancakes, “he’s always like that.”“You know how dramatic he gets when he’s trying to scare us,” a girl from Earth Girth spoke up and the other campers at the table nodded in agreement.

    Shanoa stared thoughtfully at her plate for a moment. “I mean, you’re not wrong…”

    “Of course, I’m right! That’s his whole bit when he’s being creepy. He just amps up his intensity and BAM! He’s got us jumping like frogs.”

    A chorus of You Rights went up from the other campers as the Earth Girth girl finished talking. Satisfied that the issue was settled, Shanoa’s tablemates began pairing off with their buddies to plan their days. Shanoa kept picking at her breakfast, still bothered by the story from last night’s campfire. Eventually, the other campers filtered out of the dining hall to their first activity of the day leaving her sitting lost in thought.

    The campers moved about the camp two by two flitting from one activity to the next. Their raucous voices echoed through the forest, disturbing its inhabitants. Their minds whirling from thought to thought as they made plans and just as quickly abandoned them. There were a few individuals in the camp whose minds flowed smoothly from one thought to the next like the gentle current of the nearby river in stark contrast to the majority. Only a handful, but just enough to be a nuisance. The ones whose thoughts chittered like squirrels were easily diverted; their minds never noticing when he nudged them into choosing some other path. But those still minds…

    “You know, you sit here much longer and Chef’s gonna put you on KP for the rest of the day,” a voice broke into her thoughts. “Come on, let’s go stretch our legs!”

    It took Shanoa a moment to register that her buddy was staring at her from across the empty table. She gave her head a brisk shake and blinked a few times to bring herself back to the moment. “Sorry about that, Darcy. I guess I spaced out for a bit.”

    “Must have. Now hurry up! Chef’s starting to get that look in his eye.”

    After a quick stop by her tent to grab Shanoa’s notebook the two campers headed off down one of the lesser-used hiking trails. The early morning fog still clung to the ground in the shadow of the trees, moving in swirls and eddies around their ankles as they moved deeper into the forest. Occasionally, Darcy would take a running leap and pull herself up onto one of the lower branches overhanging the trail then dangle upside down from it while pulling faces at Shanoa.

    “Come on you slowpoke! I want to get back in time for that Fire-Bear Taming workshop I saw on the schedule this morning and we’ll never make it if you keep dragging your feet,” Darcy called back to Shanoa.

    “I’m fairly sure that was a typo. Either that or Counselor Ethan’s gonna tie streamers to someone from Bear cabin,” Shanoa joked, swatting at Darcy’s hair as she walked under it.

    “Won’t know unless we show up. Come on, I’ll race ya to the overlook,” Darcy shouted as she dropped from the tree and sprinted past her buddy.

    Shanoa rolled her eyes in response but started running after her buddy intent on winning a footrace against her for once. When she caught up to Darcy at the top of the hill, they were both thoroughly out of breath.

    The camper’s chattering thoughts were drawing closer disturbing the calm he had worked for so long to preserve. She really wanted to get back to camp in time for that workshop so she would have to rush her buddy to move quickly. How could they risk missing this once in a lifetime opportunity?

    Shanoa flopped down on a mossy rock at the base of the tree that shaded the overlook. From this vantage point, she could look down over the entire camp. Exhausted from the run she put her head between her knees while she tried to catch her breath. Darcy leaned panting against the trunk of the tree looking at her watch.

    “You know, if we run, we can make it back in time for that workshop,” she huffed.

    “If we run, I’m either going to puke or pass out. Neither option is appealing to me,” Shanoa grunted in response. “Let’s just sit here and enjoy the view for a while. If there really was a fire-bear we’d be able to see it from here anyway.”

    “Really? You’re going to risk missing this once in a lifetime opportunity just because you might puke?”

    “Yes. Yes, I am. I’d rather sit here on this nice mossy rock and write than try to run back to camp for a fire-bear training workshop that probably doesn’t exist.”

    “Laaame!”

    “So, what if I am?”

    “Oh, you most definitely are lame,” Darcy laughed pushing off the tree and starting back down the hill, “But I am not going to miss out on this opportunity. I’ll see you after the workshop!”

    “You’re not seriously going to leave me here?”

    “Yep.”

    “You’re gonna get busted for not having a buddy if you do.”

    “So, will you, if you don’t come with me,” Darcy shouted over her shoulder from halfway down the hill.

    “Who’s gonna bust me? There’s no one else up here.”

    “Last chance, buddy.”

    “Nope. Not happening. You know where to find me when you change your mind,” Shanoa shouted down the hill.

    She watched from her seat under the tree until Darcy disappeared into the cover of the trees at the foot of the hill then leaned back against the warm bark of the tree. With a content sigh, she closed her eyes and tilted her head back to enjoy the sun shining across her face. A gentle breezed rustled the leaves above her head as she pulled her pen out of its holder on the cover of her notebook and flipped to a clean page. Fully relaxing for the first time since last night she stretched before leaning over the notebook to begin writing. Something about the area made the words seem to flow with ease from her mind onto the page. A branch snapping loudly underfoot startled her from her story.

    “I knew you’d change your mind, Darcy! Come check out what I just wrote.”

    “Don’t mind if I do,” a deep voice replied before smashing something hard into her head, knocking her unconscious.

    The girl jolted awake, lifting her head quickly from where it rested on her chest only to grimace at the throbbing pain the movement created in her head. She tried to press her hands to her temples to relieve the pain, but they were bound securely behind her to the back of the wooden chair she was seated in. As consciousness took hold the girl realized that her legs were also tied to the chair and her captor had taken the time to both blindfold and gag her. Certain that her captor was aware she had awakened, the girl forewent any pretense of unconsciousness and began to thrash desperately against her bonds, with what outcome in mind she couldn’t say.

    From somewhere in the room she could hear the distinctive metallic clicking of a typewriter. Though she couldn’t see him, her captor sat only feet away from her working feverishly to finish writing the last few paragraphs that would set the scene for what was going to happen next. A crooked grin crossed his face as he reviewed what he had written before yanking the page out of the typewriter and setting it face down on the desk. As he turned to face the girl, he lifted an old metal baseball bat from where it rested against the side of his desk. Having realized the futility of her movements the girl now sat slumped against her bonds, only occasionally rubbing her head against one shoulder or the other, trying to work either the blindfold or gag out of position.

    “I’ll bet that right about now you’re thinking, I should have listened to my buddy, aren’t you,” a deep voice asked close enough to Shanoa’s face that she could feel the heat of the speaker’s breath on her face. “It’s okay, you don’t have to answer. Just listen,” the voice continued as she felt the speaker lean in closer and begin to untie the blindfold. She groaned nervously into the gag and jerked convulsively at her bonds. The hands stopped and the speaker leaned back a little bit. “I can leave you blindfolded if you would prefer, but I find it’s easy to hold a conversation when you can look someone in the eyes. Now hold still, or I will make you hold still,” the voice growled at her.

    As the blindfold came off, Shanoa slowly opened her eyes and blinked rapidly a few times to try and clear her vision which had become blurry from the blindfold’s pressure. The dark blur in front of her resolved itself into the shape of a man wearing a black button-up shirt over black jeans. His dark hair was cut short with a slight fringe overhanging his forehead. There was something strangely familiar about the man’s face but her rattled brains couldn’t quite put a finger on why.

    “That’s much better,” the man said cheerfully as he carelessly tossed the blindfold off to the side. “I can see your eyes, you can see mine, much more civilized. Now we can really talk.” The man’s crooked smile didn’t reach his eyes as he dragged his desk chair closer to where Shanoa sat before taking a seat in it. He was so close now their knees were practically touching. “Now where should we begin, Shanoa?”

    Her eyes, which had been inspecting the room around her, snapped back to focus on the man’s face when he spoke her name. She looked down to make sure she wasn’t wearing a nametag, then looked back at the man’s strangely familiar face.

    “Ah yes, I know who you are, and I’m not surprised that you don’t know me. I wouldn’t expect you to, though I’m sure that you’ve heard of me. For the sake of discussion, you can call me The Author.” He watched smiling as the look of confusion on Shanoa’s face was replaced with one of recognition and that just as quickly with one of terror. “So, you have heard of me. Good, that saves me the trouble of having to explain certain things to you.”

    The Author leaned back in his chair and stretched out an arm to grab a familiar leather-bound notebook from his desk. Shanoa watched as he flipped carelessly through its pages until he reached the one he was looking for. He ran a single finger down the page as he reread its contents with a calculating eye then shut the notebook with a snap and tossed it on the floor between the two chairs. Shanoa stared at lying there between them and took a deep breath through her nose to try and calm her racing heart.

    “You have a gift with words, young lady,” the Author’s voice brought her attention back to him. “An exceedingly rare gift with words indeed. One that could rival my own, in time,” he finished with gritted teeth. “And therein lies the problem. You see, I’ve worked hard to keep my little secret. Granted, I made a few mistakes with Daniel and Ryan, but I managed to make my disappearance convincing enough to make up for them. Now you show up just as I’m about to make my come back and, without knowing it, you could undo the years of work I’ve put into it. “

    The Author stood up causing his chair to roll back across the floor until it bumped into the desk. “So, I have a proposition for you. Collaborate with me, add your gift to my own. We work together and I make sure you have all the success and fame you could ever want. Our secret is safe, and everyone is happy,” the Author flourished his hand in the air with a grin. “Or,” his voice dropped, and his hand gripped the baseball bat,” …you could choose not to cooperate. In which case I will make certain that you are no threat to me. Am I perfectly clear?”

    Shanoa nodded her understanding vigorously with the Author’s face mere inches from hers. “Good,” he said as he straightened his stance, swinging the baseball bat up to rest lightly on his shoulder. “Now I know this is a weighty decision for you, so I’m going to give you a little time to think things through before giving me your answer. I need to take care of a nuisance, down at the camp who thinks he’s in control of things around here, but when I get back, I’ll expect your answer. Make sure it’s the right one,” he finished over his shoulder as he shut the door behind him.

    Left alone in the silent cabin with only her thoughts, Shanoa began to panic. No one would be looking for her until Darcy got done with her workshop because everyone would assume they were together. She was at the mercy of a madman who may or may not be able to control others through his writing and believed that she could do the same. Desperately she looked around the cabin for anything that might help her get free of her bonds, but the Author had very few possessions and had made sure that they were all well out of her reach.

    If it hadn’t been for the intense way that Counselor Mark had spoken of the Author during his story the night before Shanoa would have immediately dismissed the possibility of someone being able to control the world with stories. Now, she was sure that not only was it real, but that Counselor Mark had encountered it firsthand and somehow managed to survive. The most likely explanation would be that he also had this same ability. As she twisted and wiggled against the ropes tying her to the chair, she kept trying to think of a way to call for help. The Author quite obviously believed that she had this gift within her too. Could she use that somehow? What if it didn’t work? She wouldn’t be any worse off than she was now. What if he could tell when she tried? Was it worth the risk?

    Shanoa stopped struggling for a moment and took a deep breath in through her nose, paused, then let it out slowly releasing the tension in her shoulders at the same time. She lightly closed her eyes and began to picture the trail she and Darcy followed to the tree that morning. She pictured Counselor Mark leaning against the tree in the midday warmth, enjoying the contrast in temperature between the sun and the shade on his skin. No, that won’t work. I don’t know where I am in relation to the tree, she thought to herself shaking her head in frustration.

    Taking another deep breath to center herself, Shanoa listened closely to the sounds of nature coming from outside the cabin. She could hear the wind rustling in the branches of trees and the calls of various birds and insects, but none of it was enough to tell her exactly where the cabin was located. Tears of frustration burned in her eyes as she listened for something, anything, she could use to help her. She was on the edge of despair when she faintly caught the voices of Counselors Mark and Ethan in the area. Shanoa knew she only would have one shot to get this right, so she closed her eyes again and forced herself to breathe slowly, in and out.

    The two Counselors made their way up the hill following the seldom-used hiking trail. Amy and Evan had everything well in hand at the main camp, so they had plenty of time to complete their search. Ethan had caught only a glimpse of a grey tail disappearing into the woods with the keys to the camp bus, but he was certain that the critter had headed this direction. As they searched the area Mark caught sight of a small cabin tucked back into the trees and decided to go see if anyone there had seen any sign of the keys.

    Shanoa, starting to get a headache from focusing so hard, paused, and listened intently for any sign that her effort was having any effect. Mark and Ethan’s voices sounded closer than they had been, and her heart began to race again. As she listened their conversation became more and more distinct until she could make out every word of their conversation. Help was tantalizingly close now and she began to struggle against her restraints again, this time focusing on making as much noise as possible.

    “Hey, Mark, did you hear that,” Ethan’s muffled voice came from somewhere outside the cabin. “I think I heard something crashing around in that shack.”

    “Maybe it’s the cat you let steal the keys,” Mark’s voice taunted as it got closer to the door.

    Mark hears the sounds coming from the cabin and realizes their source is something much larger than a cat. As he approaches the door, he can make out the muffled sound of someone crying out in distress accompanying the crashing sounds that had drawn Ethan’s attention. Concerned for the well-being of whoever was inside he opened the door swiftly and strode into the room.

    The pressure of her headache was nearly unbearable as Shanoa threw every ounce of energy she could muster into one final tilt of the chair, sending her crashing to the floor with a muffled scream. The cabin door swung open to bang against the wall as the side of her head bounced off the floor temporarily stunning her. Early afternoon sunlight poured through the open door and across her face momentarily keeping her from focusing on the shadowed figure highlighted in the doorway.

    “Holy shit! Shanoa, what happened to you,” Mark shouted as he rushed forward to set the chair and its bound occupant upright. His fingers fumbled a little as he untied and removed Shanoa’s gag. Her head rocked gently with the movement and he paused to steady her. Her eyes blinked slowly and never quite seemed to fully focus on his face.  “Hey, Shanoa,” he snapped his fingers in front of her face, “…focus. What happened? Where’s your buddy?” Her eyes focused momentarily before widening in fear. A panicked look crossed her face, and she closed her eyes tightly then began shaking her head slowly side to side as if she were trying to deny something. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Calm down. It’s going to be alright. Let’s get you out of here first and then we’ll figure everything else out,” he soothed putting his hands on her shoulders and rubbing them comfortingly.

    The girl’s head felt like it was going to burst from the pressure building up inside it. The counselor’s voice slid across her mind without registering exact words, just the tone. Her thoughts were scrambled like the pieces of a newly started puzzle. She knew she had succeeded but some part of her mind kept screaming that she was in more danger now than she had been before.

    While Mark focused on freeing Shanoa, Ethan wandered around the cabin trying to learn something about its owner. His eyes were drawn to the desk and the typewriter occupying it. Seeing the lone sheet of paper laying face down on the desk he picked it up and began to read. As his eyes scanned the words his mouth slowly dropped open in shock. Without taking his eyes off the page he stepped over to where Mark was crouched working at undoing knots and tapped him on the shoulder. Mark looked over his shoulder with an irritated glare and Ethan wordlessly shoved the page in his face.

    Though her actions had brought her the aid she needed they had also been exactly what her captor had wanted her to do. Whether she wanted to or not she was following the course he had plotted out for her before leaving the cabin. He had known from what she had written in the leather-bound notebook, now laying on the floor in front of her, what her choice would be and had planned accordingly. Her rejection of his offer, the desperate attempt to use a gift she only half believed in, the arrival of the counselor, all of it had been calculated to place the obstacles to his comeback within his reach and control.

    He had chosen his words carefully, ensuring neither Mark nor Shanoa realized their actions had been predetermined until it was too late. The time it would take for the two to realize the significance of what he had left on the desk would be more than sufficient for him to return from where he sat watching a short distance away in the trees and quietly close the cabin door.

     Ethan left the page in Mark’s grip and lunged for the door, knocking a broom down to lay across the threshold in his haste and halting its silent swing. His hands latched onto the door’s edge and he threw his weight backward yanking it fully open once again. Thrown off balance by the unexpected pull on the door, the Author stumbled tripping over the broom handle into the cabin.

     “This is not what is supposed to happen,” the Author growled as he caught himself on the edge of the desk. “You,” he turned pointing menacingly at Ethan, “… are not supposed to be here!”

    “Hey pal, haven’t you ever heard of the buddy system? There’s a reason we insist on it at the camp.”

    In the time it took for Ethan to get to the door Mark, having realized what was happening after only reading half of the page he had been handed, unsheathed the knife he kept with him and hastily cut through Shanoa’s bonds. At the sound of the Author’s voice, Shanoa had stopped shaking her head and her eyes snapped open to glare at the black-clad man where he now stood, leaning against the desk. Mark stood slowly and turned to face the Author, holding the unsheathed knife lightly at his side.

    “Ah, yes. The buddy system. Always have someone to watch your back in case something goes wrong,” the Author mocked, “That’s what you tell the campers, isn’t it? Not, in case one of you starts to act oddly. Though, with the weirdos you fill that camp with who could tell if one of them was behaving oddly.”

    “That’s enough,” Mark raised the point of the knife towards the Author. “Ethan, call the police.”

    “Yes. Ethan, call the police. I’m sure they’ll be glad to arrest the man who’s been keeping me prisoner all these years.”

    “That’s not what’s happening here, and you know it.”

    “Oh, but I’m sure the police will be glad to help,” the Author grinned, “…once they hear my side of the story.”

    While Mark and the Author glared at each other and Ethan fumbled in his pockets for his phone, Shanoa leaned forward to pick up her notebook from where it lay on the floor at her feet. Though the movement was small it made her dizzy for a moment and she paused pinching the bridge of her nose for a moment to try and relieve her headache a little. The feel of the soft leather cover was a soothing contrast to the pins and needles feeling of blood flow returning to her hands.

    “Mark, there’s no signal here,” Ethan’s quiet voice cut through the silence as he held his phone in the air at various angles. “I could backtrack down the trail until I get one?”

    “Never mind,” Mark sighed glancing at Ethan, “… there isn’t anything they’d be able to do anyway. All he’d have to do is write a statement for them we’d be the ones in handcuffs.”

    No one noticed as the Author shifted slightly against the desk and began tracing his finger idly through the dust on its surface. “That’s probably the smartest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” he muttered. “Though the bar isn’t set too high. Besides, that would separate you from your buddy, and we wouldn’t want that.”

    Mark’s eyes shifted back to the Author. Something had changed in his posture, the way he leaned against the desk seemed more in control than it had a moment ago. A look crossed the Author’s face too quickly for Mark to read, but he suddenly had a feeling that a shift had just occurred in the balance of power in the cabin. He stared silently at the Author for a moment trying to figure it out. The Author met the intensity of his stare and leaned forward at the waist leaving his fingertips resting on the edge of the desk, the corner of his mouth quirked up in a smirk.

    “After all, you have your buddy,” the Author straightened gesturing toward Ethan with his left hand, “… and I have mine,” he finished, gesturing at Shanoa with his right. The motion left him standing like a man showing himself to be unarmed, but his posture was that of a man in complete control of the situation. He exuded confidence that had been missing moments before and it unnerved Mark more than a little.

    Shanoa caressed the spine of the notebook and found that her pen was still safely tucked in its holder there. She could feel a pressure building up within her focusing at her fingertips looking for release. Quickly she slid the pen free and uncapped it, opening the notebook to the next blank page. As soon as the pen touched the page her eyes fell gently shut and she lost herself in the fluid motion of the pen across the page. She sighed a little as she felt the pressure flow out of her head with every stroke of the pen. Her mind felt strangely blank as she wrote. Almost as if her conscious mind was floating in within a void, completely disconnected from the words flowering unseen across the page. Writing had never been this effortless for her before.

    “She already rejected your offer, Author. You wrote it yourself on that page you left for me. What makes you think…”

   Mark stopped mid-sentence as his fingers relaxed, dropping the knife on the floor. 

    “What the fuck?”

    He reached for it but found his movements unnaturally slow. His muscles visibly tensed as he tried to complete the simple motion.

    “Mark are you okay,” Ethan asked as he took a concerned step forward.

    The Author’s smirk turned to a grin full of malice as he smoothly bent down and easily retrieved the dropped blade before Mark could recover it. He admired it for a moment before placing it on the desk behind him next to the typewriter. “He’s fine. She wouldn’t let me do anything to harm him.”

    “She wouldn’t let you… What are you talking about?” Ethan followed the Author’s gaze to where Shanoa sat, eyes closed. Her pen hovering over the page of her notebook.

    “I hate to admit it, but her writing has a subtlety to it that mine lacks. She has a lighter touch, where I tend to be a bit blunter.”

    “I’m okay,” Mark reassured Ethan as he took a step backward, “…it just surprised me.” Taking another step back to stand beside Shanoa, Mark set his hand reassuringly on her shoulder and felt a shudder run through her.

    Shanoa felt the void around her ripple as she floated through it. She no longer felt any connection to her body, so the sensation surprised her. For a moment, her mind floundered trying to remember what she had been doing, the thoughts spilling from her grasp like water from her hands. Her hands, what was in her hands? Her notebook and pen?               

    “I must be writing,” she thought hazily. “Why don’t I know what I’m writing?”      

    Her scattered thoughts began to coalesce into a picture, like watching a show through the viewpoint of one of the actors. She could see her hands now, holding the open notebook with her hand poised ready to write. Her familiar chicken scratch covered half the page before being replaced by an unfamiliar scrawl. As she watched, her hand began writing in that same unfamiliar script.

    The girl relaxed and closed her eyes again, letting the words flow through her and onto the page.

    The words on the page were echoed by a deep male voice in her mind and the view of her hands began to fade. A wave of involuntary relaxation washed over her thoughts, dragging her mind back toward the void. Unnerved by the way she reacted to the words she had just watched herself write, Shanoa fought against the urge to relax and focused on her hands again. With great effort she brought back the image of the notebook and pen in her hands, noting that this time she could feel them as well. A new sentence was written on the page, this time in her handwriting.

    Shanoa opened her eyes again.

    Mark watched as Shanoa’s arm twitched, switching back and forth between writing styles. He could tell she was fighting for control of her own body and gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Beneath his hand, he felt Shanoa’s shoulder drop to a more relaxed position. He watched as her hand began to move across the page once again.

    Shanoa could feel the pressure building up once more and focused her attention on her thoughts, wary of anything that may come from outside. Now that she knew the Author was trying to use her against Mark and Ethan, she wouldn’t fall for his tricks so easily. Desperate to break the stalemate created by the Author’s manipulation, she wrote out a plan hoping the counselors would forgive her for trying to control them.

   Ethan distracts the Author giving Mark time to recover the knife. The Author moves away from the desk.

    The Author slammed his hand down on the desk, cursing in frustration under his breath. His sudden motion startled the other two men in the cabin. Ethan jumped back a step drawing the Author’s wrathful gaze to him. As the Author stared at him, Ethan realized that he was now the sole focus of his attention. Squaring his shoulders, he began to move toward the door and the broom that lay across the threshold. The Author lunged toward Ethan who deftly backflipped out of his grasp, then dove under his arms to grab the broom. Forewarned by Shanoa’s writing Mark launched himself at the desk and snatched up his knife from beside the typewriter. Faced now with two armed opponents the Author froze with his hands in the air.

    “No! This is not what is supposed to happen,” the Author raged as Mark and Ethan pushed him back into a corner. “Why won’t any of you cooperate?!”

    “Why would anyone cooperate when you’re trying to kill them, you psychopath?”

    “Because they’ll live forever in my novel, with so many more people caring about them than they ever would have had without ME, Ethan. Isn’t that worth dying for?”

    Mark and Ethan looked at each other out of the corner of their eyes before replying with an emphatic, “No!”

    “I’m sorry you feel that way,” the Author said softly,” …but this isn’t about you. This is my story and you are nothing but puppets set on the stage to act it out. You have no say in any of this and you’re delusional if you think otherwise.”

    Ethan lowered the broom a little. “Is that all other people are to you, puppets,” he asked sadly.

    “Why shouldn’t they be? If they are so weak-willed that they can be so easily controlled, then why shouldn’t I use them as the tools they are meant to be?”

   “Weak-willed, huh,” Mark mused aloud.

    “Yes.”

    Mark burst into laughter.

    “What’s so funny?”

    “You,” Mark choked out between laughs. “By your logic, you’re just as weak-willed as the rest of us.”

    “How dare you…”

    “Shanoa wrote you moving away from the desk when Ethan distracted you,” Mark cut in.

    The Author paused and stared past the two counselors to where Shanoa sat behind them. “Did she now? I didn’t think she had it in her to try something like that on her own. Well done, Shanoa. You’ll be a best-selling writer like me in no time.”

    Shanoa flinched at his words and looked down at the floor.

    “Why the long face? Isn’t that what you’ve dreamed of?”

    Ethan raised the broom menacingly. “Leave her alone. You’ve messed her up more than enough.”

    “I messed her up,” the Author asked sarcastically, placing a hand on his chest. “I did no such thing. On the contrary, I think I’ve made some rather significant improvements. Her writing is so much more… impactful now.”

    Sobs wracked Shanoa as the Author’s words hit home. Anything she wrote would happen. To someone, somewhere who fit the character, she was writing about. Anything she wrote would put someone through the horror of losing control to an unknown power. Hot tears spilled down her cheeks to fall on the open notebook in her lap. She knew she would never be able to live with that knowledge hanging over her like the Sword of Damocles.

    “No,” she coughed out between sobs, “…I won’t do it. I’ll never write again. Not if it means I have to think of people as puppets like you do.”

    The Author smirked at her. “Oh, you’ll write again. You won’t be able to help it. Writing is like breathing for people like you and me. We can’t live without it.”

    “That’s enough,” Mark interjected.

    “It’ll never be enough! You know that as well as I do. How long have you been able to resist the urge? How long before your fingers start itching to put pen to paper? How long until you have to sit down and let the words flow?”

    “I said, that’s enough.” Mark looked over his shoulder at Shanoa. “Don’t listen to him. It’ll be fine.”

    Ethan looked quizzically at Mark. “What’s he talking about?”

    “It’s not important right now,” Mark replied.

    While their attention was focused elsewhere, the Author quietly slid a hand into his pocket and pulled a lighter out. Though the cabin door had remained open, he could smell the gas leaking from the stove he had turned on but left unlit before leaving earlier. His movement went unnoticed by the other two men and he grinned a little.

    “It’s not important right now? When else would it be important? Because I’m a little uncomfy with the thought that if you don’t like the way I’m acting you could just write me to be different! How would I know? Have you done it already? Is that why you isolate yourself when you’re writing, so you don’t have to see what you’re doing to the people around you?”

    Mark stiffened at Ethan’s accusations and looked him square in the eyes. “Ethan, you know me better than that. But now is not the time for this discussion. I promise you we will talk about it later when a psychopath isn’t actively trying to kill us. For right now can we focus on that?”

    Ethan nodded wordlessly and the two counselors returned their attention to the Author who grinned maliciously at them. The near-silence was broken only by a heart-wrenching sob from Shanoa as the notebook slid from her fingers and thumped to the floor.

    “It’s a little depressing, really,” the Author mused aloud, “…how easily the two of you are willing to let your gift go to waste. So many interesting ideas you could literally be bringing to life and you refuse to take advantage of the opportunity. Oh, so willing to be less than you are. To fade slowly into obscurity, or never leave it in the first place.”

    “You’re talking about real people’s lives. Not some fictional world you’ve created. There are real consequences for what you make them do and do to them. They have to live with that and so do you,” Mark gestured angrily with the knife, pointing it accusingly at the Author’s chest. “I certainly couldn’t live with that on my conscience, and I don’t understand how you can.”

    “Comfortably,” the Author replied casually. “Very comfortably. At least when my characters cooperate. It’s never as good when I have to get involved personally, but sometimes people just need a fire lit under them to really get things going.”

    The distinctive metallic click of a lighter case flipping open punctuated the Author’s statement followed by the scrape of the strike wheel being flicked. A small flame burst into life glinting off the Author’s eyes as he tossed it casually toward the stove before either Mark or Ethan could react. The accumulated gas in the air ignited with a whoomph, sending a fireball rolling across the ceiling over everyone’s head. Taking advantage of the distraction the Author lunged at Mark trying to wrench the knife from his grasp. Shanoa hunched in on herself as she dove to the floor beside the chair. The sudden heatwave caused wisps of hair that had broken free of her braid to dance in the air and, in a few cases, curl at the ends. Ethan swung the broom handle at the Author’s back only to strike Mark in the shoulder when the Author wrenched him sideways.

    “I’ve got this under control, Ethan. Get Shanoa out of here. I’ll catch up,” Mark grunted through clenched teeth as he fought for control of the knife.

    With a nod, Ethan pulled the front collar of his shirt up over his nose in a makeshift mask and sidled toward Shanoa. Thick smoke already was beginning to fill the small cabin making his eyes and lungs burn. The fire climbed hungrily across the dry wooden walls, it’s crackling a counterpoint to the grunts and muffled curses of the two combatants. Chunks of flaming wood dropped through the smoke around him like shooting stars in the darkness. A thin layer of clear air at floor level allowed him to see where Shanoa knelt by the chair, her face pressed to the floor and both arms covering her head.

    “Come on Shanoa, we’ve gotta get out of here,” Ethan called as he reached out and set a hand on her shoulder. He could feel her whole body shaking but couldn’t be sure whether she was crying or coughing at this point. “It’s gonna be okay.”

    Shanoa glanced up at Ethan through eyes red with tears and shook her head sadly. “This is all my fault. Just go. I don’t want to become a monster like him.”

    “Can’t do that, we’d be breaking the buddy system. So, either we both go or neither of us goes. Now come on!”

    Shanoa took Ethan’s hand and crawled up beside him. “If you insist. But what about Mark? Aren’t you his buddy?”

    “Don’t worry about Mark right now, I’ll take care of it,” Ethan shoved Shanoa ahead of him toward the door and safety outside. As they gulped in the fresh air an ominous creaking sounded over the crackle of the fire. Ethan ran back to the door shouting for Mark to get out. Just as he was about to step back inside a flaming ceiling timber dropped with a crash, blocking the way.

    Inside the cabin, what had started as a battle for control of the knife quickly escalated into a full-on fight. A sharp blow to Mark’s wrist sent the knife back to the floor and the Author’s quick kick ensured it was out of reach for the time being. The two men sized each other up for a moment before Mark lowered his head and charged the Author, grabbing him around the waist as he drove him to the floor. The Author, momentarily taken by surprise, hit the ground hard but used Mark’s momentum against him to propel Mark over his head to crash against the table.

    “You never did answer me, Mark,” the Author said as he regained his feet.

    “And I’m never going to,” Mark responded slapping away embers that had alighted on his arm. “I don’t answer to you.”

     “Is that it? Or are you afraid of what those answers would say about you? We both know you still write. So, tell me, how many puppets do you have?”

    “None. I don’t need to make anyone suffer just so I can create, not that it’s any of your business. What you’ve done in the past is unforgivable and I’m not going to just let you keep torturing innocent people for your own personal gain.”

    Both men were now finding it harder to see and breathe through the thick smoke and began to move in a crouch to get to the clearer air near the floor. A spray of sparks showered the inside of the cabin as the ceiling beam struck the ground sending light glinting off the discarded knife. Mark dove for it as the Author was wracked with a coughing fit from too much inhaled smoke. At that same moment, the Author dove for the baseball bat he’d dropped near the door earlier. Re-armed, the two men charged at each other through the smoke. The Author’s wild swing sent the smoke spinning into curls along the path of the bat making an opening just big enough for Mark to get a clear sight of him through.

    “So, what are you going to do about it,” the Author taunted through the smoke as he swung the bat again, “… kill me?”

    “Death comes for us all eventually,” Mark answered, slashing with his knife as he dodged the Author’s bat. “Who can say what shape it will take?”

    The Author’s bat connected with Mark’s shoulder on the backswing causing him to stumble. Mark took a step back trying to regain his balance, only to trip on Shanoa’s discarded journal and fall as the bat passed through the spot his head had occupied only seconds before. From his back, Mark kicked out wildly connecting with the Author’s knee and sending him to the floor as well. As both men began struggling back to their feet a section of the flaming cabin roof came crashing down. A piece struck Mark’s head stunning him momentarily.

    Outside, both Ethan and Shanoa were circling the cabin looking for another way in or out of it without any success. Their throats were raw from the combination of inhaled smoke and shouting for Mark with no response. The crash of the roof sent embers flying toward the trees surrounding the little clearing and they rushed to stomp out the small blazes before they could become larger. Ethan turned to Shanoa with determination in his eyes.

    “I can’t just wait out here, I’m going in after him. Stay here and try to keep the forest from catching fire,” Ethan blurted out. “I think I saw a pump around the side of the house, maybe you can wet things down? I don’t know. But if I’m not back in a couple minutes follow the path back to camp and tell Amy and Evan what happened.”

    Shanoa stared wide-eyed at the cabin behind Ethan and began to raise a shaking hand to point when a soot-covered hand rested itself on his shoulder.

    “I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Mark rasped as Ethan turned to face him.

Epilogue

    The cabin fire had been easy to put out once everyone from the camp was working together. Having seen the smoke rising in the distance Amy and Evan had put together a fire brigade that met up with Mark, Ethan, and Shanoa halfway between the camp and cabin. On the walk back to camp the three had agreed not to tell Amy, or anyone else for that matter, what exactly had happened at the cabin with the Author. The rest of the week passed in a flash and soon there was only one day left before everyone would be departing for home.

    Shanoa sat on a mossy rock under a tree overlooking the camp as the sun began to set on the last day at Camp Unus Annus. Darcy sat nearby in companionable silence, whittling away at a stick she had picked up on the hike up the hill. The smell of ash still hung in the air when the wind would blow from the direction of the clearing previously occupied by the cabin. The relative quiet of the woods was interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming up the path towards them.

    “Mind if I sit with you,” Mark’s quiet voice by her ear startled Shanoa out of her reverie. Turning her head to look at him she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye and realized that Ethan was escorting Darcy back down the path toward camp. Shanoa shrugged listlessly and moved over to make a spot next to her on the rock which Mark promptly settled onto. Neither one said anything for a moment as they watched the sun start to dip behind the hills to the west.

    “I didn’t see you at the writing workshop today,” Mark remarked offhandedly. “Amy said you weren’t feeling well but I don’t think that’s the real reason.”

    “I meant what I said that day.”

    “I know you did. I once said the same thing.”

    Shanoa turned to look at Mark. “So, what changed? Obviously, you still write otherwise you never would have made the Heist.”

    Mark nodded. “It’s true, I do still write. But that’s because I figured out something the Author never did.”

    “What’s that?”

    “Just because I can make everything I write happen; doesn’t mean I have to do it. It’s a choice, Shanoa, just like everything else in life. The Author chose to exploit others for his own gain with his gift, that’s something I like to think I could never do. If it’s in you to write, then write. But do it on your own terms.”

    Mark stood and offered his hand to help Shanoa do the same, which she accepted gratefully. The two dusted themselves off then started back down the path to camp before it could become too dark to see clearly.

    At the bottom of the hill, Mark stopped and set a hand on Shanoa’s shoulder. “I almost forgot, I think this belongs to you,” he said as he slid Shanoa’s now slightly scorched notebook into her hands.

    Shanoa ran her fingertips across the dry, cracked leather of the cover before opening it and leafing through its pages. In places, the ink had bled from where water had soaked into pages while they were putting out the fire. In others, the edges of the pages were browned and irregular.

    “You know,” Mark mused, “…that notebook probably saved my life. If I hadn’t tripped on it, I would have been right under the main beam of the roof when it fell.”

    Shanoa nodded thoughtfully as she continued to leaf through the notebook. A single page slipped loose from the back of the book and she quickly grabbed it before it could hit the ground. In the fading daylight, she could just barely make out three words written in the center of the page in a now-familiar scrawl:

    The Author lives.