How to Survive Camping - I brought home some new "pets"

I run a private campground. Winter is - obviously - our slow season and I have to say that it?s nice to not have people around. Seasonal budgeting is a little tricky, but once you get the hang of it you can reasonably predict how much you need to set aside throughout the year. After that you just sit back and enjoy the winter snow, maybe catch up on your Netflix queue, waste time on Dating.mobi, or battle off hell-spawned thorn bushes littered all over the place by an ancient evil from Ireland.
You know, just normal campground manager things.
Anyway, if you?re totally new here, you should really start at the beginning and if you?re totally lost, this might help.
I heard back from the university student that was working on the book left behind by my mother. They got through it a little faster than expected, mostly because they were fascinated by what they found inside. I can?t say I?m surprised. I mean, all of you read these posts, so I?m sure a journal left behind by my ancestor would be just as interesting.
The journal has clearly been read a bit, the student said. Not just when it was written, but by more recent generations as well. They asked about where I found it and I explained it was stored in the attic by my mother.
?Well, it was in pretty good shape until someone spilled something on it. We think it was grape juice.?
So that put into context that early childhood memory where mom freaked out when I spilled grape juice all over the kitchen table.
Anyway, they were able to separate the pages and take photos of the surviving text. For such a disastrous spill, the writing remained legible, albeit blurred and faded. I forwarded the photos they sent me on to my brother. The book remains with the university as it?s probably safer there than at my house. I don?t need it, so long as we have a transcription of the text in our possession.
Then the student asked if I?d be willing to come in and talk about my family?s folklore. The book was full of superstitions and traditions, they said, and they were certain that there?d be some professors interested in the verbal history to go with it. It was unusual to find such a detailed account written out like this.
?My family never really talked about the family folklore,? I lied. ?My parents died when I was in college and I wasn?t interested before then.?
The student expressed disappointment, thanked me for the book, and that finished our call.
I?m waiting to hear from my brother if there?s anything that might help with our current situation. In the meantime? I couldn?t keep avoiding Beau forever.
I mentally prepared myself for the confrontation as best as I could. My arguments were ready. The harvesters were unreliable help. They used me as bait and tried to stuff me into a raincoat. If I went to them, they might interpret my current vulnerability as a sign that it was time to recruit again. Perhaps they might even welcome the opportunity to claim the campground for themselves. I don?t know what their motives are. Besides, even if their intentions were honest or if Beau agreed to stand by and keep them from doing anything shady, the remedy was still dangerous. I was human, after all, and liable to simply die from shock if they cut me open to pull the thorns out.
It is in my lungs now. I can feel them when I take a deep breath.
Okay, yes, other people have survived more traumatic surgeries with them, but I?ll take any excuse I can get.
The lady with extra eyes had tried to kill me as well, but there was at least an established pattern that I could trust. She?d befriend our family and remain a helping influence for generations, until some catalyst put her at odds with us. Then we?d kill her, she?d be reborn, and it?d happen all over again. This is what I believe is happening, judging by the bones buried under the tree in her yard. If we were at the beginning of that cycle, then the spiders were far more trustworthy than the harvesters.
I went to Beau as he stood waiting in the yard that morning. His expression was unreadable, but that was hardly anything new. I took a deep breath and launched straight into it.
?The fairy said I should go to the harvesters,? I said. ?I?m not going to. They said I have time still and I?m going to try to find a different solution.?
I held my breath, pensively waiting for his response. He merely raised a single eyebrow, the sunlight glinting off the row of hoops decorating it.
?Do as you will,? he finally said dismissively.
?Wait, you?re not going to argue??
I was astounded.
?That is not my nature. I do not coerce or use deceit. You are mistaking me for a human again, I believe.?
I muttered an apology. I was. Beau is a rather simple creature in how he handles his interactions with people. He offers a drink. If the individual does not accept, he kills them. The choice, as always, remains with the person, and the consequences are theirs to bear as well.
It seemed Beau was thinking much the same thing, for he abruptly turned and started to walk away. Clearly he was no longer interested in teaching me how to better use my knife today. I would have to bear my consequences alone.
?Make your mistakes, campground manager,? he said as he left. ?I trust your will to live will eventually overcome your fear.?
Which is a pretty ominous thing to say, so I admit I wasn?t terribly excited to go searching for the spiders after that. However, I am also very stubborn. I get that from my mother and my father. I?m sure that surprises no one. Beau?s warning chilled my enthusiasm, but it also made me a bit angry. This was my body the harvesters would be cutting into. A little consideration would be appreciated. I know that these inhuman things are cruel, but sometimes I just get a little tired of it.
The lady with extra eyes, at least, had her moments when she was kind.
I went off into the woods in a foul mood. I went on foot because I didn?t want the noise of the four-wheeler?s engine to scare off the spiders. My staff have been observing them since the lady?s death and the consensus is that they mostly act like normal spiders. Mostly.
I thought I?d start with finding some thorns left behind by the fomorian. It?s been quiet lately. Perhaps the fairy and the fomorian are avoiding each other, waiting to see what the other one does instead of being the first to strike. The fomorian seems to be content to let the seeds he already littered about keep spreading. Most of the patches I?ve ripped out are growing back. A few didn?t and I can only assume the spiders are to thank for that. Perhaps they webbed the roots I left behind so that they couldn?t grow.
I picked a thorn patch that was near the edge of the old woods. I didn?t want to venture in any further than I had to. For one thing, it?s been stupid cold down there. I don?t know if it?s because it sits in a depression or if I?m just noticing it more because I?m on foot, but this winter is shaping up to be intolerably cold. Even the locals are starting to complain.
But more importantly, I didn?t want to run into the fomorian or his steed. It bothers me that I encountered the fomorian without the dapple-gray stallion. This means that the stallion is going off on its own occasionally. Since it apparently still has a desire to stomp in my skull and eat my flesh, I?m a little uneasy about potentially running into it without its master.
And I don?t want to run into the fomorian because I?m in no mood to hear him gloat about how I?m going to die.
I settled down onto the ground near the thorn bush. The snow melted and soaked into my jeans, which I quickly regretted, but I didn?t anticipate being out here very long. Just enough to talk to the spiders.
?Hey,? I said softly. ?It?s me. Kate.?
I peered intently into the bush, straining to see a sign of movement. It would be a bit silly to have a conversation if there weren?t any spiders inside. Of course, you could also argue that it was silly to have a conversation with spiders at all. But this is old land. These are not ordinary spiders.
?I don?t know if the lady reborn hates me,? I continued. ?I think I would, if I were her. That assumes she?s been reborn already, that is. I?m assuming that big spider is her. I hope it is.?
I was rambling. I took a deep breath and tried to rein in my uncertainty. This would either work or it wouldn?t and if it didn?t, the only thing I had to lose was a little bit of my time.
?Well, if she doesn?t hate me and is willing to aid my family again? I could use her help. I think I?ve got a shot at helping the land and saving the trees, but I need a bit more time. I need to find a remedy for the thorns, but I can?t do that if I?m dead. And I think? I think I might be dying.?
The morning before I left, I coughed blood into the sink. There were soggy bits in it, black pieces like tiny strips of bark.
?So if you could just relay all that to her, I?d really appreciate it. I?ll come back to the deep woods tomorrow. See if I can find her house.?
Nothing. No sound, no movement from the bush. My spirits sank. I?m not sure what I was expecting, but I?d gotten my hopes up that there would be? something. Anything to keep me from having to resort to the harvesters.
I stood up, my joints stiff from the cold. There was frost on the outer layer of my jeans. I brushed it away absently, already thinking ahead to the fireplace back home and maybe a mug of hot chocolate.
Then something grabbed my ankle.
I don?t think there?s any way to train yourself out of being startled. It?s ingrained so deeply into the human instincts that there?s no reasonable way to be rid of it. What can be trained is how we react to unexpected stimuli. A lot of people freeze. I know which of my staff members freeze when startled because I have someone sneak up on them during their first week on the job to see how they react. If they freeze, then they get placed somewhere a little safer.
It?s not hazing if it has a purpose, right?
My parents made sure that I would not freeze.
As the icy grip of something wrapped around my ankle, I reacted on pure instinct. I jerked my foot out of its grasp and jumped, putting distance between myself and whatever had touched me. I glanced down before I landed and saw a hand protruding from the snow, pallid and shriveled, stretching dirty fingers out to claw at the soil in an effort to drag the rest of the arm free.
When I landed, I made sure to drive my heel down onto the hand. I heard the satisfying snap of bone. Then I ran. I did not look back.
The frost. Rule #17. While it can get cold at night, you should not see frost forming inside your tent. If you are woken by the cold and see frost, call the camp emergency number. Stay calm and stay in your tent. We will come get you.
It was all around me.
This cold I?ve been complaining about? It masked the approach of the frost. I could think of no other explanation for how it had come up on me so abruptly.
I ran. The only defense against the frost is to get away from it. I slipped on the icy road and painfully made my way up the steepest hill leading up out of the deep woods. My eyes stung and I felt frost forming on the edges of my lips. How deep in was I? How far had it spread? All around me, hands erupted out of the snow, flailing for purchase, trying to ****** at my legs as I ran past them, a macabre garden sparkling with frost like the morning dew.
I didn?t think I would make it back to the house. Already, I felt like I was slowing down. The cold burned into my lungs and I wheezed for air. I couldn?t sustain this pace. My body simply wasn?t capable of sprinting for such a long distance. Worse, it didn?t seem to be making much difference. Fingers broke out of the snow around me like flowers blooming in early spring and my ears were filled with the popping of ice-coated joints that stretched and strained, trying to drag themselves up out of the frozen earth.
They wouldn?t stop coming.
I reached the top of the hill and veered off the road. There was a chance to survive this, one that was at least better than trying to outrun it. My pace slowed considerably once I hit the snow that hadn?t been partially cleared by our trucks. I stumbled through it, ripping my ankles away from the hands that grasped at the hem of my jeans. I felt like I was clawing for whatever scrap of forward momentum I could gain, fighting the very air itself as it burned into my nose and cheeks.
Before me loomed a mound of debris. With one last burst of effort, I ran the last few yards and then collapsed, chest heaving, onto the side of the thing in the dark.
The cold continued to press in around me. The air itself sparkled with ice. I borrowed my body deeper into the mound of leaves and sticks, desperately seeking the warmth, the safety, of a creature far more powerful than I. More powerful, hopefully, than the frost that tested the distance between us, crackling as it formed a thick layer of ice on top of the snow.
?C?mon,? I hissed through chattering teeth. ?Do you really want to mess with the thing in the dark??
It slowed. Then, mere feet away from where I huddled, it stopped. The hands that had broken through the snow went still and then, slowly, slipped back under and into the earth, leaving behind small mounds of disturbed snow as the only remnant of their presence. The cold, too, began to subside. I remained where I was, shivering violently, wondering when it would be safe to get up and leave.
I soon became aware of something sharp stabbing into my side. In my desperation to find safety I didn?t notice at first. I shifted, lifting myself out of the debris and away from whatever was jabbing me through my jacket. I turned to look, as it hadn?t felt like a stick. It was far sharper. Like a needle.
It was a thorn. My head swam with dread, like I was as light as a feather. There was a thorn inside the body of the thing in the dark.
?I?m sorry,? I said frantically. ?I?ll put it all back. But I need to know.?
I pulled away sticks and leaves from the side of the mound. I dug a hole into the thing in the dark until enough had fallen away to pool around my knees that I could see clearly what was inside it.
Vines. Black, twisting vines, their long thorns webbed with spider silk. As I knelt there, staring in horror, a myriad of spiders crept out of the darkness and stared at me with glittering eyes. Slowly, carefully, I put the branches back. I packed them back down. Then I stood and backed away.
?I?ll take care of this,? I whispered. ?I?m sorry. I?ll take care of this for you.?
The thing in the dark is less active in the winter. I think it hibernates. I can only hope that was the reason for its silence.
After a while it felt like the air was warmer and my shivering abated somewhat. The frost had hopefully moved on. I left the safety of the thing in the dark?s presence and returned home. I brought some firewood in with me, once again thinking about that fireplace and some hot chocolate.
It wasn?t until I took my jacket off that I realized that my back was covered in spiders.
As usual, I reacted with violence to being startled by something so horrific. I screamed and threw the jacket away from me. It hit the wall and the spiders scattered in all directions like a dandelion in the wind, scurrying across the wall and vanishing into the crannies and crevices along the floor and ceiling. I remained still for a long time, heart pounding, and then I went into the kitchen and poured myself a strong drink. I didn?t go back to pick up the jacket until hours later. It took some effort. Every time I walked towards it I remembered the sight of all those spiders, clutching the fabric, immobile and how their black and brown bodies blended into the fabric. How it took a few seconds as my brain pondered why my jacket seemed fuzzy and then one moved a single leg and the realization came unraveling down.
There were no spiders on or in my jacket when I finally picked it up and put it away. I?m not sure where they?re hiding, but they?re certainly in my house still.
You see, I think they?re coming out at night.
The first night after that happened, I woke at some point feeling like there was something stuck in my throat. I was only half awake though and the feeling quickly passed before I could start coughing, and I quickly drifted back off to sleep. I?m trying to pretend that this is just my overactive imagination. That there aren?t spiders crawling down into my lungs while I?m sleeping.
This has been happening for a few days. In the morning my chest feels heavy. Like the muscles to breathe in and out aren?t responding quite as well as they should. The feeling passes around midday.
I don?t know if I?m getting better. But I know this - it?s not getting worse.
I?m a campground manager. I wish I could be surprised by what?s happened to the thing in the dark. Unfortunately, it makes a terrible sort of sense. The fomorians were conquerors. They were tyrants. They subjugated everything within their grasp, crushing the will to fight out of them or killing the ones that refused to submit. The fomorian?s war with the fairy is only a prelude for what is to come if it wins.
It will conquer my land. It will destroy the creatures that refuse to bow to it and rule over the rest. It will do the same to the town, to the surrounding farmland, and on and on until it can stretch its reach no further. Perhaps the humans living here will take no notice. The inhuman world is separate from our own, for the most part. It is only in places like old land that we are thrown in directly alongside it. Or perhaps we?ll notice in the more subtle ways, in how crops fail more frequently and sickness seems to lie deep in our bones. In a weariness that cannot be abated and a sadness we wear like an old jacket.
I wonder if there are other parts of this world that already suffer under a fomorian?s rule.
The fomorian has poisoned the thing in the dark. It is a creature that is unlikely to submit, so he will destroy it.
At least there?s the spiders. Small, insignificant creatures that the fomorian will easily overlook. They?re fighting as best as they can to slow the decay.
And now they?re trying to save both of us. [x]
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Source.