Jack's Alive

"Hello, everyone out there in webcam land, and welcome to another episode of ‘Stranger than Fiction.’ I’m your host, Dick Smartz. For the next hour, we’ll discuss stories from a new book called Kamping, written by Jackamping. Coming live from the dark woods of Michigan is our author, Jackamping. Hello, Jack."

Sitting in his tent and holding a glass of scotch, Jack wondered if Dick’s introduction would define his mood for the evening. "It’s Jack Kamping. Two words! Not Jackamping!"

Back at the station, Dick sat back in surprise. Okay, well, Mister Kamping. Welcome to our show. As you write in chapter one, the pronunciation of your name—the first curse in your life, as you describe it—is a bit of a pet peeve for you. Just why is that?

Jack lit his pipe and stared at the digital camera set on a tripod with a smug look on his face, loathing his name. As the middle-aged curmudgeon had written in his novel, he would probably decide if he liked a person or not by how they pronounced it. Not the tone or the delivery, but rather if it was spoken correctly as two separate words, Jack Kamping, or butchered as one word, Jackamping. Most people did not notice the ending letter of his first name merging with the same first letter of his last and wryly considered the Mike Hunt jokes of his youth. First impressions meant a lot to Jack, and he was already not dazzled by his host’s voice squeaking through an old-fashioned earplug.

Dick spoke into his laptop microphone as he scanned the early pages from Jack’s book. I have to admit that I don’t know anyone named Jack. Another part of your moniker curse, I assume.

That makes two of us. Jack grinned as he tweaked the position of a Coleman lantern.

The scruffy malcontent often thought, How many people does one know named Jack? Jack Nicholson, an actor who typically plays psychotic roles, such as in The Shining; Jack Nicholas, a hall-of-fame golfer who had faded into oblivion in the modern era; or the fictional action hero, Jack Bauer, whose life on television lasted a mere twenty-four hours. Jack’s name had also been made infamous in violent nursery rhymes from the brothers Grimm. There were Jack and the Beanstalk—a reworking of the David and Goliath battle; Jack and Jill—about a bucket of water and a broken crown; Jack Sprat—and his disdain for eating fat; Jack be Nimble—who assumed the uncomfortable position of sitting on a candlestick. And one more for good measure: Little Jack Horner—who ate pies while cowering in a corner.

Jack’s online host, Dick Smartz, spoke from an independent Colorado radio station with antiquated analog equipment and coffee cups strewn all over. There were stacks of music CDs, hundreds of commercial spots labeled by category for local businesses, and required PSAs. This put Dick about a thousand miles from Jack, who camped in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. Residents, also known as Yoopers, lovingly called the northern portion the UP, with their state bird jokingly labeled the Mosquito.

Dick and his assistant, Jason, bet each other on how many viewers they would reach by the end of the night, unaware that their previous record of hits was about to be shattered. Their guest for the evening, who squatted in the woods like a hermit from the pines, possessed just the right combination of quirky sarcasm and wild claims about monsters trying to kill him. Dick thought they would reel in about forty thousand hits by the hour’s end; Jason aimed higher, with fifty.

Dick motioned for Jason to fix the video feed fading in and out of his MacBook, sensing that tonight’s interview might yield some priceless footage if they could get this guy to feel some emotional pain and snag more viewers. The plan, as had always been the case with prior online interviews, was to post excerpts on YouTube, Facebook, and other social media in the hopes of going viral in the hunt for online fame. Jason fidgeted with a few cables until, all at once, Jack’s grainy face came solidly into view.

Jack leaned into the camera as if staring into Dick’s eyes. "Let’s not forget all of the classic puns, either. With a name like yours, Dick Smartz, you must know what I mean!"

Jack flashed to the worst of the connotations in the modern age: Jack Off—which needed no introduction; Jack Ass—ditto that; Jack the Ripper—everyone’s favorite knife-wielding neighbor; and Jack Shit—which he kind of enjoyed. Jack Kamping would gladly live in the unconscious world of bad puns and ghastly rhymes rather than endure the more lethal curse throughout his life as a camper.

Jack always felt at home while living in a tent. On this interview night, he inhabited a quaint one-man design made out of the toughest and lightest nylon; the black color was its unique characteristic. Camping equipment had come a long way since the more roughing it period of the enduring outdoor activity. Long gone were the heavy canvas tents he had lugged hard and deep into the woods as a child. Since his first camping trip at the age of six, Jack had seen the evolution of every essential accessory: dangerous railroad-style oil lanterns replaced by slick green Coleman lanterns, campfires replaced by portable heaters to survive the cold dead slices, and all of the assorted conveniences to make life comfortable under the stars.

As the men minced words, Jack’s ears caught the sounds of crickets and the whooshing of wind blowing through the trees. Occasionally a stick would break free and land on his tent like a harmless taunt from nature. He often thought if people wanted to be frightened, they should join him in the thick woods, imprisoned in a shroud of blackness, with only the mind to torment them. One cryptic line from his novel read: When the lights go out and the night creatures come forth, even the friendliest campsite turns into a dark and dreary stage for creepy crawlies, ghosts in the wind, and psychotic killers wielding chainsaws.

Jack Kamping was probably in his late-fifties, but even he didn’t care. On this summer night in the year 2017, the new author and star of Dick’s show promoted his autobiographical book appropriately titled: Kamping: Ghost Stories from the Woods.

Jack hadn’t bothered to shave for his marketing event; his unkempt appearance enhanced the mood for those who were just tuning into the webcam broadcast. His black-and-white checkered shirt also fit the vibe, as did his worn and torn jeans. What the audience would not notice were the foul pipe smell emanating from his body, and a more lethal blend of bad tobacco and stale scotch. Rather than sitting in a boring bookstore signing his name for total strangers, the old coot opted to conduct his marketing obligations from a tent.

Due to other technical problems with the laptop, Dick’s webcam fans did not see his reactions in Colorado; they saw only Jack from the woods. The grumpy cuss represented every stereotype of an odd wood-dweller trying to profit from his even weirder life. Initially, Dick didn’t want to have Jack as a guest, much less read his book to conduct a professional interview, but if he wanted to get out of this shit-hole of a job and evolve his career, he needed to broaden his horizons and portfolio. A bizarre interview with an old fart in the woods describing demon hauntings might just do the trick.

Dick noticed his guest dropping ice cubes into his glass, followed by a splash of scotch over the top. Jack, tell me, where do you get ice in the woods?

Jack smiled wryly, feeling a hint of the mild effects coming on. By the end of the show, I’m sure you’ll find out. With his finger stirring the drink to dilute potent booze, he pondered three critical tasks to execute during his covert mission. How could I resist just one drink? For old times’ sake.

So, Jack. Jack Kamping. For full disclosure on the air: did these bizarre events really happen to you during your life as a camper?

In a poised but ominous tone, he declared, I’m not some hack writing a phony slasher story about a guy named Jason on a Friday!

Jack didn’t need to use his imagination to feed his fears or endure comic movies such as Friday the 13th or The Blair Witch Project. He had real life to contend with on this auspicious night, selling books to the world while secretly concluding his mission to find and defeat the monstrous winged beast that haunted his dreams. Only a few minutes into the show, Dick noticed the rapid uptick of viewer traffic, thinking he had probably guessed too little in his bet with Jason. To keep the Internet buzzing during the next hour, he would inject probing questions to balance the more confrontational mood of his guest.

So, Jack, exactly why you are in the woods now? Visiting an old friend, perhaps?

Several old friends. I plan to write about their tales of woe in my sequel.

A sequel? Well, good luck with that! I’m sure there will be further exaggeration to make your stories more ‘Hollywood-gory.’ Some of this stuff is pretty graphic and unbelievable.

Jack held up his book as a trophy to the world and spat a half-swallowed bug out of his mouth, fragments landing on the lens of the camera. Hey, kiddies, buy my book and see how long you last without wetting your pants!

Dick grinned at Jason, who mouthed the words What the fuck? as he prepared to post the first excerpt on YouTube and Facebook. Jason, along with a growing throng of online viewers, delighted in the snarky old man entombed in a black nylon cocoon. Dick gazed at Jack’s face flickering from lanterns and thought of a pagan custom featuring other bogus demons and monsters.

Anything else to add, Jack-o’-lantern?

Slumped deep into his chair, Jack stared beyond the camera lens and into the eyes of thousands of viewers, unable to comprehend the power of his digital connection to the entire world. Fans of horror stories about demented lost souls were eagerly awaiting his jaunt into the arena of mayhem and death. The grand star of Dick’s show, who held many secrets beyond those told in his debut novel, leaned in with a final thought to the terrifying ending he had planned for his legion of fans.

As a friend of mine just told me before we parted company: when you do a deal with the devil, it’s a disease of the mind and body, and you can’t control it!

PART I

HORROR STORIES IN THE WOODS

____________

THE PURPLE BISHOP

(age 9)

CHAPTER 1

Atop a branch of a towering red pine in the woods near Traverse City, Michigan, stood a Great Gray Owl, its red eyes nestled inside a face of carved wisdom in the year 1968.

From a distance, the owl could see it all playing out, even without the aid of yellow flame creating shadows on human faces. The bird’s unmatched hearing homed in on crackling branches of a fire, adding a haunting texture to the setting. It casually observed people camping in the woods, placing them in settings where they did not belong. For the relaxed bird, this was always good entertainment.

The owl did not mind the presence of young kids, who reminded him of his more carefree days. At the mature age of six, this warrior of the wind boasted a slightly chipped hawk-like beak. From the tree, he rapidly opened and closed his beak, enjoying the clicking sensation caused by the chip.

At the campsite, no human could ever spot the presence of the nocturnal owl. They may have heard the occasional hoot hoot in the distance, but would never be able to find its secret location as the sound bounced off of densely packed trees in the forest. A small lake rested quietly about twenty feet from the pitched tents. The daily cycle of fun in the sun followed by danger-by-dark was an essential law of any camping ghost story.

The eyes of the owl saw it clearly—four boys gathered around a campfire, and an adult supervising their weekend of discovery. The owl turned its head to the scene and heard three syllables spoken as abstract sound: Jack’s Alive.

A nine-year-old boy named Jack said the phrase before performing the ritual explained by Blake Harrison, their adult counselor. Blow on the embers and speak the words. Jack blew on the stick, said the words Jack’s Alive! and passed it to a boy named Seth sitting next to him. Seth continued the game, blowing and passing the glowing stick to Sean, who gave it to Chris, each saying the phrase with increasing urgency.

The campfire competition called Jack’s Alive had a long history of entertaining both young and old lucky enough not to lose and endure the punishment. It had an even darker history of traumatizing some who lost when the embers burned out while they held the stick. The unlucky soul, whose hand held the stick, must pay the penalty: a mustache etched onto the upper lip with the cooled-down charred end.

In the group supervised by Blake, it became a race of chaos and panic, with each boy blowing and quickly passing the stick. If someone failed to speak the words, the glowing stick would be given back until they got it right. In camping lore, Jack’s Alive took no prisoners and accepted no excuses.

Jack’s alive! Sean said while passing.

Jack’s alive! Chris gasped, passing it to Jack.

Jack’s alive! Jack said, handing it to Seth.

After several more passes, Seth, seeing glowing embers about to die, refused to take the stick. The critical second passed, and it faded to black. Seth laughed as he pointed at Jack.

It’s out! You lose.

No fair, you didn’t take it.

Hell no! Jack Ass!

Shut up!

Hey, boys, calm down and resolve this peacefully. You know the rules!

Blake watched as members of his Boy Scout Troop tried to find a resolution to this disagreement. The goal of the trip, funded by a large corporation that owned land on and around the lake, would allow young campers to learn about compromise and fair play, while discovering the beauty and serenity of nature within the great outdoors.

As a Scout Leader, Blake assumed the position of low man on the totem pole amongst his adult peers. He possessed all of the necessary camping qualifications and certificates but lacked the over-the-top gung-ho dedication exhibited by other leaders. His campers liked him for these reasons—he did not discipline them as harshly as others. Rather than jump in and force his authority, Blake preferred to let campers resolve issues amongst themselves. If things got out of hand, he would intervene. Senior Scout leaders saw Blake as a bookish and nerdy counselor who lived mostly inside his head and would be the first to admit being socially out of touch. He had no wife or girlfriend and disliked watching TV, preferring to curl up with a good fantasy novel.

Four boys focused on Blake and anticipated his next move. The wind from the lake picked up slightly, blowing leaves off of the trees; one danced above the flames and quickly sizzled in suspended animation. Gatherings of pine needles swept from the edge of the lake toward the fire, searing in the heat. A skunk with its tail aimed high could have walked by, and no one would have seen.

Well, Blake began with drama, Jack is clearly dead. He died in the hands of a camper named Jack. Jack, you killed Jack!

The others laughed, with Seth eagerly awaiting the punishment. When the two boys met a few days ago, Jack immediately felt that Seth didn’t like him. By the fire, Seth pushed Jack hard, but he did not budge. Not an inch.

Come on, Blake. Jack in the Box lost!

You cheated!

Jack pushed Seth back. The tall bully with a thin frame fell hard to the ground, surprised by Jack’s strength.

Seth spat out: You jerk! I’m gonna get you for that!

Blake loudly clapped his hands. That’s it! No more threats or shoving!

Seth stared into the fire, savoring the orange glow and his enmity for Jack. He smiled when he heard Blake’s next words.

Okay, Jack. Time for your punishment.

Jack decided to show them what it meant to play a game with honor and accept the consequences of even false defeat. How bad could it be?

Young Jack Kamping was an average nine-year-old. Not too big or too small, with straight dark hair parted to one side and deep brown eyes, like those of a hawk. At this age, there were no unique features to set him apart from his peers, and he was not overly popular in school. Jack did his homework on time, raised his hand when he knew the answers in class, and was considered a model student by his teachers. His only resentment was directed toward his parents, for naming him Jack. My nursery rhyme curse!

Only one thing brought Jack fulfillment—being in the fresh and exotic woods where he excelled from the first day he pitched a tent. As a young boy, he thrived on living in the moment, aware of his unique skills to seize command of any situation. Camping provided him with peaceful time to forget about his lowly and lonely place in the world. He felt a connection with every natural element: the whispers of the wind through the trees, water lapping the shore, birds singing, and owls hooting. Not to mention the smells. He loved the aroma of pure air that did not exist in concrete city jungles.

Blake Harrison checked the end of the stick that had cooled down and turned it around like a pencil. Using the light from the fire, he etched a mustache onto Jack’s upper lip with the charcoal end. Jack remained still as his counselor added an optional dirty beard to complete the punishment.

All done, Jack.

Seth laughed. Jack is dead! Jack is dead!

The entirety of the woods had heard the calamity of human interaction. Creatures of the night, save for one watchful owl, couldn’t have cared less about some boy named Jack, and even less about a bully named Seth. In other parts of the woods, where large black bears lived, they would care enough to scare the crap out of them.

* * *

Two tents faced the lake with the dwindling fire in between—a single-man tent for Blake and a large four-man design for the boys to develop social skills and resolve whatever disputes arose. Tucked into sleeping bags of different colors, black, blue, and red, each boy occupied a corner of the yellow tent. On their backs, they gazed up at the nylon ceiling, seeing the ominous silhouettes of dancing trees fed by a faded glow of a half moon. In the solitude of his bag, Jack poured canteen water onto a rag to wash the charcoal grime off of his face.

The two best friends, Chris and Sean, remained quiet, wisely not taking sides in this war. They felt uncomfortable in the outdoors, especially when sleeping on the bumpy ground. Their fathers had wanted to toughen them up and had forced them to join the Boy Scouts for adventures in the wild.

For reasons Seth would never come to understand, he would look at someone for the first time and decide on the spot whether he liked them or not. Something about the way they looked, or talked, or walked would determine the outcome. Being mean gave him the attention he craved and power to act like the boss. From his bag in the tent, he continued taunting.

A charcoal face is nothing. There are far more dangerous things that could happen to you in the woods.

Chris tried to hide his fear by sounding brave. Oh yeah? Well, what do you know?

Plenty. Like how to survive ‘The Purple Bishop!’

The what?

But you guys will be okay. Seth sneered. You don’t need my help to stay alive. Right?

Wiping his chin, Jack said: You got that right!

Go climb your beanstalk, Jack-Hole!

Outside, Blake spent time securing the campsite and preparing to douse the fire as the boys argued nearby. Sizzling embers turned to mush, producing a foreboding texture that scared the kids. Blake brushed his hands free of dirt, his patience dwindling.

From his sleeping bag, Seth sang loudly: Jack Sprat could eat no fat! Jack up the Beanstalk is such a brat! Jack be Nimble just kicked a cat!

Blake snapped, That’s enough!

Seth grinned. Beware of the Bishop, Jack . . .

In a menacing voice that Seth would never admit to being scared of, Jack groaned: Beware the asshole . . .

CHAPTER 2

The next morning four hungry boys worked together to make breakfast and clean the campsite. Crisp air filled their lungs as a calm lake glistened from the rising sun. Jack gazed through the forest of thick pines and beckoning water, always amazed by the picturesque setting of Mother Nature’s prize. In the circular lake, he saw a single island standing alone in the serene water, peaceful and undisturbed by the likes of man, and yet somehow calling out to him. In the center of the island was a collection of tall trees that remained stoic in the light breeze blowing off the lake. Jack hoped a visit to its shores was on the agenda of camping activities for the weekend.

Jack reflected on how his parents had first introduced him to the concept of camping three years ago, after not standing up for himself in a fight over something silly. Camping, they had told their son, provided an escape from the hardships of life at any age. They taught him how nature always gave back to those who were respectful in the woods, and showed him how to deposit food scraps to share with the tiniest of God’s creatures. Whenever Jack returned to civilization, he felt more confident in social situations and would go back to the happy place in his mind among the mighty oaks and babbling brooks.

Later in the afternoon, the boys followed Blake into the woods like the Pied Piper, traversing grown-over paths and stepping over dead trees. Seth pulled back a branch and barely warned Chris as he let it fly. Chris dodged the branch that, nonetheless, slapped him across the face with a cluster of leaves.

Stop it, a-hole!

Blake shook his head over Seth’s antics. Up ahead is our destination, The Bar Swamp.

Jack laughed. Maybe we can have a beer here.

Yeah, Sean added. Make mine a Swampweiser.

Blake moved aside large branches and stepped down the incline to the swamp, keeping his footing on a glaze of moss and mud. As he stood along the edge, he inhaled deeply and gazed up at the clear blue sky, glad for the kept promise of perfect weather. The boys gathered around, wondering about the strange place, not noticing their tennis shoes sinking in mud.

What is it? Chris asked, staring at a lily pad with a white flower blooming in the middle.

Inspired by his latest read, Blake lowered his voice. The bar swamp is a pool of green algae and decaying logs long since felled by the beaver of the damned. This hole in the earth is filled with the muck of waste dredged up from the Mines of Moria deep within Middle Earth. It is the home of the beast known in his native tongue as the Balrog to those who dare speak his name. In this spot, the beast would rise as another name spoken by man. It is a demonic name that I dare not speak. He paused for more daytime drama. The Balrog, with its menacing ability to shroud in darkness and shadow, uses fiery whips and a long sword to cut through stone and metal with one pass. The beast’s overwhelming power is unheard of in the annals of everything!

The boys stared at the muck pond, oblivious of Blake’s love of Tolkien’s tales. Even the great writer would have admired where he went next.

Are you hearing me, boys?

Seth laughed. Oh, you must be talking about what happened to Jack after the beans last night.

Blake yelled to the swamp: Do you hear me now, you God-awful, demonic wizard known as . . . THE PURPLE BISHOP! He turned sharply toward the boys with his hands raised to grab them from thin air. Chris and Sean fell as they tried to back up the incline. Seth cringed and nearly peed his pants with the thought of Blake being the Purple Bishop.

Jack laughed. That was so cool! He had heard many ghost stories, and this one, improvised in the sunny afternoon, ranked pretty high on the cool meter.

For a moment, they listened to a strange sound gurgle forth as a Balrog-turned-Bishop prepared to answer the invocation and bring forth the demon creature. Blake wondered what he might have just conjured as if uttering the never-to-be-spoken syllables from the Book of the Dead. They noticed a strange quiet in their hidden world like a calm before the storm.

Their ears tuned in as the beast piped forth four syllables: Ribbit. Ribbit.

The grotesque creature, their nemesis from the depths, sat on a log close enough to lunge its tongue forward and snap them from thin air. Tension-releasing laughter followed gasps of relief. Chris and Sean stood, brushing their pants, not wanting to look more foolish than they felt. Seth snapped out of his daze, headstrong as ever.

So, let’s catch him. You brought a net, right?

Blake removed a net from his pack, knowing who among them would do the deed. Stay still, and you might see turtles basking in the sun. There’s one. He pointed.

But all eyes were focused on the fat bullfrog that hardly looked the color purple or a Bishop, whatever those things were.

Blake, what’s a Bishop? Chris said.

And why is it purple? his friend asked.

This big guy, the bishop of the swamp, would be quite yummy for dinner. The boys gasped—eech, sick, nasty, no way! Okay, Jack. Take the net. Step carefully.

A dead tree that he stepped on sank past layers of decay in a slow transformation into fossil fuel.

Just get the net around him, Jack.

Got it.

Jack’s sneakers reliably grabbed remnants of bark. His thoughts raced with images of a purple Balrog in kingly fashion springing forth like a killer whale, diving deep with boy food for an army of Orcs. Overhead, the watchful owl’s curiosity for Jack increased with each step and decided that, although he would kill small animals for food, he was not a bully. Elvis of the Tree passed the time with a tiny mouse digesting in his belly and a front row seat to the