Camp Murderface by Josh Berk, Saundra Mitchell
English | 2020 | Children/Young Adult | ePUB | 2.9 MB
Summer camp turns sinister in Camp Murderface, a spooky middle grade read perfect for fans of scare masters like R.L. Stine and Christopher Pike.
The year: 1983. The place: Ohio. The camp: Scary as heck.
Camp Sweetwater is finally reopening, three decades after it mysteriously shut down. Campers Corryn Quinn and Tez Jones have each had more than enough of their regular lives-they’re so ready to take their summer at Sweetwater by storm.
But before they can so much as toast one marshmallow, strange happenings start…happening. Can they survive the summer? Or will Camp Sweetwater shut down for good this time-with them inside?
All the kids going to Camp Sweetwater got dropped off at the rest stop parking lot. We stood around trying to look cool while we waited for the camp transport to roll in. It was wall-to-wall kids and parents and weepy goodbyes, so there was no cool.
There were little baby primary kids, and in-between kids like me, and teenagers, like that guy with the almost mustache. I don’t know who he’s kidding. It’s going to take him fifty years to turn that thing into a Tom Selleck.
Five buses, badly painted white and squeaking like no tomorrow, trundled into the parking lot. Somebody has stenciled CAMP SWEETWATER on the sides in red. The paint had run, leaving the words dripping down the sides like blood.
I tried to point this out to my parents, but they were too busy making sure I had plenty of underwear and suntan lotion and pretending to be totally, completely, absolutely not about to break up our home. Well, whatever happens, at least I’ll have custody of Elliot.
Counselors poured off the buses and sorted us by grade. After granting us one last farewell, they herded us into our sketchy rides in grade order.
The lineup is simple: two buses each of little kids and middles, and one for the teens. When I jump into my seat, it pukes up crumbly, gritty foam. Awesome.
The road to camp twists its way through the trees, and it feels too narrow for the bus. The bus bounces and rattles and shakes like we’re driving over the surface of the moon. What kind of shocks are on this thing? The noise shakes up the swarm of butterflies in my stomach.
I don’t know anybody here and I don’t think anyone else does, either. It’s weirdly quiet. Not like going to school, where people trade seats and lean over to talk and throw stuff when the driver’s not looking. Here, we mostly stare at each other, then look away real fast.
A couple kids seem like they’re just barely holding back tears. There’s a girl with a huge cliff of bangs towering over her forehead, a style my dad calls “case of hairspray.” She’s scribbling furiously on some stationery. Is she writing a letter to the people she just saw twenty minutes ago?
There’s a boy with dark hair and dark eyes and a big smile, nose in a book, reading intently like there is going to be a test. Is there going to be a test? I try to sneak a glance at the cover but get interrupted.
A very tall teenage girl—one of the counselors, judging by the name tag on her Cure T-shirt—hops up and starts shouting at us from the front of the bus. She has a megaphone, like a cheerleader would use.
“Right, then,” she says in a heavy British accent. She sounds like a lady in a James Bond movie. I figure she’s doing a funny voice so I shout back “Right!” in my own British accent. Unfortunately, I’m the only one who does. My cheeks burn a little. Whatever.
She continues. “My name is Mary, innit? And some of you lot are lucky enough to have me as your counselor for the next nine weeks. I know I look like a sweetheart . . .”