I am writing this down because Henry, Mike, John (and Victor at the time) and I swear it happened but no one will believe us. It is Saturday, the 3rd of March 2012, and it is 11:10 p.m. as I write this. We are on Church camp, and as we have done for the last two years, last night we went for our night walk. However, this year, since we’ve come to a different campsite, we weren’t familiar with the walking track. Even less so in the pitch black. It’s pretty cold, so we were all wearing warm clothes and beanies and stuff, and we all own torches – Mike and I even have head torches that look like something a coal miner or James Bond would wear. Or maybe if James Bond needed to explore a coal mine he’d wear one. That’d be badass. So firstly, we had to get permission from all our parents because we’re all between 11 and 14 years old, but that’s ok because since we’re all together they’re ok with us going out, and with the torches it’s pretty safe. We met outside my cabin, because it’s the one closest to the tree line. The trees are like not even fifty metres away.
We went in, laughing and making spooky noises and sneaking up on each other, for like the first one hundred metres or so. By then you really couldn’t see the entrance at all. Just forest. Everywhere. It was wide enough for us all to walk side-by-side (my friend says this is called ‘abreast’, but that sounds like ‘arrest’ so I prefer side-by-side), but since it was getting a tiny bit spooky for real we were all in a fairly tight circle. No one would have said it cos we’re boys, but the calming sounds you hear in the forest during the day are terrifying at night. We soon came up on the first landmark. The shed – if you could call it that. It looked like it could have been a cabin that camp activities were run from, but like no less than five years ago. It was rusty, the corrugated iron roof had dents and holes and there were sprouts of plants where dirt had accumulated. There was an equally rusty metal bin out the front of it, and some like damp splintered wooden beams. I was getting tetanus just looking at it.
A rustle.
We all froze. We all made eye contact, and slowly one of us dared to speak.
“Did you hear that…?” John asked.
“Hear what?” Henry teased, but I’m sure he was getting on edge.
We continued on, pressing deeper into the tall mess of trees. Stumps and fallen branches were poking out everywhere, and the whole floor of the forest was leaves. Victor pointed out a wire stretching out above our heads. Mike suggested it might belong to the old flying fox that they used to have. We all decided to find where that wire started. Luckily, the track seemed to mostly follow the wire, a few times being hidden by leaves and tricky bits where the path was almost totally grown over by scrub and brush. A few times, one of us would feel bushes or twigs brush against an ankle and jump like a metre into the air and shout briefly. It happened to each of us pretty much, but we’d all have a go at whoever got frightened.
We found the start of the flying fox. Clearly hadn’t been used in years. The thing looked like it might collapse if one of us climbed onto it. Rotted wood didn’t instil any of us with confidence. Henry thought he saw a break in the trees. We thought he was wrong, finding clearing that deep in the forest. We followed him though, and sure enough there was this enormous plain, like four hundred metres wide and about one hundred and fifty deep. It had a wood and wire fence, and the piles of dung every square metre (I’m not kidding) suggested to us that animals grazed there. Probably private land. That is, outside of the bounds of the camp, where I assume we would not be allowed to go.
Obviously, we leaped the fence. If the forest was spooky, the plain was eerie. It was so quiet without the ubiquitous rustling of trees, and we felt like the animals whose home this land might be might not like us barging in and bowl us over. Luckily, they didn’t. As it turned out, the dung was more of a concern. It took serious focus and ninja torch-work not to step in it. We were almost about to turn back when we saw an open gate, nearly hidden, not thirty metres away. Naturally, Henry put the first foot forward and we were off. Now, I think I wasn’t alone in this, but I was very aware of just how deep into the forest we were. We were quite a way from home. The stakes were getting higher. What stakes, you might ask?
That’s when we saw the scarf.
Some teacher once told me that the principle of a horror movie is that people are terrified by things being out of place. So rustling trees aren’t that scary, because you expect them. Dancing shadows are a little spooky, but you know there’s nothing there that wasn’t there in the light. Hell, even trespassing wasn’t that scary. But this scarf was out of place.
“What’s that on the gate?” Victor said it first.
“Is that a cloth?” John had just caught up. Henry and Mike were closest.
“No, it’s a Bombers scarf.” Henry got it in one.
“Ok that’s weird.” I remember saying.
“Reckon we should check it out?” Henry was already approaching.
“Nah guys like we’ve already gone way out of where we’re allowed to.” I was not keen.
All at once we heard it. A deep, persistent growl. And it was close. Without a word, we shot off back to the plain. I was running full tilt. I remember I could barely even see if the ground I was running on was level – any large roots or rocks then would have spent me spinning off into a tree. Hurts me to think what might have happened to me.
“F**k can you still hear it?” John yelled.
“I dunno just run!” I called back. We reached the plain. That was quite a relief, at least that way we’d see the terrifying beast coming.
“Did anyone see it?” Henry was asking.
“No I just heard it.” I replied.
“Same.” Mike pitched in. We were still running, but slower now, just for good measure. We reached the fence. We each leapt it and felt somewhat confident that we were no longer being followed.
“Hey guys,” there was a tone of caution in John’s voice, “where’s Victor?”
I created this piece for an assignment, and (though not classified as non-fiction) it is an authentic representation of a memory from years ago.
Distilled Orthopraxy 