Campfire Tales

"So, you two actually believe all that garbage about the old ghost town?" His voice dripped with derision. "The floating apparitions? The phantom gunshots at midnight? The screams that echo from nowhere?"

Karen pulled her jacket tighter, her face pale in the sodium light. "My grandmother saw something out there, John. She won't even drive past the entrance road anymore."

"They're all true," I added, my voice steadier than I felt. The ghost town had a reputation that stretched back over a century, a place where even the bravest locals refused to venture after sunset. "Everyone in town knows it. There's a reason the road's been closed for thirty years."

John laughed, a harsh sound that seemed too loud in the quiet street. "These stories are just a bunch of made-up garbage to keep nosy people from vandalizing the old town. It's probably just some historical society's scam to maintain the property value of their precious ruins."

The challenge hung in the air between us like a dare. I felt something stir in my chest—pride, maybe, or foolishness. "Well, if it's not true, then why don't all of us camp out tonight at the ghost town and put these old stories to rest once and for all?"

Karen's eyes widened. "Mike, are you serious?"

"Completely." I turned to John. "Unless you're scared?"

His jaw tightened. "Fine. Let's do this. I'll prove to both of you that you've been buying into local folklore nonsense."

The plan came together quickly, perhaps too quickly. I would grab my tent and some blankets from my garage. Karen volunteered to bring food and flashlights, though her voice trembled slightly as she spoke. John said he would bring firewood, beer, and his guitar—always the performer, even when heading into potential danger.

We agreed to meet back at my house in an hour. As I walked home alone, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were making a terrible mistake. The ghost town had been abandoned in 1887 after a series of violent deaths had driven the remaining residents away in terror. My own great-great-grandfather had been one of the survivors, and according to family legend, he'd never spoken a word about what he'd witnessed there during his final night in town.

An hour later, my rusty sedan was packed with supplies. Karen sat in the passenger seat, nervously checking her phone every few seconds. John sprawled in the back, his guitar case beside him and a twelve-pack of beer at his feet. The dashboard clock read 11:47 PM—thirteen minutes until Halloween officially ended.

"Last chance to back out," I said, my hands gripping the steering wheel.

"Just drive," John muttered.

The paved roads gave way to gravel, then to dirt as we left the town limits behind. The headlights carved a tunnel through the darkness, illuminating twisted trees that seemed to lean toward us with gnarled, reaching branches. The radio had lost its signal miles back, leaving us in oppressive silence broken only by the crunch of tires on the deteriorating road.

John started strumming his guitar, and we all sang along—old rock songs, pop hits, anything to fill the suffocating quiet. For a moment, I could almost forget where we were headed. We were three friends on an adventure, young, alive, and invincible.

Then Karen screamed.

"Slow down!"

My foot slammed the brake pedal. The car fishtailed, tires shrieking as we skidded to a stop. There, impossibly still in the middle of the road, was a figure on horseback.

The horse was massive, black as coal, with eyes that reflected our headlights in an unnatural crimson gleam. The rider sat perfectly motionless, one hand holding the reins, the other resting on what appeared to be a rope coiled at his saddle. His face was hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, but I could feel his gaze boring into us like ice picks.