BOY SCOUT CAMP

Looking back, I remember that the Russians started the space race with Sputnik, Elvis Presley topped the music chart with his song ‘All Shook Up,’ Dwight D. Eisenhower was our president, Gunsmoke was the most popular TV show, desegregation started in Little Rock, Arkansas, and Dr. Seuss’s ‘Cat in the Hat’ was on our three-cent postage stamp. The year was 1957, and I was twelve years old.

My name is Liam. I grew up in the small, rural town of Mane, N.Y., within Broom County. Mane was a peaceful place to grow up, but kids need thrills, excitement, and competition to add spice to their lives. However, this spice was mostly absent; no outdoor basketball courts, the school had the only baseball diamond in town, no football field, no movie theaters.

In the summer of that year, Mr. Steiner, the Boy Scout troop leader, along with Mr. Bradley, the assistant troop leader, announced that they were working on a weekend camping trip for mid- or late October. They asked the troop how many of them would be interested in such a camping trip to the Tuscarora Boy Scout Camp, located on Lake Summit, near the town of Windsar, N.Y. Most of us were excited, so about a dozen of us raised our hands to indicate that we wanted to go. We were told that we would be kept informed and would return to that subject as October approached.

For the remainder of the summer, we earned merit badges for skills such as: cooking, knot tying, fire making without matches, tracking, water purification, how to use a wristwatch as a compass, edible plants, physical fitness, first aid, self-defense pressure points combined with ‘stranger danger’ and how to make a Dakota campfire. Many of us, including me, chose to concentrate on fire making, tracking, survival skills in the forest, use of the compass and map, and physical fitness. Eventually, however, we would learn the other skills if we wanted to earn merit badges that would be sewn onto our uniform sashes to show which skills we had completed satisfactorily. At that time, we wore tan colored shirts (short and long sleeves, depending on the weather) with dull green shorts or pants with a blue web belt and a silver or gold belt buckle. A green or tan baseball-type cap was an individual choice. Sneakers were our footwear. We had one consistent contrarian named Roy who continuously wore red socks to get attention and to be a frustrating rebel to the scout leaders. He got away with it, I suppose, because the scout leaders thought they might be able to change some of his negative behavior with their guidance as well as the peer pressure from the other scouts. Our neckerchief was a dull yellow and our neckerchief slide was either silver or gold in color.

A few of us boys felt self-conscious wearing shorts because of our skinny legs, especially me. Even my older sister, Fran, teased me with bugged-out eyes and, a smirk, and sometimes, with outrageous laughter when teasing me about my legs. Often, when I wore my Boy Scout shorts, she’d cover her mouth with one hand as if she was shocked, then point to my legs with the other hand, then say, “Geez! Look at those legs. I’ve seen better looking, skinny, white bones in a fish,” or, if we were alone, she’d tease me about the fridged winter wind going up my pants and creating a couple of ice cubes, or that my legs were like toothpicks that were stuck into a marshmallow.”

At some troop meetings, Roy, the oldest and biggest scout at 13 years old, would brag that his shorts weren’t long enough to hide his weenie. If a few of us were alone, he’d put his hand down his shorts, stick out a finger from his zipper, and wiggle it around, whispering, “See what I mean?” It was difficult to ignore him as our troop clown and bully. He got so much laughter that the following week he brought a carrot and pushed the thick end down his shorts and out of his zipper. Then he’d wiggle it up and down and side to side. I must admit, that was hilarious. We were all laughing so hard that we didn’t hear or see Mr. Bradley’s short, pudgy body approaching us until it was almost too late. Luckily, he was approaching from the back of us. Roy nearly got caught but he was fast and corrected his nastiness a couple of seconds before Mr. Bradley arrived. Mr. Bradley suspiciously peered over Roy’s shoulder expecting to find some sort of misbehavior but found none. Roy brazenly turned, faced him, and said, “Just having a snack. Does your fat caterpillar want a bite?” He was referring to Mr. Bradley’s thick, bushy mustache. Roy ate what remained of the carrot along with a wide but fake grin, as he chomped on his open mouthful of carrot. His teeth, normally, were almost always a diluted black color caused by licorice gumdrops that he chewed a lot. The carrot chewing and saliva were washing away the licorice coloring on his teeth while his tongue was orange. Black and orange, just right for Halloween. Roy could be a funny guy, but mostly he was a mean braggard who used sarcastic humor as a weapon. Brad, another good friend of mine, often said that Roy’s the best at all he does, and all he does is brag.

In late September, the subject of the fall camping trip returned with more clarity and detail. We still only had a dozen guys who wanted to go on a middle of October weekend camping trip.

 Permission slips were passed out, plus a reminder list of things we would need. We all secretly hoped that Roy couldn’t come, but our hopes were dashed when he handed in a permission slip with the genuine signature of his dad. But Mr. Steiner still called his dad to verify the permission slip.

Naturally, the group of us was rowdy and probably would have gotten in some mischief if it weren’t for Paul, who was a new scout and one that Bruce, Brad, and I befriended. Paul shouted, “Hey guys’ listen to me. Before I moved to Mane, I lived in Windsar for a little over a year. For kids, it’s even more boring than Mane, except for the disappearances of some of the town’s teenaged kids over the last couple of decades.”

Even though Roy began to boo him, Paul told a story of suspicious occurrences at this Boy Scout Camp’s forests but, so far, not to boy scouts. The whole town talked about this oddity of kids disappearing over the last twenty or thirty years. The town police, state police, and even one investigation by the F.B.I. had investigated, concluding with negative results.

 Paul was a good storyteller, so he soon had us feeling spooked because these occurrences happened to mostly teenage kids, though it did happen to one adult male hunter who must have been illegally hunting at night. The odd thing is that they only occurred during the New Moon, or Black Moon, as it’s sometimes called. It didn’t hurt that Halloween was at the end of the month, when monsters, demons, witches, and ghosts come to mind. “The Boy Scout Camping Reservation is huge, “Paul added, “It’s hundreds of acres of mostly untouched forests lying at the foothills of the Catskill Mountains. During those investigations, the Boy Scout camp was shut down temporarily, but nothing was ever found to indicate what had happened. No disappearances have occurred in a few years, which is why the camp has reopened for all scout troops for miles in the surrounding areas.”

This information from Paul was told in such a frightful way that some of us felt a chill running along our spines. Paul was normally shy, quiet, introverted and had few friends except for those in our troop. Paul turned into an actor with wonderful exaggeration skills. However, Paul was so helpful when it came to assisting others earn their merit badges that a group of us wouldn’t let Roy get near him at our scout meetings. Unfortunately, we couldn’t protect him in school where Roy called him a runt, four-eyes, baby, and sissy. Roy was the biggest troop member. He tried to pick on Paul every week and always made derogatory remarks about Paul’s short, skinny, and weak-looking stature. Roy’s verbal abuse was always countered by one or more of us embarrassing him making fun of his having to repeat a grade in school and reminding Roy that Paul was smart, having better grades than all of us. Troop meetings became a safe zone for Paul. We even walked him home when his parents couldn’t pick him up from our meetings. Most of us liked and enjoyed Paul because he was the opposite of Roy.

When Paul finished the scary story, there was a lot of cheering and laughter. Roy just held up his middle finger and said, “Sit on this, you four-eyed runt.” Then as was his habit, he popped a black licorice gumdrop in his mouth.

To tease Roy at meetings, if he got near us, we’d wave our hands in front of our noses and tell him to stay away so his caustic bad breath and body odor wouldn’t melt us. That’s when, after a couple of months of teasing, he took us seriously and started chewing CROWS black licorice gumdrops. So now he could no longer sneak up on anybody. The smell of black licorice gave him away. He almost always had a box of them in his pocket. It was easy to see the rectangular shape of the CROWS box through the pants material. Some of the guys, when they detected Roy approaching them, would say, “Caw, caw, caw,” then flap their arms as if they were wings. He never commented, or in any way acknowledged that kind of teasing.

After arriving at the scout camp early Friday evening, and before lunch, we located our shelters. The front of each log shelter was open, no wall, and of each shelter faced the center, where the main meeting area  which is where the scout leaders would have the camp’s primary campfire. There were fire pits for individual campfires, also. The shelters were all the same size, about twelve feet long with the two sides being about eight feet long each, so the depth was also eight feet. Each shelter had two bunk beds along the back wall enabling four scouts to sleep in one shelter. The four beds were made of wooden posts and poles. Each bed was fitted with tough, thick, canvas sheets for mattresses that were fitted tightly to the bed frame.

My closest friend was Bruce (we called him ‘Itch’ from the time he got the hives and itched for days). Bruce and I lived next door to each other, which made it easy for us to become quick friends when I moved there. We played hundreds of ping-pong games, never seeming to tire until we became soaked in our sweat and needed water, or until we got bored and thought of something else to do.

Each school day we walked together to our Ralph Engulls Middle School. We’d meet with another close friend named Brad, who lived a few houses away and we’d walk to school as if the three of us were the invincible Three Musketeers who tried to out-do each other with jokes, especially fart jokes, like, ‘Did you fart? No. that was my butt blowing a kiss to you. What do you call a smart girl who won’t fart in public? A private tutor. What kind of farts smell like worms? Bird farts.’ As we got older, the dirty jokes got much worse, disgusting, but much fun. We also decided to name our close group the Nads so when we cheered each other we could yell, “Go Nads,” and get away with it.

 Our school was only a short distance away from our homes. Five minutes up the street, we would turn the corner, see its red brick structure, and white wooden trim, as well as two white pillars that framed the front doorway. At this point we were no longer in our giddy mood as the jokes stopped and the complaining began. We compared school to a haunted house, where the teachers were ghosts, and we were chained to the dungeon walls and force-fed unsavory and useless academic lessons. If we showed a modicum of self-discipline, however, we got to eat lunch unchained. Gym class was a relief, especially on sunny days where we got to run, shout, play, but in an organized way, such as baseball, track, soccer, or basketball. Lunch and gym were our favorite parts of the school day, or course.

Anyway, back to the scout camp shelters. We invited Paul to our shelter and the four of us unpacked our supplies, and made our bunk bed by throwing a sleeping bag over the canvas, then we walked around the area to see what was and wasn’t there. The outhouse was a treat. Putting your naked butt hole over a hole in a wooden board was proof that God had a shitty sense of humor. Just opening the outhouse door could make a person vomit. Holding your breath while pooping is not an easy thing to do either, especially if you’re constipated. Listening to a solid turd splash into the semi-liquid shit slush was also a thrill. It was because it became the subject of many jokes and vulgar laughter. Those raunchy joke sessions became so vivid in our minds that, when telling our turd jokes, we often squeezed our noses shut to avoid the putrid, odiferous memory while still giving our mouths a chance to laugh.

That night, Paul was quietly looking around the camp as if expecting a rabid King Kong to jump out at us. He was a superstitious geek, but a nice one; helpful and friendly. Paul turned to look at us as we explored the camp area and said, “Hey. You all know today is Friday the thirteenth? A bad omen, maybe?”

“So what?” responded Bruce. “Geez, Paul. How many superstitions do you believe in? You're still the cannibal who eats the body and blood of Christ in church. Yummy, huh? Sorry,” Bruce apologized, “that wasn’t a nice thing to say.”

We all looked at Paul, wondering what he was getting at. He paused and said, “ Damn. I never thought that being forgiven for my sins with a tasteless white wafer could be interpreted that way. It’s funny, though. Anyway, what do you think about Friday, the thirteenth?

“Yeah, I know it sounds silly, but you know what else? Look up at the sky and try to find the moon. The New Moon will cause the sky to be the darkest night in a month, and that’s tomorrow night. You won’t be able to see the New Moon against the black sky. Those two events happening together are not just a coincidence. It’s extremely rare and precedes unpleasant events going back to ancient times and astronomers’ records.”

We all looked up at the sky again. The moon was a slight sliver in the sky as if a fingernail had been cut too close to the skin. There was barely any moonlight at all. In a radius of about ten feet from the campfire, there was the blackness of tar, as if there was a wall of tar surrounding us.

That evening, we cooked meals over a campfire with guidance from the scout leaders. Most of the guys brought plenty of hot dogs and dry packs of soup that only needed the addition of water. Snacks were the most plentiful of all, though fruit snacks like apples were rarely seen. This certainly wasn’t intended as a survival weekend of living off the land.

I brought extra boxes of dry Lipton’s Soup packets, plus extra noodles to add more substance to the liquid. My secret ingredient was a suggestion from my mom: garlic salt. We all shared food, traded food for variety.

As the evening progressed, we felt the added chill, so most of us replaced our light jackets with heavier coats, even wool caps. It wasn’t cold enough to think of wearing gloves. Sitting around the fire kept our hands warm.

Suddenly, Mr. Steiner’s tall, skinny body, with a balding head, rose from his sitting position. He said, “Mr. Bradley and I know something that you will find unique, helpful and yet, unbelievable.” The entire group was silenced by his statement, except for Roy who said, “Here comes more bullshit,” as he coughed to cover up what he had said. He was ignored.

“As you’ve noticed, the nights are getting cool, but not cold yet until the middle of the night. Since we don’t have a thermometer, we’ll measure the temperature by Dolbear’s Law. And this is no bullshit.” He looked at Roy. This formula was substantiated by the U.S. Department of Agriculture.” Suspicion splashed across most of the kids’ faces like a wave of water. “I know, I know. It does sound like bull poop, but it gives a surprisingly accurate measurement of the current temperature. Dolbear’s Law states that you can tell the approximate outdoor temperature of the air around you by adding the number forty to the number of cricket chirps that you hear in fifteen seconds. Let’s test it, OK.” Excited cheers could be heard. “I’ll time fifteen seconds,” Mr. Steiner said as he looked down at his wristwatch. As he counted the seconds, he slid his coat sleeve up. I thought, damn, that’s a lot of black hair. The next thing I thought of was a Werewolf. But I silently laughed and didn’t embarrass myself by commenting on it to the guys.

Fifteen seconds later he looked up and said. “How many chirps?” Multiple answers shot out of excited mouths. The first numbers mentioned were 15, 17, 22, and 20, plus a variety of other numerical responses. Counted, “Let’s take the 15, 17, 20 and 22 chirps, add them, then divide by 4 to find the average.”

“Got the answer figured out!” He had figured it out in his head. Paul yelled with his hand raised. “That’s 74 divided by 4 which equals a tad bit over 18.”

“So according to that, the temperature right now, not near the campfire is what?” Mr. Steiner asked.

Excitedly, several answers were blurted out. “It should be 58 degrees right now at our campsite.”

Mr. Bradley said to Mr. Steiner, “I brought a thermometer. I’ll get it from my pack.”

Mr. Bradley ran to his pack and returned quickly with his mercury thermometer. He sat and looked at it.

“What’s it say?” was shouted over and over.

Mr. Bradley held up his hand. “Wait a minute. I can’t hold it, or it’ll read my body temperature. I’ll set it down here for five minutes, then read it to you.”

Roy was sitting in the back of everyone else who sat in a circle around the campfire. He couldn’t help himself. He rose on his knees to peer over his troop mates, his eyes sending laser beams to the thermometer.

The scouts had mice in their pants, not ants, because they were flopping around and bumping into each other with excitement. For those five minutes, they simply couldn’t sit still and started scootching forward inch by inch so they could see the thermometer better.

When five minutes were up Mr. Bradley asked Paul to read the thermometer without touching it. Paul’s flashlight beam was shined on the thermometer. Paul bent over reading it carefully. He straightened up with a broad smile and yelled, “It says the temperature is 56 degrees.”

Some kids were puzzled. “What about our figure of 58 degrees?” an anonymous voice stated.

Mr. Bradley answered, “There are no exact measurements to this formula. The temperatures are always approximate, close to the real temperature, but not the same.”

“That’s still pretty cool,” Bruce said with a laugh at his pun.

“Let’s eat,” several voices shouted in unison.

Amongst the four of us, hotdogs, buns, ketchup, and mustard were the most popular and easy to prepare by penetrating them, lengthwise with a thin but flexible green stick that would not catch on fire. I had a lot of soup simmering. It didn’t matter whether we ate it or not, it would be available the next day, Saturday. I wanted to added more noodles, so I walked to our bunk bed shelter. I was amazed at the number of snacks that the other guys brought. They looked like a sugar overdose for mischief makers. I returned with a handful of those wide, wavy kinds of noodles and dropped them into the simmering soup.

When I returned to my place, sitting on a stump, I saw elongated noodles sticking to my seat. They were limp and looked like menacingly long maggots that were steaming. The guys looked at me, not knowing what I would say or do. It had to be a prank from Roy. I turned to peer at the circle of bodies surrounding the campfire. When I spotted Roy, he burst out in uncontained laughter, black spit spraying from his big mouth. There were many giggles around the fire, but when I said, “Wow! That one (I pointed to a noodle) looks exactly like Roy’s limp dick. You know what I mean guys. The way his dick hangs during a hot shower like a scared baby snake quivering while hiding in the bush.”

Mr. Steiner looked at me and shook his head side to side admonishing me for my needless comment.

Roy’s face looked the color of a stop light at a dark intersection. His eyes squinted as if the stare could cut like a laser, then he bared his teeth in an angry grimace. We all heard him grunt, then snarl. But then his whole body froze as he heard the hilarious laughter coming from all of us, even our scout leaders, though they tried to hide their laughter with a hand over their mouths while looking at the ground.

When the uproar ended, Mr. Stiener offered a distraction by asking, “Does anybody notice the New Moon and how particularly dark the sky is?”

Everyone looked up into the dark sky. No one seemed to care much about it though. I knew that Paul did, but he was too shy to say anything to the group.

“Well guys, the New Moon is a black moon that’s getting ready to start a new cycle of phases. It looks like an eclipsed moon, so black against the black sky that it’s hardly visible. In ancient history, astrologers said that the New Moon represented fertility and unusual growth following a period of dormancy for some species of plant life, though it only lasted a few days, then would go through all its phases again until it became another New Moon.” Mr. Stiener observed all the bland faces and knew we were not interested. He looked at Mr. Bradley and shrugged his shoulders.

Mr. Bradley was another good storyteller. He leaned forward, eyes bugging out, and started talking in a deep-throated and ominous whisper. He told scary stories of past legends full of ghosts, aliens, and creepy things that slithered in the night seeking a tender flesh to nibble on. His voice had us mesmerized as it lulled us into silenced fright. Then he got serious and moved away from myth and talked about true stories concerning kids who did disappear in years past, the last one only being a few years ago.

Bruce raised his hand and asked, “Wasn’t one of them that vanished later found in a New York City homeless shelter?”

“Yes, she was. But none of the other victims have ever been heard from or seen again. So, we can’t say that they were all runaways. Some have disappeared right here in these woods and under suspicious circumstances. Shreds of clothing have been found, clumps of hair, some drops of blood, and even articles like medals and watches of the victims have been found. Luckily, it has been a while since the last disappearance, and the authorities believe it has stopped. That’s why this camp was reopened a couple of years ago. Reality can be stranger than fiction, like in the horror magazine Weird Tales.”

“Oh, bullshit!” Roy exclaimed. “You’re just trying to scare us with twisted, exaggerated stories about terrifying ghosties, monsters and creepy crawlers hiding in these woods. It’s just a trick to make sure we don’t go into the woods at night, right?” Roy hawked up some of his constant licorice phlegm and spit the gob into the fire. It sizzled and Roy smirked.

Mr. Steiner paused and stared at Roy, not with meanness, but with the great displeasure of a kind authority figure. Meanwhile, the rest of us much preferred Roy’s rare humor to his arrogance and meanness. We boys considered Roy to be a ‘lost cause’ long before the scout leaders did.

“Roy, you tend to insult, agitate, and dampen an enjoyable time. Say what you want when you are not in a Boy Scout situation, or you’ll be banned from coming on the next outing that we have.”

I was surprised at Mr. Steiner’s impatience with Roy saying ‘bullshit’ because ‘shit’ and ‘bullshit’ had become common and frequently used words in our everyday language, so Mr. Steiner could have said that to any of us at one time or another. Maybe we were much better behaved when part of his scout troop, or we whispered those words a lot. Mr. Steiner seemed unusually stern, which I think was brought on by his growing impatience with Roy’s negative influences on the positive behaviors of some of the rest of us.

When bedtime came, we dispersed and climbed into our sleeping bags fully clothed. After an hour, I realized that I should have brought two blankets, one to place over the canvas mattress and one over my too-thin sleeping bag. I often woke up chilled, head inside my sleeping bag, and in a fetal position while trying to keep warm.

I woke up long before sunrise and built a fire. I sat close to it, Indian style, so the front of me felt the direct heat. My hands and arms were often over the fire to enjoy the warmth. Later on, Roy joined me sitting so close that it made me feel uncomfortable. He smiled at me, but I tried to ignore him, until his smile broadened, and a raunchy, foul smell encompassed me. I stood up wanting to move. I looked down at him and he laughed, then said, “What? You don’t like my Ninja fart? Silent and deadly, right?” I moved away from him as the smell, like campfire smoke, followed me. He exaggerated his laughter while popping a couple of gumdrops in his mouth, then came and stood close to me.

I heated water in my tin cup, then sipped at it to feel the warmth slide down my throat and plunge into my stomach. I continued to ignore Roy, despite his attempt at throat-clearing and coughing, trying to get me to acknowledge him. I started to smell his licorice and was thankful for the change in the odor. He was still having a one-sided conversation and getting frustrated with heavy breathing and his feet shuffling. I heard him expel air forcefully, then felt the slap across the back of my head. “Do I have your attention now, Mr. Skin and Bones?”

I turned towards him and said, “Yes. You now have my attention.” As I finished that sentence, I threw my cup of water in his face and shouted, “Do I have your attention, asshole?”

Roy started to lunge at me, then suddenly sat back down. I wondered why until I realized that Bruce had walked up behind me, and I was unaware of him until he placed his hand on my shoulder. Bruce was shorter than Roy was, but Bruce was stocky, and muscled, like a compact wrestler. He was the only one of us who could really stand up to Roy physically, though they had never fought.

“You’re God-damned lucky,” Roy said to me. “Good thing your friend has your back and just showed up to save your skinny ass.” Roy rose and walked away, kicking dirt angrily.

To his back I said, “Roy, you could have some friends if you would stop being a part-time bully and a full-time jerk. You can start by not always picking on Paul.”

“Oh, yeah? Make me, you little chicken shit,” Roy shouted, with a spray of saliva shooting out of his mouth like shotgun pellets, then gleaming in the rising sun’s early morning rays. Before he turned and walked away, he flipped up two middle fingers at Bruce and me.

“Look,” I yelled, “Can’t we just call a truce for this camping weekend? It’ll be much more fun for all of us. It’s only the weekend and it’s Saturday already. We’ll be home tomorrow.”

He didn’t turn around to answer me, but I heard him say loudly, “Up yours.”

The bunk beds were now emptying, and the smell of cooking was in the air. I had plenty of soup all warmed up and was willing to share. With no coffee, a cup of soup broth was a delightful substitute, though I smelled Spam and hotdogs cooking on a nearby campfire. Everyone was stuffing their faces so full of food that their cheeks looked like a squirrel with mouthfuls of nuts. Full mouths and loud laughter could never be partners as a few accidental, shotgun food sprays shot mist and food shrapnel into the air. But that caused increased laughter with chunks being rubbed off clothes and faces. We all had to stand away from one another as we talked because most were still laughing spittle. But hilarious laughter suddenly ended when Roy threw some bugs into someone’s frying pan. Mr. Bradley saw it and sent Roy back to his bunk bed. What Mr. Bradley didn’t see was, as Roy walked away from him, Roy grabbed his buttocks through his pants, spread them apart, and blew Mr. Bradley a butt kiss.

Despite his poor behavior, I brought him a cup of soup, but he slapped it out of my hands, spraying the soup over my hand, coat sleeve, and the front of my pants. I was so mad that I didn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that I had been scalded and was in pain. A cold-water cloth relieved the pain.

Roy got in the last word. “It looks as if you pissed your pants, Hot Shot. Just wait ‘til mommy finds out that you still need diapers.”

I had been looking at my wrist when I saw a blur and felt a rush of cool air speed past me. Then I saw Bruce tackle Roy by slamming his head into Roy’s midsection. I heard the oomph sound of a forced exhale of air and a wet, saliva noise as the licorice juice in Roy’s mouth came shooting out and landing in the dirt. Then Bruce made a fist and touched it to Roy’s nose until Roy’s eyes bugged out with fear. Then Bruce got up and we walked away. An appreciative, “Thank you,” rolled off my lips. Bruce smiled and patted me on the shoulder. Remarkably, the scout leaders did not observe this incident or ignored it, but some of the other scouts witnessed it and were spreading the word about Bruce tackling Roy and threatening him with his fist.

A short time later, as we ate I slurped my soup, while Paul, who is easily scared, walked up to me, and whispered over my shoulder, “I’m confused. I thought the comments about these vanishings were to keep us in camp unless accompanied by Mr. Steiner or Mr. Bradley. Do you think the vanishings are true or are they bullshit? Shit! Maybe this place should be condemned. It’s getting spooky around here.”

“I doubt that Mr. Steiner and Mr. Bradley are lying, or even pranking us, but stories or legends that are repeated over and over get changed, especially by exaggerations or simple misinterpretations to make them more interesting or frightening,” I responded in a similar whisper.

Following breakfast and clean-up duties, the day was full of nature studies and survival skills. Mr. Steiner took half the scouts and Mr. Bradley took the remaining half. Luckily, our group of four was with Mr. Steiner and Roy was with Mr. Bradley. None of us usually has that much good luck getting away from Roy. We wouldn’t have to be looking over our shoulders to see what Roy was up to; what distractions or meanness he had in mind. We could tell that Mr. Bradley was not thrilled to have Roy in his group because when he’s angry, he has a habit of pulling at both ends of his mustache, and he was pulling extra hard at it.

Nature studies and survival skills were always fun for us, but seeing a deformed toad was a surprise. You’d think that an extra leg (stump) might be helpful, but the frog dragged itself along the ground making an unusual chirping sound. We were told to ignore it. The squirrel with the rat-like tail sent shivers up some of our spines. Even Mr. Steiner looked puzzled.

Little Joey swore that he saw a two-headed snake, but we all laughed at him. “Not possible,” Brad said through his laughter. “ We didn’t know that Joey could by so funny.” Joey looked hurt as if being told that he was lying.

Mr. Stiener heard us and scratched his head, his eyes shifting around a full 360 degrees. Then, I assume he was trying to distract us from further hurting Joey’s feelings, though that was not intended. Mr. Steiner began the old joking routine about, What Do You Call a Boy Scout who is…

He said, “What do you call a Boy Scout who’s being towed behind a boat?”

“Skip,” we said in a chorus of cheerful voices.

“What do you call a Boy Scout who’s covering up a hole?”

“Phil,” we answered.

“What do you call a Boy Scout who’s sleeping on the porch?”

“Matt,” we laughed.

“What do you call a Boy Scout who hangs from your living room wall?”

“Art,” we said in unison.

“What do you call a Boy Scout who sleeps in the mailbox?”

“Bill.”

“What do you call a Boy Scout who’s floating in a lake?”

“Bob,” we yelled as we strutted along the path.

“What do you call a Boy Scout who’s been out in the sun too long?”

“Wilt,” we shouted as we began to march, knees exaggeratingly high.

“What do you call a Boy Scout who’s shaving for the first time?”

“Nick,” we answered boisterously.

“Not so loud guys,” stated Mr. Steiner. “We don’t want to interfere with other groups who are close to us. So, what do you call a Boy Scout whose been struck by lightning?”

“Rod,” we answered. Paul was laughing so hard that snot blew out of his nose, and he had to wipe in on his sleeve. It looked like a giant, slimy snail-trail.

For added emphasis, Mr. Steiner would pause between jokes as we made remarks, poked, and pushed each other gently. But the jokes stopped when we got near Lake Summit. The beach wasn’t sandy, but rather full of pebbles. Our feet crunched on it as we walked along the lake shore. Mr. Steiner said words like flora and fauna. When we looked puzzled, except for Paul, Mr. Steiner said, “That’s plant and animal life in the region.”

Most of us did not pay too close attention unless survival skills were mentioned. Brad mentioned masturbation and all of us laughed and looked at the palms of our hands. The joke was that, if you have a patch of hair in your dominant hand’s palm, you’ve been masturbating. It was a hush, hush subject with some embarrassment that stuck to it like an animal’s tail. Then I said, “Speaking of masturbation, have you noticed that some days Roy is an extra prick and extra threatening? Well, I have. I think it’s because he may not feel well, or more likely he hasn’t been feeling himself that day. Get it? Not ‘feeling himself’ lately.” Giggles were now plentiful.

We were joking as we walked to Lake Summit. Bruce added, “How long do you think he goes, without doing it? Get it? How long he goes?”

Brad said, “Maybe it’s a stroke of bad luck those days when he can’t get it up. Get if. ‘A stroke?” Hushed laughter surrounded us.

Paul surprised everyone. Our jaws dropped when he said, “Do you think that his favorite meal is beef-stroken-off?” After that surprise joke from what we thought was Mr. Innocent, we all stopped, placed our hands on our knees, and laughed at our silliness. When we caught our breath, we ran to catch up to the group.

Mr. Steiner showed us some edible plants and roots. We separated into four pairs and tried to build a fire the old-fashioned way: the bow-drill method, but none of us was successful, including Mr. Steiner. Then while we were preoccupied, Mr. Steiner stealthily moved so his back was toward us. Nobody paid attention to him until suddenly Jim said, “Wow! Look, guys. Mr. Steiner did it. We went to his fire and asked to see how he did it after failing just as we had. “It was tough. So hard I don’t know if you little people could do it in a million years. It takes incredible skills, fine motor coordination, and perseverance, but I’ll show you.”

We felt as if he was shaming and teasing us, until he reached into his pocket, pulled out a Bic Lighter that had duct tape wrapped around it.

He set up more tinder and kindling wood, then tore a piece of duct tape from the lighter and placed it under the firewood. He lit the tape with his lighter. It burned slowly for a minute or two as it ignited the kindling.

He looked up at us and said, “See? What’d I tell you? You simply don’t have the immense fire making skill that I worked so hard to learn.” He saw our faces collapse, jaws dropping, eyes squinting, and laughed at all of us.

“You cheated,” several of us said.

“Yeah, I know. I never did get the hang of that bow-drill method. So, going camping? Bring a plastic lighter with duct tape wrapped around it and you never have a problem.”

“Well, then, how would you like to learn to build a rabbit snare?”

Most of us jumped for joy and quickly surrounded Mr. Steiner. It was the most fun for the entire day. Bruce whispered, “Hey, that guy is nice. I like what he’s teaching us.”

When we arrived back to camp, Mr. Bradley’s group were also excited. He had shown them how to make a fishing hook out of a soda can tab. He had brought string and tried fishing with a bug stuck on the hook. They got a nibble, but nothing else. Mr. Bradley’s group also learned how to sharpen their dull knives by using a flat stone, or by mixing fine grit mud on a flat surface and sharpening the knife that way. Still, their excitement lingered as ours had. We exchanged group stories around the campfire, enjoying ourselves and our friendships.

There was a problem, however. Apparently, Roy took off by himself and was thought to be lost.

Mr. Bradley said, “What the heck could he have been thinking? But if I were a mind-reader, I’d have to immediately give him a fifty-percent discount.” Then he immediately apologized for his negative comment, despite a couple of guys saying, “You got that right.”

When we were all called together for a meeting about Roy being missing, someone yelled. “No problem. Just follow the smell of his licorice.”

But search parties were being formed until he stepped into the camp clearing and laughed while pointing at everyone. Mr. Steiner and Mr. Bradley were angry, faces red and eyes glaring at Roy.

“You think I was lost? How is that possible with all the noise you fools are making?” His exaggerated laughter was infuriating.

Mr. Bradley asked, rather patiently, “Why didn’t you stay with the group?”

“Well. You see. Momma Nature called me, and I couldn’t resist her smile. No? OK, how about, ‘The devil made me do it?’” He erupted in more egotistical laughter.

I’d never seen either scout leader do this before, but they turned their backs to Roy. The rest of us saw it and we turned our backs to him also. In the silence, I heard Mr. Bradley ask Mr. Steiner, in a whisper, “Will we ever bring him on any scout trips again?”

In a rush of exhaled air, Mr. Steiner responded, “Certainly not. We’ve given him too many breaks already.

When we did turn around to face him, we all ignored him, again. We didn’t look at him, talk to him or answer him. Eventually, he returned to his bunk bed and ate some of his snacks, grinding his teeth, beating his fist on a kneecap, and tapping his foot nervously.

Roy yelled, “Hey. Someone should check this place for radiation because I saw a raccoon with bulging and glowing green eyes. I ran away thinking it had rabies.”

Then I saw Roy confiding to Bobby, a reluctant bunkmate, that he had a prank that he wanted to play tonight. Roy grabbed Bobby by the back of one arm and squeezed tightly until Bobby showed a painful grimace and tried to pull Roy’s hand away unsuccessfully.

From the movement of his lips and face, I think he said, “You tell anyone and you’re dead meat. Got that?”

“OK, OK,” Bobby whined and pulled away.

“Yeah, I’m not a scared baby like these pussies. I’ll have fun and wander around the forest late tonight, then in the morning I can rub all that scary bullshit stuff in everyone’s faces. The New Moon will hide me from sight. I’ll bring my knife along in case a monster earthworm attacks me. Geez. What huge assholes they all are.”

Because of the New Moon, the night was as black as Roy’s licorice. The air even felt thick to Roy, like walking through a misty veil. But he smiled because now he felt happy, strong, and healthy. He’d broken the rule about not wandering into the forest at night, so a devilish grin appeared along with a vigorous, vertical arm pump. His arm pump rattled the batteries in his cheap, dented, and scratched aluminum flashlight.

“Shit, damn, piss, I forgot to replace the old batteries with new ones,” he spit through clamped teeth. “ Screw it. I can still do this. He looked around as the blackness of the night surrounded him. He thought he could both feel and hear movements from the plants, not animals. He proceeded with his ‘the dark don’t scare me’ courage test, trying to squash his growing nervousness as his light flickered due to the loose batteries. It didn’t take long for him to arrive into the densest part of the forest. His flashlight flickered off and on, so he had to place one hand outward in front of him to avoid bumping into trees, but he kept the light aimed at the ground wanting to avoid shrubs and bushes or tripping over roots and vines.

“Assholes. Cowards. Pussies,” Roy mumbled to himself as he stumbled along, slipping on wet ground debris, and being poked by low branches and bushes, some of which seems to grab at him with their thorns. To help calm himself and because it was a habit, he shoved a couple of licorice gumdrops into his mouth and chewed, enjoying the Anise taste.

Roy’s nose tickled so he squeezed his nostrils shut to prevent a sneeze. He felt his sinuses draining, swallowed a disgusting gob of snot, and then gagged it up. Puckering his lips, he spit it out along with his licorice. Still, the aftertaste of phlegm nearly gagged him again, so he popped two more gumdrops into his gaping mouth.

He shined his weak beam of light on the snot gob for only a second, then the light went off. He rattled the flashlight, but it seemed dead. He opened and took the batteries out by feel, then replaced them, but still no light. Extremely frustrated, he shook the flashlight vigorously and got a frail beam of light which happened to be pointing at his gob of snot. He sees the glittering, glistening glob of gruesome-looking snot nearly come alive with many sparkling dots, like eyes and slashed lines for mouths  He nearly vomits, wipes his lips on his shirt sleeve, and leaves a streak of slime. But his lips return to a smile as he says, “Slime is fine. No crime. No pain. No gain. No risk. No reward. Only babies are afraid of the dark. I’ll show them bastards.”

The weak light, almost too dim to see what it shined on, was now focused on a cluster of unusual-looking plants. “Fuck you,” he said to the plants as he whipped out his Johnson, and with a full bladder, he pissed all over them. “Pissed off because you got pissed on?” he talked to the plants.

The urine and the snot glob were sinking into the soil as if being sucked up with a straw by the thirsty dirt. He thought he heard something and spun around. His flashlight hit tree bark and went flying out of his hand.

Darkness is stimulation for the imagination causing Roy to feel as if snakes were crawling over both of his sneakers. He had no flashlight to check it and an ominous sense of uneasiness tingled in his mind. He bent down and felt the vines that were lying across his feet and ankles. He cut his hand when he did this, the vines being similar to sawgrass with sharp teeth around their circumference.

He now realized that the vines were moving as they grew rapidly. He couldn’t pull them off and soon found that he had bloody, lacerated hands. Then suddenly a narrow beam of light, a spotlight, covered him. A panicked confusion and fear seized him when he felt the vines now climbing up his shins. He looked up at the source of the light from the black sky. It wasn’t from the stars hidden in the black-tarred sky, nor was it the moon. “WTF,” he growled as he looked up at the source of light piercing through the canopy of treetops. “Fuckin’ Venus?” he growled. He felt light-headed now and fear was growing rapidly like a tsunami traveling thousands of miles and gaining strength with each mile. Venus is shining like a spotlight over his body. He sees his feet clearly, but fear freezes him as the vines climb around his thighs like wisteria vines circling and climbing around a tree as if its goal is to strangle the tree.

A dull spark went off in his dying brain. “Gotta get out of here,” he thought, the overwhelming fear choking him. He became a brief fury of activity like an old man trying to escape from a straight-jacket. He attempted to push, pull, hit, and kick with negative results. He could feel the vines sliding up to his waist, some catching and wrapping around his arms which became pinned to his sides. Other vines securely wrapped themselves around his penis and scrotum in a stranglehold. His balls felt as if they were swelling due to the tightness of the vines and the strange thought of gonads sparked in his mind. The brambles were growing as if they had a consciousness, a will, a goal to achieve. Before, when he had pissed onto the cluster of plants, he thought he saw several Venus Fly Traps among the vines. He could hear a moist, smacking sound like a little kid munching noisily and carelessly on his food. The sleeves and arms of his uniform shirt were secured to his ribs as he heard the tearing of the material. The pop, pop, pop of the shirt’s shiny brown buttons flying off into the light gave the appearance of large lightning bugs. Roy’s feet and arms had little room to move. He was horrified when he felt a vine poking around his anus opening, then penetrating it and climbing up his rectum. The whole bush of plant life, at his feet, was growing faster, getting stronger. Once more he desperately attempted to scream, but the hanging clusters of large, mutant wisteria vines and their flowers forced their way into his mouth. The pain of his flesh being bitten off in what felt like half-dollar-sized chunks by the Venus Fly Traps made him feel dizzy, yet he could not fall. He was being held upright as silence encompassed him. The thick, fast-growing vines combined with the Venus Fry Traps were sucking vital nourishment from his body. The aggressive vines forced their way into his mouth ears, eyes, nostrils, and anus, spreading deeply into his inner torso seeking sustenance from his internal organs, fluids, and especially his tender liver. They were inside his head, also, eating at his brain causing the most painful migraine he had ever experienced. He was now helpless, a fly in a spider’s web. Once again, he tried to scream but with the vines wrapped around his tongue and filling his mouth, and finding their way down his throat, it was impossible. Not even a desperate and panicked, exhaled whisper came out of his mouth.

The pain attacked him from all angles, externally and especially internally. His penis and balls were being strangled like squeezing one end of a sausage so that the other end swelled with excess meat and blood. His balls were enlarged like overripe plums about to explode. Plus, the tiny punctures from the pointed thorns made him feel as if thousands of fire ants were biting and burning him. No, not biting but chewing at his entire fleshy surface area. The chewing sounds got louder; several streams of warm blood ran down his body from various fleshy surfaces. In his peripheral vision, despite his agony, he thought he saw, not small thorns, but half-dollar-sized mouths with, needle-like, thorny teeth that looked like hypodermic needles as they formed prison bars, so nothing that entered their large, flytrap mouths could escape the pool of acid that would start dissolving their fleshy food immediately.

The vines, with their carpenters’ saw-like, sharp points, plus the flytraps and brambles became so dense around his body that there was no escaping any of them. It was maddening to be so helpless while you’re being eaten alive. The vines sawed their way through his body, now poking their way through each eyeball as if they were icepicks traveling into and piercing his brain in multiple places, leaving the feeling of the hot, inner eyeball fluid to spray over his nose, cheeks, lips, and chin. No longer could he see, or talk, or move. His only feeling now was the steadily increasing pain that grew without limits until his body trembled, then spasmed at its excruciating effects. His neck was bent and stretched. His pain felt so intense that it couldn’t be described, and it lingered, creating an agony as if he was being sluggishly sizzled over red-hot coals, on a spit in hell. Then they filled his mouth and his nose so tightly that they were suffocating him. When he fainted for lack of air, and pain, he was yanked off his feet, then dragged so he now laid prone over the center of the wide, circular group of brambles, vines, and Venus Flytraps as chunks of him were being dissolved in the mouths of the flytraps. At the same time the vines were feeding on his flesh creating a symbiosis unheard of nor ever seen in our natural, earth world. He felt as if he were being forced into and then cooked in a pool of boiling acid as he experienced, just for a split second, what entering oblivion was like. This last feeling was gratefully welcomed.

                                                 X X X X X X X

A few hours later, shortly after sunrise on Sunday morning, the Boy Scout troop was gathered around the scout leaders' campfire, their central meeting place. Being lazy and still having leftover soup, I served it like breakfast coffee for anyone interested. The others cooked hot dogs, and sandwiched meat from a cooler, by wrapping it around a thin green stick. Some of the boys took advantage of not having their parents around and ate the remainder of their candy and other snacks.

Mr. Badley showed some concern about the snack breakfasts, but Mr. Steiner told him it was OK for the boys to do it because they’d leave before noon and stop for breakfast at a local fast-food chain.

When the boys were eating, the Scout leaders checked attendance and to their aggravation, Roy was missing. The boys were asked if they knew anything about Roy’s absence. “I think I know something,” said Bobby, in a shy, hesitant manner. “Roy said he’d beat me up if I told on him, but he said he was going for a very early, dark morning walk in the woods to show you, Mr. Steiner, and Mr. Bradley, that he thought all those crazy stories about vanishings were bullshit in order to scare the troop into staying close to camp, and not wondering off getting lost. Roy said that he wanted to laugh at all the scaredy-cats.”

“And you said nothing to either of us?” asked Mr. Steiner.

Bobby stared at the ground, then looked backed up at Mr. Steiner. He responded, “Better to be yelled at by you than getting beat-up by Roy.” Bobby’s eyes were moist, and he was nervously shuffling his feet back and forth.

“Ok, Bobby, I understand. Thank you for the information,” Mr. Steiner said.

Two search parties were formed. Mr. Bradley’s search party came across a rare cluster of plants. He was shocked and said, “That’s most unusual. Is there anybody who can tell me why these plants are unusual in these woods?”

Paul spoke. “Wow! Those look like Venus Flytraps with sawgrass vines growing among them. But they usually only grow in warm, damp, marshy soil areas in the summer, not this far north. They would have to be extra hardy and/or with a mutation that allows them to adapt to the fall cool weather in New York.”

“A mutation?” questioned Mr. Bradley.

“Yeah, something unusual, like that,” Paul

Mr. Bradley grabbed his survival whistle hanging from his neck by a lanyard and blew vigorously for three short, but loud blasts. Mr. Steiner and his search group arrived about five minutes later.

Mr. Bradley pointed and looked down at the Venus Fly Traps and sawgrass vines. Then he looked up at Mr. Steiner with question marks stamped on each eyeball. Mr. Steiner squinted, and his forehead erupted in horizontal lines. “Venus Fly Traps?” he stated, not as a question but as his disbelief being vocalized. “Very unusual for them to grow around here, especially with winter coming around the corner. The falling pine needles that decay make the soil acidic, and those plants don’t usually thrive, or even live, in that kind of soil.”

“And, yet, here they are, a healthy cluster of them,” Mr. Bradley stated.

“The pods, their mouths, look a little larger than normal, don’t you think? They look a bit larger than the one I saw last year in the Adirondack Mountains, during a wet summer. They catch flies, mosquitoes, and bugs of all kinds. They are carnivores on a small scale,” added Mr. Steiner, then, “Any of you boys know anything about Venus Fly Traps?”

Paul stepped forward. “I read an article about a new species of them growing in the Amazon River area. Maybe some were brought to America, transplanted, and developed into larger plants able to adapt readily to great changes in their normal habitat. The large ones in the Amazon are called B52 Giant Venus Fly Traps. It sounds like an airplane’s name, and it is. The article said the B52 airplane is a long-range bomber used by the Air Force a long time ago.”

“Look,” Joe interrupted, as he pointed to a slimy, clear substance on the ground. “The grass, leaves, twigs look like they are dissolving.” Stupidly, he touched the smear with his index finger and screeched as it burned his skin. When he wiped it on his pants, a hole appeared. Its dissolving effect stopped with the hole on the thigh of his pants. He looked at it strangely and fearfully.

I said, “You know how Roy likes to wear red socks to get attention? Look at the thin red threads that hang from the mouth of most of those Venus Fly Trap pods. At first, they look like blood, but if you look closely and lift one with a twig, you see it’s not blood, but single red threads. They look like red, cloth threads, don’t they?”

“It sure is hard to tell without a microscope,” someone mumbled as our whole group backed away from the damp ground that surrounded the cluster of Venus Fly Traps and sawgrass-like wisteria vines.

Then Mr. Steiner saw something shiny reflecting the early morning sunlight. He took a few steps toward a bush, bent down, and picked up an old aluminum flashlight. When Mr. Steiner returned with his found object, he asked the group, “Anybody recognize this flashlight? I found it, over there,” he pointed, “in those bushes.” Then Mr. Steiner said, in a low and confused sounding voice, “It’s cheap aluminum and it’s dented, plus the lens is cracked in two places. It doesn’t work now, but it must have been working for Roy.” Mr. Steiner held up the battered flashlight and shined his flashlight on it for more clarity. “Somebody must recognize it.”

“Ye…yah,” Bobby stuttered. That’s Roy’s crappy flashlight. He lost his good one a little while ago, I think, so he uses that one now. As a matter of fact, for uniform inspections, he has a brand-new buckle and neckerchief slide that he keeps polished and shiny until you have a scheduled uniform inspection.” Bobby didn’t look at Mr. Steiner, but focused on his sneakers, as he was shy and embarrassed.

While the talking was about the flashlight, Mr. Bradley saw something nearby, but partially hidden by a dead branch. He approached it. What he picked up was something hard, squarish, and quite tarnished: a unique Boy Scout uniform belt buckle, a buckle that is significantly different from commercial buckles. He showed it to Mr. Steiner.

“Since it’s deeply scratched and badly tarnished, it must be Roy’s. That and the broken flashlight point to Roy,” guessed Mr. Steiner.

“Something is wrong, though. Why would Roy discard these items? And why are they damaged?” asked Mr. Steiner.

“I’m not sure, but see his tracks? They end right where we are standing. And look how big they are. Those are Roy’s footprints,” said Mr. Bradley as he pointed at them. “They go no further than this cluster and this tree where these unusually large wisteria vines are wrapped around it tightly as if giving the tree a bear hug, but with many arms.

With the two search parties combined, Mr. Steiner stated, “This forest is still partly dark because of the density of the dense trees and it is only a few minutes after sun-up. So, I want everyone to pair up with a friend, then slowly and carefully search for anything else that may lead us to where Roy is or may have gone.”

Soon a black-handled, official Boy Scout jack-knife was found under some leaves and dirt. The black plastic that decorated the sides of the knife appeared to have been partially melted. Then a piece of shiny cardboard was found, as well as a Timex watch, with a missing leather wrist strap. The silver plating was damaged in spots.

Paul sniffed the air, then said to his group, “Any of you smell that?”

“Smell what? Oh no, Paul, did you fart? “Get away from me,” we teased until we smelled the licorice, too.

Paul said, “Yes, it’s the faint odor of black licorice, and it gets stronger as we return to that cluster of flytraps and vines.”

The scout leaders were snow niffing the air. “Yeah. I smell it, too. Boys, place all the found objects on the ground, near my sneakers,” Mr. Steiner instructed.

Some of the boys had found things that they hadn’t mentioned yet, due to the distraction of talk about other objects already found. There was a smashed plastic compass and a metal Boy Scout neckerchief slide. All objects had been found relatively close to the cluster of plants.

Mr. Steiner and Mr. Bradley kneeled to get a better look at the objects. “You smell that? Is that the smell of licorice?” Mr. Steiner asked Mr. Bradley. “Paul is right. It sure smells like black licorice to me.”

Mr. Steiner rummaged around the ‘found items’ with his index finger. “Here we go. Look at this.” The piece of crumbled-up cardboard was turned over and pressed flat to reveal a torn piece of a CROWS black licorice gumdrop box.”

“You’ve noticed the damage to the ‘found items,’ right?” Mr. Bradley whispered to Mr. Steiner.

“Yeah. There’s a sticky, clear fluid on everything but Roy’s flashlight. It looks like it had been thrown in that direction and hit something that dented it. Most of the other items appear to have damage caused by some sort of dissolving action, but it can’t be heat. Must be something else. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Yes,” Mr. Bradley whispered carefully, and I’m creeped out by the science fiction creatures that are banging at the door of my mind, wanting to gain entrance and eat me. Monster Venus Fly Traps and sharp sawgrass vines that look ordinary until they are reawakened every few years? The kids and parents will think we’re crazy and unfit to be Boy Scout leaders if we say what we think.”

Both scout leaders raised their eyes to the sky as the sun rose farther in the sky. “Venus,” they both uttered ominously, especially since the planet should only be seen in the night sky, not in the morning sky.

“This is a bit too creepy and strange,” Mr. Bradley uttered, his hands and forehead sweating. He rubbed his hand on his shirt, then rubbed his shirt sleeve across his forehead.

Mr. Steiner whispered, “Strange, yes. Out of this world strange. Missing kids? Any connection? Venus Fly Traps and Venus the planet? The New Moon causes the sky to be the darkest of any day of the month. Found objects that look damaged? Possibly red threads from a sock that gives the appearance of dripping blood. The legends, rumors, and disappearances over the last decade? Does that look suspicious to you?”

“Jesus H. Christ!” Mr. Bradley squeezed the words out from his clenched teeth. “How about we tell the kids we’re leaving early and that we’d buy them a hardy breakfast at the closest fast-food chain?”

“Damn good idea. Let’s calmly round up all the scouts and get the hell out of here. My skin is beginning to crawl. You think the boys will forever think we are wimps or scared pussies?”

“Don’t care,” uttered Mr. Bradley.

They all packed in a hurry and drove away the same way. On the way home, the Scout Troop stopped for brunch, since they got a late start. During brunch, Mr. Steiner called the State Police while Mr. Bradley remained with the kids. When the State Troopers arrived. Mr. Bradley joined Mr. Steiner outside the restaurant. The two scout leaders walked outside to talk to them. The Troopers took statements from both scout leaders and took the ‘found items’ as evidence. Then they departed, not asking questions, in an unexpected hurry.

The scout leaders remained outside as the two troopers approached their New York State Trooper vehicle. They said a few unheard words to each other, then with contorted, open-mouthed laughter, their heads tilted toward the sky and their open mouths bellowed their mocking laughter while shaking their heads at our unbelievable report.

                                                 Epilogue

Eventually, no good deed goes unpunished.

Yes. Mr. Steiner and Mr. Bradley were unjustly banned from being our scout leaders even though the boys all supported them. We were mocked, teased, and ridiculed for weeks. TV, radio, and newspaper reports latched onto the missing boy. At least we weren’t accused of harming Roy, though some wicked thoughts were kept secret. We went to Roy’s funeral where we were shoved and punched by Roy’s cousin who thought that we knew more than we were saying. We were stared at suspiciously by some of the ignorant adults. It did not one iota of good to try to explain the event.

After nearly a year of this craziness, Mr. Steiner moved to the town Endeecot which was much closer to his workplace at I.B.M. A couple of months later, Mr. Bradley also moved. I heard that he moved to John’s City, another fairly close town. As far as I know, they didn’t keep in touch. I suppose they both wanted to forget about the event, even though Roy’s disappearance was never officially solved. Rumors and tall tales multiplied each month. No one was accused of anything criminal and, when questioned, we boys told the same true story as our scout leaders, but it was rejected despite that uniform information. It was, it seems, too unbelievable for the parents and police.

Another Boy Scout Troop was started but failed immediately. We boys liked our scout leaders and thought they were treated badly and unfairly. None of us showed up to join the new Troop, though, if Roy were alive, he would certainly be the one to join and flash the double-bird fingers at us.*