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Chatterbox: Pudding's Place
A Ski Lodge
You flop down onto your bed, exhausted from another long day of school. Is it really necessary for your teacher to assign you to write three essays this week? You have other stuff going on. Life. And you can’t afford to fail this class. Your academic success is hanging on a precipice, and one nudge will send it falling into an abyss so deep that it will never be found if it is lost.
The computer is open in front of you, the white, electronic pages of your word processor beckoning to you. You sit down at your desk.
And then you stand up again and go to the kitchen for a glass of water. You can’t work with a dry mouth. Then, once the water is drained, you grab an apple. It’s slightly withered, but you slice it and slowly eat. You glance over toward the counter where a digital clock squats, its red numbers blinking threateningly. 9:48. If your parents knew you were up this late on a school night, eating old apples, with three essays to write, they would go completely out of their minds.
But your parents aren’t here to boss you around at the moment, so who cares what they’d say? It’s not as if the essays were due tomorrow. At least, not all of them are. Just one.
The apple is gone, and you can no longer think of any stalling techniques. You are fighting a losing battle against yourself. It’s past ten at night, you have school tomorrow, and your teacher is expecting a nice, long essay from everyone’s favorite student.
You walk slowly back to your room and sit down at your desk. You type a few words, yawn, type a few more, open up a web browser, surf Wikipedia for a couple of minutes, yawn again. So far you have only twelve words.
You open up the CB. It’s late, you know, and no one will have posted a thing since you checked last, but maybe you can read an old ski lodge or two.
You click on Pudding’s Place, intending to look for Lake Lelilo or something, when a new thread catches your eye. A Ski Lodge, it says, in those red letters you know so well. You click on the link, and start to read.
“You flop down onto your bed, exhausted from another long day of school. Is it really necessary for your teacher to assign you to write three essays this week?”
What?
You keep reading, watching your own movements of that night laid before you in second person, right up to this very moment.
Good.
I’ve got your attention now.
My dear CBer,
You are having trouble at school. You have unwritten essays, and you don’t know what to write.
That’s okay.
We are offering you the chance of a lifetime, the chance to fix everything. Come to Camp Juniper, where you have the chance to be freed from the bonds of school. You will no longer have to study late into the night in order to pass a test. You will no longer have to struggle for hours on end in order to write a good essay. In short, we are giving you a Get Out of Jail Free card. And, if you choose not to accept this card, you will be given a free college scholarship.
There will be competitions throughout the days of camp. Each camper will have the chance to earn juniper branches. Anyone who is able to weave their branches into a wreath by the end of the camp session will earn this freedom.
Sounds nice?
We thought so.
All you have to do is fill out this form. And be prepared to die.
Name:
CBer, AE, CAPTCHA, or CAPTCHAE? (Note: CAPTCHAs, and CAPTCHAEs are not allowed):
Age:
Gender:
Companion(s) (up to 2 companions per person) (please fill out a sheet for them as well) (AEs only):
Appearance:
Personality in five words. (Any more or less and you will no longer have the privilege to eat popcorn):
Skills:
Quirks:
Brains or Brawn?:
Envy or Empathy?:
Reverie or Realism?:
Luggage, in order from most to least important:
Choose a number:
Choose a color:
Other:
We are excited to see you. And yes, we WILL see you.
Your obedient servants,
L. Reine & B. Ambrose
P.S. The popcorn is free, as well.
P.P.S. Please be prepared to participate fully, whatever this may mean.
P.P.P.S. Obviously, this is a ski lodge.
You read over the letter again. Is it worth it? You could die. . . but people always come back to life after a ski lodge. You could be a murderer. . . but who cares about that? It’s just a story. And how hard could it be to weave a few branches into a wreath?
Yes, you decide.
It’s definitely worth it.
And so, you fill out the form.
And then, you press submit.
submitted by Liberté and Basil, Camp Juniper
(October 31, 2020 - 8:09 pm)
(October 31, 2020 - 8:09 pm)
(February 24, 2021 - 8:17 pm)
Some say to this day, Freak still wants the stick...
Yet again, an amazing job!
(February 24, 2021 - 8:50 pm)
I will get that stick one day... Just you wait...
(February 27, 2021 - 7:38 am)
(March 1, 2021 - 2:28 pm)
Day Five — Morning
It was morning. Very early morning, true, but it counted. The murderer had been very precise as they explained that to themself. Twelve AM is the morning. So they were following all the rules.
Rule One: No Cheating
Rule Two: Always Listen to the Music
Rule Three: Don’t Be Boring and Repetitive
Rule Four: One Murder Every Day
And the most important.
Rule Five: Don’t Get Caught
It was Rule Four that they were worried about. What did the rules mean by “day?” Sunrise to sunrise? Sunrise to sunset? Midnight to midnight? It had to mean midnight to midnight, right? Twelve AM to twelve AM? That made sense, didn’t it? So now it was Day Five. Four people were dead. And today there would be one more. In about an hour, if all went well.
They crept into Summer’s cabin as quietly as a mouse. No, even quieter. As quiet as a freshly dead corpse. The murderer shivered. Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to think of themselves as dead, but it did help make them quieter. Silently, they rifled through the girl’s luggage. It was a mess, and every sound made them want to scream, but finally, they found it. The sweatshirt. Everything would be easy, now. They pulled on the jacket and inserted an earbud into Summer’s ear, then hit play on Liberté’s old, stolen CD player.
Endless Shore, by Melody’s Echo Chamber.
Not the most precise of requests, perhaps. Liberté had the strangest taste in music, and most of it was at least partially in French. But it should be enough to get the girl out of her bed and towards the pond.
They woke Zachary, and crept out of the room.
***
It was late at night, or perhaps even early in the morning when Zach opened his eyes slowly, groggily. He didn’t know what had woken him, or why the curtains of his bed were open. Perhaps there was a memory of someone shaking his shoulders, or of smelling salts wafted under his nose, but there was no way to be sure. All Zachary knew was that he really, really wanted to go back to sleep and that someone was leaving the cabin. Someone with an olive green sweatshirt. He shook his head, confused. Who would want to leave their warm bed now? But the thought drifted away, and he fell back asleep, dreaming of aqueous martinis.
***
Summer woke to the crash of cymbals in her ear, so loud that it was nearly deafening. There were words, too, besides the cymbals, but she almost couldn’t hear them, the percussion was so loud. Her first thought was that someone was basting music in the middle of the night, but then she felt it.
The earbud.
No one could hear the music except for her.
She was about to wonder why she was wearing earbuds attached to an old CD player, but she didn’t have time. The words flooded through her brain. Endless shore. And she didn’t have a choice. She had to go. To go to the shore, any shore.
Endless Shore.
She fumbled for her sweatshirt, only conscious enough to remember the warning Liberté had given at the start of the camp. “After you are settled into your cabins and are going to come for lunch, the temperature will drop to insane temperatures that humans cannot live in. Because of this, we will provide protective sweatshirts.” When she couldn’t find it, she struggled for a moment, telling herself to stay in bed, stay where it was safe, don’t go outside in the cold without your sweatshirt. But she couldn’t resist for long. The next minute, she was out of bed, racing towards the shore of the recreational pond. The heat of the exercise was just strong enough to sustain her as she raced along the path. She reached the shore, and stopped.
Perhaps, if she had kept on running, she would have lived.
***
“Good morning, campers.” ‘Liberté’s aristocratic, chirpy voice echoed with terribly wonderful acoustics in the Mess Hall. On an ordinary day, Zachary might have taken the opportunity to admire the way the sound carried, making even Liberté’s rather awful voice sound like a symphony. But that morning, he couldn’t even concentrate long enough to worry about his brother’s. There was something wrong. Other than the fact that people kept dying. Something smaller, but important. Maybe essential. Something he had seen.
“This morning for breakfast, the amazing Palenia Piper has made us omelettes, and I would like a big round of applause for our talented cook.” A few people managed a week cheer. “But, before we dig in to this simply delightful breakfast, let’s take a quick role call. Sterling?”
“Here.”
“Icarus.
“Here.”
“Felix.”
“Dead.” Pine and dreamii started sobbing into each other’s arms again.
“Ydris.”
“Dead, and I’d like to see you muster an ounce of sympathy,” Sammy shrieked, leaping up with a snarl. If the murderer hadn’t pulled her down and stuffed a napkin in her mouth, Liberté would probably sustain a few scars and perhaps a first degree burn or two.
“Summer.” For once, Liberté was met with silence. “Summer? Summer, if you don’t respond, I will assign you cleaning duty for the rest of the camp session. This is not a joking matter. People have died! Summer, please respond with the word ‘here,’ when I call your name. Summer!”
“Liberté,” Basil whispered softly, “perhaps it would be wise to consider the alternative solution.”
“What would that be?”
“Well. Under the circumstances, it might be viable to consider that Summer might, just possibly, be, um, deceased. Or, you know, missing or abducted by aliens from Pluto.”
“Basil!” Liberté attempted to pull on a stern face. “Death is not something which you should joke about!
“I’m not joking, Liberté. There is a distinct possibility that Summer is dead. Or worse.”
***
Aspen found the body.
Summer was blue and cold, frozen on the shores of the pond. Was it only this morning that she had thrilled at the idea of a swimming contest in that pond? Now, seeing the corpse of the other girl, Aspen couldn’t imagine ever wanting to go swimming again. She opened her mouth to scream, but only a distorted yelp was able to make itself out. She couldn’t breath. She couldn’t see. Was this what a panic attack was like? The feeling that everything inside of you is shutting down?
She didn’t know why she had volunteered to be in the search party, not after what had happened with Inari. It was too awful. And why had she agreed to split up? Now there was no one with her, no gently stuttering Adrian to comfort, no NerdFace to hold onto. It was only her, Aspen, and the frozen body of the girl called Summer. She tried to scream again, and this time, someone came running towards her.
“Aspen? Are you okay?”
She could only point wordlessly at the body. Sterling paused for a moment, gasped. “It’s awful. Poor Summer.” Sterling didn’t shut down, though. Sterling called for help, and a moment later, Basil came running over. Sterling helped him carry the body. When people asked where they found her, it was Sterling who answered, Sterling who managed to explain, Sterling who asked how in the world Summer had gotten to the pond.
When Zachary spoke up, it was Sterling who listened quietly as he whispered his story, how he saw Summer leave their cabin late last night, or early that morning. How he had been to sleepy to stop her. It was Sterling who asked how Zachary had known it was Summer, and Sterling who was confused when Zach responded that he had known her by her olive green sweatshirt.
Why couldn’t Aspen do that? Why couldn’t she manage herself in the face of death like everyone around her? Why couldn’t she stay calm and collected?
Aspen shivered.
***
(March 2, 2021 - 2:55 pm)
Okay. Im pretty sure it wouldn't be me- I mean, Im pretty horrible at lying and Inari was technically my best friend here so I;'m gonna leave it at that. *smiles innocently*
I bid you au revoir,
Sky NightStar, Who Has A Fake Last Name
(March 3, 2021 - 1:20 am)
AAAAAA
... so can I still enter contests if I'm dead? Probably not, right? I mean, I kind of wanted to win... ah well.
The plot thickens! This is so good!
(March 5, 2021 - 8:59 pm)
You may still participate in the challenges, but it doesn't count to the story. :)
(March 6, 2021 - 11:02 am)
I don't mean to sound morbid or anything, but the way Summer's murder was done was very smart.
Poor Aspen, that can't be any fun. I'm not sure if that makes me suspect Sterling more or less...
(March 7, 2021 - 12:00 am)
(March 2, 2021 - 2:55 pm)
(March 2, 2021 - 6:51 pm)
We seemed to have forgotten about posting the bulletin board on Tuesday, so here you are. :)
(March 4, 2021 - 11:21 am)
(March 5, 2021 - 1:10 pm)
Incredible!
(I mean, sorry Summer, but the chapter you died in was really well written.)
(March 5, 2021 - 8:50 pm)
(March 10, 2021 - 11:55 am)