He enters the camp wearily , and the place is clean . Almost exactly how he left it , except … a pungent odor stains the air , like a gym bag left to fester in the summer heat--but worse . The tents are zipped up , and the lights are all out … only the campfire rages . All the firewood has been used ; he knows he had enough to last the next few nights . Every hair on his body prickles . He sets his pack on the ground and grabs his rifle ; the butt of it presses into his shoulder as he scans the perimeter . No signs of dinner on the table . No signs that his family left . No signs of anything . Where the hell have they gone ? And why does he feel as though someone ’ s watching him ?
He hears the click of a lamp turn on , and Michael ’ s small tent glows orange with its light . The boy ’ s silhouette is eerily still within , but then raises its arms in a curious fashion . Slowly , both hands come up as if to say , “ I don ’ t know , Dad .” They go to either side of his face and the shadow tilts its head back and forth , left to right--
“ Michael !” At first , he thinks he called his son ’ s name in his unnerved state , but the voice came from behind him again . He turns to see another dancing bush , he thinks it will still , and the shell games will continue , but then his wife ’ s face emerges from the foliage . “ Michael !” she barks again and smiles .
He drops his rifle to the dirt when she continues to rise , red-faced from the reflection of the flames . Her skin is twisted sideways ever so slightly around her skull . Pale white flesh continues from her head to her shoulders to her exposed breasts , but then , it stops . After a hem of stringy red meat , thick , matted fur makes up the rest of her . She continues to rise out of the bush until she towers over it . She ’ s carrying a wooden club in her hand with a big spherical rock embedded into the end . He finally 32