Editor’s Note: I apologize for missing the chance to share this article in Issue 138. My deepest apologies, especially to Mandie Romano, for leaving out this story about a true Woodcrest legend. I hope you enjoy reading it and take the opportunity to learn more! –Loneleigh
As Halloween approached, the air thickened with anticipation. On the night of October 29th, Camp Whisperwood set the perfect stage for ghosts and ghouls—and a captive audience. With hot chocolate steaming in everyone’s hands and an array of snacks laid out on worn wooden benches, we nestled into our spots. The crackling campfire illuminated faces, casting playful shadows against the cabins. Just as the embers sparkled and the sun dipped below the horizon, ghost stories began to weave through the chilly evening air, drawing us into the past.
Among the storytellers was Hanako Blossom, whose voice held us entranced as she recounted why campgrounds had fallen silent for nearly 40 years.
“Back in 1984,” she began, “this wasn’t just any summer camp. It was the place to be, but that all changed one fateful August.”
The crowd leaned closer, anticipation building as she told of a figure dubbed the Woodcarver. “Not for his craft,” she warned, “but for the harrowing discoveries etched into the very cabins where laughter once rang out.”
She described how it all began with two counselors who vanished from the boating dock. What was initially dismissed as youthful romance turned into the stuff of nightmares when their abandoned canoe was discovered, bloodied, and covered in strange symbols. As the week unfolded, more counselors and even campers disappeared, leaving behind only eerie carvings that hinted at a sinister presence claiming the woods as their own.
“It wasn’t merely coincidences,” Hanako continued. “These symbols mirrored markings found as far back as the 1930s. Like a cruel joke, history seemed to repeat itself. The climax came on the night of August 13th when the camp’s power flickered out, leading to the unimaginable disappearance of seven more souls, including the camp director. All that remained were those terrifying carvings and a final, chilling message: ‘I’ll be back when the whispers return.’”
Whispers. The forest was notorious for its secrets, the locals claiming they could hear the trees murmuring tales of ancient spirits. Hanako paused, allowing her words to sink in. “But the scariest part?” She leaned in, voice low. “Just last week, while closing up the craft cabin, I found fresh carvings under a table—wet and unmistakable.”
The crackling fire seemed to grow quieter, and just then, a chill ran through the circle as the night air stirred. Some merely regarded her story with skepticism, but others began to fidget, nervous glances exchanged amongst friends as imagination skittered into overdrive.
It was then that the atmosphere shifted dramatically. Lunara Faire burst from the shrubbery, wide-eyed and covered in crimson—a scene that could leap from the pages of a horror novel. “He… he got Sarah! He’s coming! Oh my god!” she screamed, trepidation palpable in every trembling syllable.
The night turned nightmarish as Lunara recounted a nightmarish encounter at the ranger’s station, the horror magnified by her apparent injuries. Panic ensued. Hanako rallied us to retreat, quick to usher everyone back to the lodge, and shouts infiltrated the air when someone believed they spotted a silhouette flitting outside.
While some hurried to assist Lunara, leading her to the nurse’s station, a palpable fear gripped the rest of us, urging us to seek safety in numbers. But amidst the turmoil, anxiety morphed into laughter when out from the shadows emerged none other than Steve Bridger, his familiar face bringing relief alongside collective annoyance. “Happy Halloween!” he proclaimed, revealing that the blood was fake, the peril a prank collaboratively orchestrated with Lunara.
As the air of suspense dissipated, our group shuffled back to the comforting glow of the campfire, laughter rekindling the warmth that fear had momentarily extinguished. Marshmallows were roasted, hot chocolate shared, and cautionary tales resumed—yes, with a fair amount of teasing directed toward the pranksters.
As we settled back into our circle, one couldn’t help but smile at the convergence of legends, pranks, and ghostly spirits on that memorable harvest night at Camp Whisperwood—a night that reminded us stories, whether told around a fire or whispered through the trees, are what weave the threads of community. The essence of fear transformed into camaraderie amid campfire flames, marking yet another chapter in the ever-evolving tale of Camp Whisperwood, where the legend of the Woodcarver still sends shivers down spines and the whispers continue to sway gently within the pines.