The invitation arrived in a coffin-shaped box, its wax seal stamped with the Camp Willow crest we hadn't seen in twenty years. Inside, twelve moth-eaten friendship bracelets and a note that read;
"The circle wasn't complete.
Midnight. The old dock.
Wear your colors."
We should have known better than to return. The camp was exactly as we left it the night Sarah vanished during the initiation ritual. The canoes still bore the scratches from where we dragged her body. The mess hall walls still showed the bloodstains we'd painted over.
At almost midnight, we stood on the rotting dock, adults now wearing our childhood camp shirts. The lake was perfectly still. Until it wasn't. Sarah surfaced wearing the bracelet we'd buried with her. Her skin had stayed twelve years old. Her smile hadn't.
"You forgot the most important rule,"
She whispered as the water turned red.
“No camper gets left behind."
Next morning, the local news reports twelve middle aged hikers found drowned in Wooded Lake. Autopsy revealed their lungs were filled with bracelets threads and dirt.
