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joelswritingmistress · 1 day

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Camp Crystal Lake: Chapter 6

Requested by @yellowjacketsbuzzbuzz

Joel Miller x f!reader (romance/horror)

Setting: Camp Crystal Lake

The reader is taking on the position of a camp counselor at the infamous Camp Crystal Lake. While she begins to enjoy her summer, even crushing on the camp director Joel, a killer lurks in the woods unbeknownst to anyone.

Hours went by. The sun rose and dipped closer to the horizon. Painting turned into playing. Playing turned into swimming. At the end of the shift, the lifeguard stand and the tops of the docks had a fresh coat of paint. The docks, themselves, were fully assembled.

I saw Sandra tug on Jeff’s blue tank top. She whispered something to him, he shook his head with a smirk and then after calling him a, “chicken shit,” he snickered and followed her into the woods through the trees.

The rest of the staff had made their way out of hiding, so to speak, all eager to take a dip in the lake after a day of sun and sweat. It turned into a mini party on our own private beach.

I stared at Joel in his mesh shorts in all of his shirtless glory. He had been forced into the water when the guys threw him in as a joke and had tossed his soaked shirt up on the lifeguard stand. I knew right then, with regard to what Sandra had asked me in the shed, that my answer would definitely be yes.

I took a break from chicken fights, lounging on the dock and wading in the lake to head back up to the shed. A stroke of paranoia hit me when I realized I hadn't seen the key Joel had given Sandra and me since earlier that day.

I sighed to myself when I saw the gold key still set in the center of the doorknob.

“Good.” I spoke the word to myself.

“What's good?” Joel asked, making me whip around.

I jumped, not hearing him come up, and then smiled and blushed, as I typically did when in his company.

“Sorry.” Joel laughed. “I didn't mean to scare you.”

“That's okay.” I shook my head and looked back at him and smiled.

“I know you have more knowledge of this place than the others,” he guessed and then gave a small grin and teased, “Not scared of Camp Crystal Lake, are you?”

I was still grinning but shrugged, “I grew up hearing stories about this place. I know “Camp Blood” is right around the corner.”

“You gonna last all summer?” Joel leaned an arm on the doorframe and I took a step back into the shed, still staring him down.

“I'll last.”

“Yeah?” He took a step in, passing by the open doorway.

The next part happened all at once. My brain was unable to process that it was really happening when Joel pulled me to him by the hand. Instinctively my arms wrapped around him and our lips locked in a sneaky makeout session as if we were teenagers.

I saw stars from that first kiss. I thought of myself as a rather boring person; a rule follower. So, when this unorthodox romance unsuspectingly bloomed right in front of my face, I was on cloud nine. No kiss that I'd experienced had ever been that hot.

My eyes didn't open for a second or two when Joel’s lips parted from mine; though he still held me close. “I'm not supposed to be fraternizing with the staff,” he whispered, making me laugh lightly and open my eyes.

“I won't tell,” I said quietly, making him grin into another smoldering kiss inside the sweltering shed.

I'm kissing my boss! He's hot! Omg! My mind was reeling with cliche phrases as we carried on.

“Joel,” I snuck his name in the middle of it and immediately regretted it when his lips left mine.

“I crossed a line-” he began but I cut him off.

“No.” I shook my head and smiled so he knew I was okay, “No. It's not that. I just.. wow.” I actually said ‘wow’ out loud and hated myself for it.

“Oh, shit.” Joel looked out a small window behind me and made a face.

“What?”

“Sheriff is here. What the fuck does he want?”

“The sheriff?” I took a breath and looked up at him, annoyed that he might have to leave the small, hot space we shared.

Joel grinned at me, “Are you.. are you okay.. with this?”

I smirked again and nodded. “I've never done anything like this.”

Joel laughed and then glanced out the window again as the sheriff grew closer. And then I saw Sandra and Jeff walking solemnly behind him, exchanging glances.

What happened? I wondered.

Joel reached for a stray bucket of paint, mostly as a prop, and popped out of the shed. “What can I do for you, officer?” He asked, drawing the man's attention toward him.

I wandered out of the shed behind him, welcomed by the much cooler air.

“You the guy who runs this place?” The husky, mustached man asked.

He nodded and extended a hand. “Joel Miller.”

“I found two of your people over at them abandoned cabins,” the officer said, using his thumb to motion to Jeff and Sandra. “Camp Blood. Sniffing around. It's private property.”

“Sir, we didn't mean,” Jeff began but Joel put up a hand.

“I'll handle this, Jeff.”

The officer glanced back at Jeff and then to Joel, again. Annie wandered over and stood beside Joel, attempting to be friendly.

“Is everything okay?” She asked.

“I just might get a warrant against this place,” the officer threatened, making both of them straighten up.

“Oh really?” Joel asked.

“Look Joel, you've got a good reputation. You want to create a safe haven here for the summer for some kids. The town supports that, we all want that. But, you're too close. It's been quiet for a long time here,” he glanced at Jeff and Sandra again, “And we want to keep it that way.”

“So do I, officer.” He gave a parental look to the two of them, causing Jeff to make a face. Sandra tied the sand with her sneaker.

There was a pause and it appeared as if the officer was waiting for Joel to do something as he stood staring at him with his hands on his hips.

“Why don't you two go back to the main cabin,” Joel told them. “Get washed up and I'll be in in a few minutes to speak with you.”

Sandra nodded, catching my glance for a moment, and gave Joel a nod.

“Sorry Mr. Miller,” Jeff added for good measure in a way that was purposely boyish.

“You're not even going to reprimand them?” The sheriff asked, “No punishment?”

“Annie,” Joel said, glancing over to her.

“Yeah?”

“No seconds on dessert for Jeff and Sandra tonight.”

I tried my best to hold back a laugh when the sheriff's jaw dropped at Joel’s nonchalant ‘punishment’. He then waved his hands and stormed off. When he was far enough away I finally let out a little laugh.

“Well, that was interesting,” Annie said, high-fiving Joel.

He shook his head and rolled his eyes. “I better go talk to them.”

“So two of our people get hauled in because ten years ago some girl panicked and fell out of a canoe?” She went on, beginning to walk back down to the water where the others stared in our direction with questions circulating in their eyes. “Give me a break.”

Joel turned back to me and smirked. “So.. was I reading things right?” He asked quietly, looking over his shoulder now toward the others, and then back to me. “I sensed that you might..”

“You're reading it right,” I said, knowing full well what he was talking about. “I, uh.. yeah.” I laughed and toyed with my hair as I searched for the right words to say.

“Maybe we could talk later on tonight.”

I nodded right away, “Sure.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” I echoed him and he maintained a smile for a second or two before going to the cabin where he sent Jeff and Sandra.

I touched my lips with my fingers and smiled. I contemplated telling Sandra before making my way back down to the beach to hang out a bit with the others.

@gissellec1 @cattt777 @mellymbee @armybts20137 @bbiophiliaa @littleblackcatinwonderland @mermaidgirl30 @brittmb115 @yellowjacketsbuzzbuzz @beltzboys2015-blog blog @lwfics @pedropascal111

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gallusrostromegalus · 6 months

Text

The Van Has Officially Declared It Spooky Season

---

I've got my parent's van for the week and it seems determined to establish my status as The Local Cryptid by terrorizing an innocent 7-11 clerk.

...I might need to back up a bit.

My mother is an eminently sensible woman who knows herself well, and when The Plauge hit, she knew she'd need some sort of mentally and physically engaging craft project to keep herself from going insane and massacring the local zoning and water management boards (even if they have it coming). So she and Dad acquired a utility van and converted it into a camper van because while they love camping, they're past the age where their joints and immune systems will tolerate sleeping on the cold ground in a nylon tent.

They did a terrific job of it and my mom taught herself woodworking and carpentry and now the van has it's own cabinets, fold-away dining table, and removable queen-sized bed with memory foam mattress. My Dad was already a computer engineer, but he learned the dark magics of automotive software and electronics to install after-market backup cameras, a media player that would take a terabyte hard drive and a solar-powered battery and outlet so they could wake up and just turn on the kettle and griddle for breakfast without having to exit the van into a cold morning on an empty stomach.

Truly, the height of Camping Luxury.

My parents are both in their mid-seventies and my primary life goal is to be at least half as cool and hale as they are when I get old.

Anyway, they take it out at least a dozen times a year and it works fabulously, but, being as I am on good terms with my parents and also finishing the process of moving house, I've been borrowing it to move large and cumbersome objects that will not fit in the back of my equally lovely but minuscule Honda hatchback.

It's a Great Van. Very easy and comfortable to drive. Stunningly good MPG for it's size. The best cruise control I've ever had in a car.

It's just also. Quirky. Mischievous, even.

---

If this van has a fault its that it bears the unfortunate affliction that all lightly used white utility vans have in that the combination of an utter lack of branding features and the large dent/scrape I accidentally put on it while trying to escape a Denny's last Thanksgiving means that this vehicle is one addition of a Badly Spray-Painted "FREE CANDY" on the side away from being the sort of vehicle you see in an edgy horror movie.

It's got the same issue that Doberman Dogs have where they look like the sort of creature that likes to snack on toddler's faces whilst actually having personalities made of marshmallow fluff. This vehicle is unnecessarily menacing and I think nothing short of an airbrushed Epic Van Wizard will correct this. People see this van pull up and lean over and squint suspiciously at me when the driver's side door opens, and then look moderately confused when, instead of Charles Manson, a small, potato-shaped creature with neon purple hair and a statistically unlikely assortment of dogs emerges.

My own two dogs, Herschel the Hanukkah Goblin/Corgi and Charleston Chew The Taco Dumpster Dog, Do Not Like The Van. Even with the bed in it, they have a tendency to slide and roll around in the back, and both WILL chew through dog saftey belts or other attempts to secure them in there.

On the other hand, my house mate's dog, an exceptionally tall standard poodle whom we lovingly call "The Creature", loves the Van because SHE wears her doggy seat-belt with only mild complaining and gets to sit up in the passenger seat like A People.

Also like A People, The Creature likes to stand and walk around on her hind legs. It doesn't hurt her and it's entirely voluntary, but every so often I will feel a hand on my arm and instead of my husband or friend, it's a canine that's taller than I am on her hind legs who wants to stare at my face with soulful, concerned eyes. The Creature's favorite thing is that she is exactly the right height for me to hold her arm in Genteel Fashion and walk around the pet food or hardware store with her like I'm a count escorting a debutante around a royal ball.

---

As it stands, I am set to inherit this vehicle whenever my Honda gives up the ghost, and I fully intend to paint an Epic Van Wizard on it when that time comes.

The other peculiarity of The Van is that while Dad did manage to successfully install all his after-market electronics, not all the electronics get along. Sometimes, they fight for Dominance. The Terabyte Music Player and the Backup Camera have a particularly contentious relationship, and turning on the music has about a 25% chance of turning on the backup camera as well, and turning on the Backup Camera is equally likely to turn on the music.

Firthermore, The Van has a favorite song.

I am not kidding that Dad filled an entire terabyte hard drive with music and the software to sort it via the radio controls, but of all the Early Boomer Dad Rock (Kingston Trio over The Eagles) and Irish Folk and Symphonies and the entire discography of Weird Al Yankovic, The Van's favorite song- The one it picks to play as victory music every time it beats the Backup Camera at their weird electronic game of rock-paper-scissors -is The Liberty Bell March by John Phillip Sousa.

You all know this song already.

...but in case you've forgotten the tune:

youtube

Yeah.

The Van's favorite song is the goddamn Monty Python's Flying Circus Theme Music.

It does not play this song at a normal volume.

Every time I turn on the Backup Camera and it manages to turn the music player on as well, The Van insists on absolutely blasting this nonsense on at the maximum volume it's physically capable of producing, which I know is loud enough to be heard from the Denver International Airport's Pickup zone when they Van decided to start playing it from the economy lot about half a mile away.

Perhaps it's The Van's way of honoring the aesthetic sensibilities and sonic enthusiasm of Mr. Sousa.

...I can't help but wonder if the purpose of an Epic Van Wizard is to control this sort of faerie-like malarkey, and channel these chaotic energies into things like Spell of Don't Break Down In Nevada or Enchantment Of Always Have Good Parking.

---

So last Friday the 13th, I get a call from my friend and housemate, at said airport.

It's roughly 11PM at night, and I have already retired for the evening. I am in the exact minimum of clothing required to be a decent housemate and not scandalize the neighbors should I happen to walk by a window. My feet are up. There is a cat in my lap and fictional British people murdering each other in highly inventive fashion on the tv. -But my friend has returned from her friend's wedding,and either American or United Airlines has managed to lose her luggage, including, among other valuable possessions, the keys to her car. ...So she cannot just drive home as originally planned.

There are, as luck would have it, her spare set of keys not eight feet from me.

Being a good and decent person, I agree to bring the spare keys to her so she may get home before daybreak and not spend a semester's worth of tuition on an uber across the greater Denver traffic jam.

Being also that she Loves Activities, and it's her mom we're going to pick up, I elect to take along The Creature.

I am primarily focused on remembering how to get to the airport and not leaving my friend's spare keys on the counter, so I throw on a pair of flip-flops, step outside, remember that it's AUTUMN and my minimal evening attire is not sufficient thermal protection, step back in, grab the first coat in the closet I lay hands on, pull it on, check that I have her keys again and leave.

The trip to the airport is largely unremarkable, save that it becomes necessary for me to put on sunglasses to drive, despite it being nearly the witching hour and almost entirely darker than the inside of a cow.

It's necessary because this blissful darkness of night is violently punctured by a startling number of cars that seem to have installed miniaturized but no less powerful lighthouse bulbs in where their headlights ought to go so the oncoming traffic and sports cars that insist on tailgating me in the slow lane alike illuminate the road and my mirrors with the kind of radiance I'd normally associate with the arrival of a Seraphim.

I arrive at the distant highly discounted airport car lot where my housemate is waiting, deeply apologetic. It's nothing. I say. Once I see that your car starts up, I'm gonna go to that 7-11 across the way that I parked in front of, get a slurpee or something and I'll see you at home.

While she is retrieving her vehicle (an equally eccentric but much more stately Subaru that is old enough to be elected to congress) I rifle through the loose change in the glove box and discover that I have exactly $6.66 in small bills and coins. The Subaru, continuing it's long voyage into vehicular immortality, immediately starts up.

Upon her return, we all remember that my friend had all her camping gear in the backseat of the car and there is no room for The Creature to ride home with her parent, so I again assure her it's nothing, and will just take The Creature into the 7-11 with me. She is trained as a service animal and needs the practice after the plague.

I wave my friend off and turn to enter the 7-11.

I promptly trip over the jutting back bumper of The Van and fall, cartoonishly, face-first onto the sidewalk.

Fortunately, I have a lot of practice falling on my face, and have learned not to throw my hands out but instead cover my face, so my unexpected self-inflicted attempted curb-stomping lightly scrapes my hairline and nothing else -my sunglasses even stay in place- and I get up and resume my quest for a slurpee.

It's well known that the airport is a lawless place, and the 7-11 across from the discounted airport parking at the stroke of midnight is no exception.

I know it's the stroke of Midnight because there's one of those Audubon society bird-call clocks that makes bird noises, and my arrival is heralded by the twittering call of a Summer Tanager. I am almost charmed enough by the unusual choice of chronological device to excuse the exorbitant Airport-adjacent mark-up of Slurpee prices. I stand at the machine for some time, trying to decide on a size for the price and guess what the fuck "Blue Lighting Blast" is supposed to taste like.

The Creature is being Very Polite but is somewhat agitated, I assume because she *just* saw her mother for the first time in three days and then she LEFT with no explanation, so The Creature is on her hind legs, staring woefully into my eyes, asking to be escorted around the 7-11. Even though that's not what she's not supposed to be doing, there's nobody else in here, so I let her hang off my arm and discuss various Slurpee Flavor options with her.

We eventually decide on an experiment in which I try a Small Blue Lightning Blast, and discover it tastes a bit like licking a nintendo cartridge but in a pleasantly satisfying way.

I go up to pay and realize something is amiss.

The Cashier is a young man staring at me with wide eyes, one had over the register and the other wrapped up in his rosary.

I look down at myself.

In my haste to reunite my friend with her spare keys and service animal, I had left the house in the following accoutrements:

Flip Flops. Not matching. It's below freezing outside. That last part is not particularly odd footwear for the weather in for Colorado, but it's an important detail for the rest of the ensemble.

Assorted scrapes, bruises, cuts and welts on my arms and legs that come with doing outdoor work and living in a house with three dogs and a fully-clawed cat that all want to be in my lap all the time. It's cold out, so vasoconstriction has pulled the blood away from my skin, a trait that served my ancestors well during the last Ice Age, but leaves me with pale skin to contrast the various wounds and I look like a corpse that fell out of the back of a pickup truck.

The black Bootyshorts with "CRYPTID" painted in bright red gothic font across my ass, that @theshitpostcalligrapher gave me for my wedding present.

A peculiar but extremely comfortable garment that straddles the line between "Lacy Camisole" and "Industrial-Strength Sports Bra" like the Ever Given straddling the Suez Canal. It is also Bright Red. with black accents.

The Jacket I had grabbed out of the closet, which is in fact, a black Velour Dinner Jacket.

The Tokyo-Ghoul inspired reusable anti-covid mask a friend made me with the set of Coyote Teeth.

My sunglasses, which are shaped like a Halloween Bat. The lenses are the wings and the body is the nose bridge. It is ALSO bright red.

A Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle that I have been audibly affectionately calling "Dear Creature" who is hanging off my arm like she's my Prom Date.

The Very Large and remarkably Humanoid Poodle is ALSO dressed up in a black Dog Sweater that has white bones printed on it to look like its an X-ray jacket showing off her skeleton.

I look like I am taking my Very Fancy Werewolf Girlfriend to a particularly casual Dinner Party for Vampires, but the thing that's really selling it and probably alarming the kid the most is the fun accessory I acquired in the parking lot not five minutes earlier:

The "Small Scrape At my Hairline" is actually a painless but PROFUSELY bleeding head wound that I had somehow entirely failed to notice covering my face, neck, decolletage and magnificent cleavage with blood like a Tarantino Film Extra.

This does explain why The Creature has been delicately trying to use her bodyweight to push me down onto the floor for the last ten minutes. So I don't injure myself while we wait for the paramedics she hoped this kid called to arrive, you see.

The Creature has such a High and Naive Opinion of humanity.

I decide this social situation is already fucked, and the only way out is through, and with haste, before I start dripping on the floor.

"Hi there!" I say cheerfully, to indicate this is a visually alarming but not terribly serious situation. "Just a Small Slurpee!"

The Cashier has entered the relevant code into the register before I finish the sentence. His gaze flicks off me just long enough to look at the total, and he grips his Rosary harder.

$6.66

"Oh cool! I have exact change!" I say, taking the money out of my as-yet-unsanguined pocket without looking and slap it down on the counter. "You have a good night and be safe out there!" I wave, leaving.

I get in The Van, mortified, buckle The Creature up, and as I make to leave, I have to put it in reverse, which automatically turns on the backup Camera.

It also turns on the music player.

I make eye contact with the cashier as the dulcet tones of John Phillip Sousa boom from the van hard enough to make the windshield and the windows of the 7-11 rattle for the nine-and-a-half seconds I have to wait to be able to turn the volume back down. Not knowing what else to to, I give him a thumbs up, and leave.

Anyway, now I know what my Future Van Wizard has got to be dressed like, and what their familiar is.

---

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#Family Lore #Dogs #It's Halloween babey #friday the 13th #blood mention #I hope that kid had a good night and at least one of his friends believed him #Long post #Video

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