One day Cropsy woke up from a fever whiskey dream to come face to face with the death itself, or at least, something like death. Little candles lit up the skeletal empty eye sockets giving it a sinister look, like some decaying black pumpkin rotting on a porch, long over looked since Hallow’s Eve. It stunk of festering flesh, rancid black meat oozed and dribbled off the cranium, melting like a black candle all over Cropsy’s bed. In a rush of panic he batters at the severed head before him, flailing like so many campers he had scared senseless in the past. Cropsy was a cruel man, mean spirited, he had this evil way of looking at people, and he took great pride in frightening campers half to death. Only this time it was he who was the butt of the joke…he would be scared half to death…he who would feel the final wraith of all those tormented children….
The shed erupts into flames…a living inferno…the fire dances across his frame as he looks on in wide eyed terror…it’s waltz brings pain…a baptism by flame…it transmogrifies…devouring flesh….a hellish mutation most grotesque…whittles away the man until there is man no more…whittles him down…like sharpening garden sheers….it eats at man until only animal remains…the pain renders his mind to pieces....until there is only one thought…one emotion that drives this hollowed out husk of a man…REVENGE…must have REVENGE….
And under the cool, carbon scorched earth of Camp Blackfoot…beneath the screeching bats singing their ancient nocturnal songs…in a sea of darkness…he waits…
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