By: Bryan Partridge

Before I begin, you need to know that Barnes will tell you a different story. He’ll tell you that Sparky’s hand was lost in the kitchen in a moment of carelessness. He’ll mention that Sparky was a camper and counselor at Camp Lanakila for six years and has no ill feelings towards our community. He’ll tell you that Sparky retired to Florida in 1987 when he was diagnosed with lung cancer, and hasn’t been in the area since. Don McIntosh, our trusted historian, will scare you by mentioning the lore of the hook in place of a hand, but he’ll always end the story by telling you that Brooksiders, the youngest amongst our community, aren’t the target. He’ll convince you that there’s a protective ring around the youngest unit that Sparky refuses to enter. He’ll say that Sparky is far too old to be interested in haunting camp anymore. Well, I’m here to tell you that these men are wrong. Believe me, when I was a camper, I ate those stories up, convincing myself that he no longer existed or haunted the area. These men are trying to protect you with their stories, but that time has passed. He hasn’t retired, he isn’t indifferent to the youngest campers or any campers for that matter, and he’s certainly not going away anytime soon. “How do I know this?” The answer is simple. I’ve seen him; first down by the waterfront; secondly, in his cabin when he kidnapped my brother. Each time, it was the same thing…a man standing in the shadows puffing on a Camel Filtered cigarette. Sometimes he remains in the darkness; with just the glow of his cigarette to be seen. Other times, the remnants of his visits remain behind purposefully. If you’re lucky, the cigarette will be tamped out meaning he’s long gone, but other times, it remains lit on the ground signifying that he’s still close by. Please understand that I tell you all of this because he’s been seen on camp property again. I tell you because we all leave tomorrow and he knows this. He knows where we sleep, where we take overnights. He knows which campers are placed with which counselors. He knows when we leave our tents at night; he knows when we walk to the washhouse in the middle of the night by ourselves. The information I have is true and I wouldn’t lie about something this important. I don’t know how he’s finding out about all of this, but he is. It’s that simple. Please, hear me out and take whatever you want from what I’m going to share with you. When I’m done telling my story, you can believe me, you can question me, you can call me a lunatic. But, when the time comes when you see the faint orange glow in the distance, whether it be on the way to the bathroom, or walking to your friends tent after Taps, don’t say that I didn’t warn you.

It was a solitary birch tree that started this whole mess in the first place; I guess I should start there. It was the cause of the initial accident, as well as what would change the course of one family’s life. The collision erased the memory of the monstrous tree, ripping the entire root system out of the ground. The roots that had solidified themselves for over two hundred years popped as if they were a small sapling just planted and knocked over with the slightest of wind. It was a beautiful tree, the last in a long line of a natural circle of birches. It stood 86 feet tall, which I guess could be another reason for the accident. It stood above the surrounding trees by at least thirty feet, eking its way out to better its position for the sun’s warmth. If you were to ask Barnes, our fearless Camp director about the accident, he’d tell you that it fell naturally in a storm because that would be easier than to tell you what really happened. If you press the issue, he’ll masterfully change the subject. The problem was that the bodies were never found, and the case was never closed. The lead detective was said to be working on the case for several years, but had yet to have any luck in finding the Spicants’ remains. The newspapers tell a story of the events, but they’re at a loss when it comes to the final resting place of those in the accident. If I hadn’t experienced what I did, I’m sure I would have believed his story and gone on with my life…but I guess I wasn’t spared that luxury.

The pilot of the single engine prop plane must not have seen the tree due to the speed he was flying at. It was his mistake to be flying so low, but this was his territory. He’d been flying this route for years. He didn’t need maps or radars; he simply weaved in and out of the trees, knowing that his steady hand and knowledge of the area would guide his small plane. This was his life, his job, his passion…well, at least it was.

He’d taken his wife out for their weekly Sunday afternoon flight. They’d take off out of the Post Mills airport and always started by circling the perimeter of Lake Fairlee, before flying the five mile stretch over to our lake here. It was like any other late summer flight, with the puffy clouds hanging on the hill just behind where shop is. Sparky knew that the conditions were perfect for low flying adventures. After he’d circled Eagle’s Bluff and Winships, he followed the perimeter of the lake to the north shore before coming back towards the hidden inlet on the south end. He began to gain speed about halfway across the lake, bringing the plane closer to the glassy lake’s surface. He knew that this made Carrie nervous, but she never vocalized her fears. He had been flying since he was a small boy, almost 25 years, and he knew not only this region, but also his plane. They were at almost two hundred miles an hour when they reached the docks at the waterfront. He narrowly missed the set of small bleachers just back from the shoreline, testing his composure and steady hand. When he reached the large field one hundred yards shy of the tree line, he began to pull up. At the speed he was traveling, he needed to do it gradually, but not as gradual as he was. As the plan approached the large farm house that served as the camp’s mess hall, Carrie had her hands pressed against the windows on either side, bracing herself as if she knew what would soon happen.

The right wing clipped the birch traveling at just over 135 miles per hour, severing the wing cleanly and sending the small plane into a spin that would not be righted. The wing splayed in every direction, sending fragments flying everywhere. The sound of the engine attempting to right itself and maintain control was deafening as the plane spun frantically towards the earth. The tree withstood the initial impact, but the force of the collision was too much, sending the tree over on its side. The tree, although tragic, is not the story I’ve come here to tell all of you.

The plane stayed in the air for another sixteen seconds, or so the detectives believed. It hit the ground just above a natural sand pit, to the left of where the camps riflery range now stands. The impact sent trees and soil flying in every direction as the plane’s cabin burrowed its path into the dirt. A large boulder brought the plane to its final resting place with a deafening crunch.

However, when the paramedics arrived, the bodies were missing. Figuring they’d been thrown from the plane, they searched the perimeter for up to a mile in every direction. They searched for almost three days for the couple’s bodies. They had dogs sniffing the entire camp, trying to pick up a scent in case they managed to survive the crash. They knew the plane and the community knew the Sunday afternoon traditions. Lastly, they knew Carrie was pregnant with their first child. The police monitored the hospitals for any sign of their arrival, but after the fourth day, they finally gave up, hoping that they’d died instantly and not had to suffer much.

The local papers read as follows:

Mr. Sparky Pictands and his wife Carrie, died in a plane crash on August 19th, 1982. Avid fliers, they’d spent their life leading tours around the region for countless locals and tourists. Sparky and Carrie were assumed dead on the scene of the accident, but their bodies have not yet been recovered. Memorial Services will be held at the Episcopal Church in Post Mills on Saturday morning at 10:00 am.

From that point, the community kind of forgot about Sparky and his wife. They mourned the loss of the future family they were to have, as well as the members of the community they lost, but as time passed, it was easier to forget than to allow themselves the pain of remembering that somewhere in the woods lies the remains of a family they loved. The problem is that Sparky didn’t forget. He didn’t forget the fact that his wife along with his future was lost. He didn’t forget the fact that he lost an arm just below the elbow. He didn’t forget the days of coming in and out of consciousness, unable to move much other than to tie off his arm in an effort to stop the bleeding. He didn’t forget the fact that the rescue units forgot to look up in the trees during their search. He was unable to forget that it was his fault. The thing that affected him the most was how shocked he was by how quickly people moved on. His parents had swooped into town, sold off the house, all of Sparky’s belongings and headed back to Connecticut. Sparky lost the will to live, but didn’t lose his need for the family he had lost.

Sparky refused to leave the site of the accident, choosing instead to build himself a home to mourn the life of his wife and child. He felt that if his family were gone, he had no right to re-enter society and try to answer the questions that people would surely ask. He could imagine the looks he’d get, the judgment people would pass on to him for his carelessness. People would never treat him or look at him the same and he knew it, especially without a right hand. He began his stay in the woods by digging a large hole, thirty feet in diameter and five feet deep. It took him the better part of a month, especially with only one arm. To stave off infection, Sparky knew that he’d have to deal with his wound, sooner rather than later. He came to the conclusion that the only way was to burn the flesh and cauterize the wound like he’d seen in the old war movies. He took a scrap of the plane, built a fire and began the long process of heating the piece until it glowed red. They say the scream could be heard for miles, with no one knowing where it was coming from. It was more of a guttural moan, filled with the anguish of all that he’d lost. He also realized that with only one arm, the process of building a home would be tiresome and painstaking. From his tool kit that was stored in the back of the plane, he took his wire cutters, and began cutting into a section of the plane. He cut out two large hooks for what he hoped to be a solution to the problem. With the two hooks, almost identical in size, he put one on top of the other and held them over the fire until they began to fuse as one. He beat down on the edges with a rock, trying to smooth out the edges. He waited for the makeshift hook to cool, and then strapped it tightly to his elbow with his leather belt. He now had two arms to work with.

The following morning, Sparky began the long process of taking the plane apart and throwing the pieces into the hole. It took him almost another month, into late October to finish burying the remnants. He kept one piece of the plane as a keepsake. The window that his wife’s hand was pressed firmly against as the plane went down surprisingly did not shatter. The hand print was still fixed on the glass, and although every part of Sparky wanted to get rid of the memory of all that he lost, he set it aside, knowing that he’d cherish it later. With winter coming, he knew that he needed shelter. It had been a good fall for bonfire wood, so Sparky began walking down each night, taking the good wood and walking it back to the sight of the crash. He slept very little, understanding that the first snow fall was right around the corner. I’m not sure how he made it through the winter without freezing to death. Some might assume that he had a little help. Unfortunately, I don’t think we’ll ever have the answer to that question. Needless to say, it was quite a shock the following summer when a riflery counselor from Australia asked Barnes who lived in the cabin behind that range.

“There’s no cabin behind the range,” was Barnes obvious reply.

That night, an announcement was made to the entire camp. Campers and counselors were told that the area behind the riflery range was off limits. Anyone caught walking around up there would be sent home immediately, no questions asked. That seemed a bit strange, seeing as typically no place was off limits at camp. Rumor spread quickly that there was a new cabin up in the woods, occupied by a crazed madman with a hook for a right hand. A few campers even claimed to have been up there and seen two sets of bunk beds for campers he planned on taking. There was also the rumor that the cabin lacked windows and it’s occupant only came out at night. Again, these were just rumors…at least we hope.

The first sighting came on while I was on duty during the summer of 1995. I was a first year tent counselor and seeing as it was near the end of camp, I wanted to do something special with my campers. We’d planned a commando mission in the dark, stopping by tents to scare people by scratching on their platform floors. Our path was simple. We’d creep slowly around the unit, making sure to scare every tent in our path. As we rounded the corner of the counselor tent, I smelled the smoke for the first time. Cigarette smoke at camp is not a normal smell, so it pierced my nostrils like smelling salts after getting knocked unconscious. Standing on the bridge by the stream, a mere twenty feet from the unit was a tall figure, wearing a black wool hat, black pants, and a camouflage jacket. He simply stood, gazing up at the unit with a lit cigarette sticking out of his mouth. I could see the red ember brighten his face every time he took a drag. His stillness was frightening and I wasn’t sure if he’d seen us. I grabbed my campers by their sweatshirts, and together we slowly made our way around the corner of the counselor tent and back to the unit.

“Who is that?” Kyle whispered, obviously frightened by my reaction.

“Get back to the tent, now!” When you get there, I want you to get into your beds and stay there until I get back. Do you understand me?”

“Who was that?”

“Now!” I whispered in as stern a voice as I could muster.

I snuck around and came to the top of the hill between cabin three and tent five, figuring that the person would be long gone, having been identified, but as I came into view, there he stood as he was before, staring in my direction.

“I don’t know who you are, but this is private property,” I yelled, knowing I’d probably be waking up the entire unit.

He took a large pull of his cigarette, but didn’t move.

“I’ve sent someone to call the police. Leave now or you’ll have them to deal with.”

“One counselor in a unit with 45 young boys,” he spoke in a voice I didn’t recognize. “That doesn’t sound so safe to me. Have a nice night, Mr. Partridge.”

And with that, he dropped his cigarette, turned and began walking towards the tennis courts and across the meadow. How did he know my name? Why was he standing outside of my unit? How did he know how many campers were in the unit?

The second and third incident were minor, but important when thinking about the fourth. I’d been up to my brothers unit where he was a cabin counselor, wanting to fill him in on the true events of what happened, rather than the rumors that had begun to spread. Being two years older than me, I knew that he’d have a better perspective on dealing with trespassers on camp property. When I got to the part of my story about the man smoking, my brother’s face dropped.

“He smokes?” my brother asked, although he already knew the answer.

“Well, he was at the time,” I responded, not knowing why it mattered. “He even dropped it and walked off without putting it out.

With that, my brother went over to his bed, crouched down and pulled out a tin can covered with a plastic lid. He walked up and opened the lid. The smell was wretched and almost made me throw up on the spot.

“What the hell do you have a can of cigarette butts for?” I asked disgusted. “Since when did you start smoking?”

“I don’t smoke you idiot! I found these in the meadow about thirty feet from my cabin. They were scattered about, but you could tell that whoever it was had been smoking a lot of cigarettes in that one spot.”

“What does this have to do with me?” I asked, still not picking up on why my brother had kept a half full tin of cigarette remnants.

“The guy you saw watching your unit was a smoker. Now I find a pile of cigarette butts by my cabin in a completely different unit. That’s not a coincidence. He’s watching us.”

The following evening, I came down to the mainhouse to a shock. On my table was a piece of paper, which looked like any other from a distance. As I approached the table, I noticed that a cigarette had been put out on the table top. On the paper was a map of the camp, sketched intricately with each unit and all their tents and cabins represented. The scale was off, but it was obvious that whoever had left this note knew camp. The cigarette had been put out on top of one specific cabin, my brother’s. Coincidence…god, I hope so. On the top left corner, was one sentence scribbled almost ineligibly. “You can’t watch them all.” Surprisingly, it was signed with a name, “Sparky.”

I went right over to my brother’s table, showed him the drawing, and asked him what I should do.

“Leave this to me,” was all that he said.

My brother disappeared just after the meal that same day. We checked his unit and his kids had not seen him. We checked where he was assigned to free evening and he hadn’t been there either. I walked around camp, asking anyone I could see. It wasn’t until almost eight thirty when I thought about the cabin in woods that we weren’t allowed to go to. The man had said “you can’t watch them all,” but I figured he was talking about the campers. Certainly, there was no way that he could have taken my brother.

“There’s no way it’s him,” I said to myself as I thought about the prospect of walking up to the woods by myself towards the cabin. I quickly ran down to my tent to get a flashlight and started back up the road towards the cabin that was deemed off limits. I was sure that he wasn’t at the cabin, but I needed to be positive. As I climbed the steep incline, I realized that I’d come unprepared in case of an altercation. I grabbed a baseball sized rock and kept it at my side, gripping it tightly and ready to throw at a moment’s notice. It might not injure him greatly, but the rock could stun him enough to allow me time to find my brother.

As I inched my way towards the cabin, the first thing I smelled was cigarette smoke. The smell brought the memories of the night I confronted him back to the surface and right there I should have turned around, but it was my brother for god’s sake. “He’s my brother, he’s my brother…” I kept repeating to myself, trying to convince my feet to lift themselves off the ground, one in front of the other. “Doug,” I whispered loudly, hoping that he’d magically appear and we could head back down to the end of free evening. As I came to the opening of the cabin where a door once stood, I looked down to see a burning ember of a cigarette that looked to have been abandoned before being properly stamped out. “Doug,” I whispered again, barely audible and without the assumption that I’d get a response.

“Your next step will be your last if you come any further,” I heard from inside the darkened cabin. “And I’d recommend that your flashlight remain off if you know what’s good for you.

“I’m looking for my brother,” I squeaked, unable to fathom how he could have seen my flashlight in the darkened night.

“Your brother ain’t your business anymore. Go on back to your little tent before someone gets hurt.”

“My brother…Where is he?”

With that, he struck another blue tip match with his left arm and the entire cabin was lit up for a brief second. As he lit his cigarette, I saw my brother lying in the corner with his back against the wall. His eyes were closed and he didn’t seem to be conscious.

“Satisfied?” the man asked, pulling on his smoke. “Now, I’ll ask you again. Please leave.”

“What did you do to him?” I screamed, wanting to run to his side, but not sure of the consequences that awaited me.

“I’ve told Barnes to leave me be for years now, but you kids think that it’s all fun and games. This is my home god dammit, and it’s going to stay that way. You don’t know how I’ve suffered, and you never will. You don’t know what I lost and I think it’s time that you do!”

“If you’ll just give me my brother back, I’ll leave and you’ll never see me again,” I said hoping for an easy way out of the situation.

“Let’s get something straight here,” he snapped. “You’re in my cabin. You’re trespassing on my land. You don’t make the rules! I’ll tell you when it’s time for you to leave, with or without your brother.” With that, he took another long pull of his cigarette, and flicked it towards me, almost grazing my right ear.

“I mean no disrespect sir, but I’m not leaving without my brother. The only reason I’m at your cabin is because you have my brother. Give him back and I’ll happily leave.”

With that, he stood quickly, straightening himself into a towering being. As he walked across the cabin towards my brother, I saw the makeshift hook. When he was within two feet of my brother, he leaned down, swiped a blue tip match across the floor and lit another cigarette. He towered over my brother and stood there staring, presumably trying to decide what his next move would be. Slowly, he lowered the piece of silver, hooked the back of my brother’s shirt and began dragging him towards me. My brother’s body was limp and his head hung down onto his chest. I stood my ground, wanting to seem larger than I was. When he was within a foot of me, I saw the face that would be embedded in my mind for years to come. His beard was red and tangled in dreads, hanging down well past his shirt collar. His eyes were darkened by lack of sun and excess fatigue. He smelled of campfire and cigarettes, not a pleasant combination.

“Here,” he said, breaking the silence, while dropping my brother to the floor at my feet. “What does it matter anyways? It’s not like you’ll listen.”

“You don’t really give a person a chance to listen,” I responded, not sure of whether I should check my brother’s pulse or not. I was still transfixed by the hook that lay at this man’s side.

“Leave me be.” And with that, he turned and walked back into the small cabin and slumped down against the wall and sat staring at me.

“Tell me what you did to my brother,” I yelled, now wanting answers.

“Tell you what happened?” he yelled. “Why don’t I tell you what happened to my wife, my child? Why don’t I tell you what it’s like to hang in a tree for four days, wanting to die, but unable to? Why don’t I tell you what it’s like to lose your hand and have it replaced with a hook that people gawk at? How about I share with you what it’s like to crash your plane, lose everything that’s important to you and then live everyday where the plane came to it’s final resting spot?”

“Excuse me?” I stumbled on my words. “My son would have been a camper this year. Try living with that every day of your life! Try forgetting about the accident and then one day finding a fragment of the plane half buried in the ground just outside your cabin. Try realizing that you’ll never get your family back.”

“I’m sorry for your…”

“Don’t patronize me,” he interrupted. “I don’t need your sympathy, nor want it. Your brother came up here tonight to protect you from me and we can see how that went. Don’t come up here again. This cabin is off limits! You tell Barnes that we had an agreement and if he’s not sticking to it, then neither will I.

I grabbed my brother who had begun to show signs of life, knowing that our conversation had come to an end, awkwardly put him over my shoulder and began my walk down the hill.

That was the end of Sparky for awhile…well until several years later. Rumor has it, several kids tried to visit his cabin in 1997 and another map appeared, this time with a specific tent burnt out with a cigarette butt. In 2000, a counselor decided to visit the cabin late one night and another map arrived on Barnes’ desk the following morning. This time, the counselor cabin was burnt out and his name was mentioned in the note. “Last chance Barnes. You hold up your end. I’ll hold up mine.”

Since 2000, people have heeded the warnings about going up there. We’ve lived happily as a camp, without the constant worry that we’ll be watched or visited by a man with a hook. That is until yesterday. A note was placed on my table before breakfast. It was the same map as always, hand drawn and intricately sketched. There was another cigarette burn, precisely placed on top of a specific tent. At the bottom of the page was a simple line. “Before they leave, I will have my revenge.”

I don’t know who went up there, but please, please, for your own sake, come find me. You didn’t know, probably thought it was funny, maybe went up there on a dare, but I have to tell you, he’s angry. It’s been six years without a word, and to get a note worries me to no end. He was very specific with the tent he’s chosen, but you can never be to sure. It may be a decoy, a distraction. For that reason, counselors, I implore you to go to bed with your campers tonight. Ask your campers if they did go up to the cabin. If they did, come find me immediately as a group. Campers, to you I can only say that if you see that faint glow coming from outside your unit, wake up your counselors immediately. Don’t be brave. Don’t think that you can deal with it yourself. Don’t run across the unit to another tent. If you’re on your way to the washhouse, turn around and get back to your tent. If you do choose to tempt fate, I wish you luck, but again, don’t say that I didn’t warn you. Whatever you do, don’t leave the circle of your unit. That is your sanctuary tonight.

I don’t know if Sparky is listening as I tell this story. I assume he is, waiting for the evening activities to be concluded. I’ve been looking around for the glow of a cigarette, but haven’t seen one. If he is here, I’d like to tell him that we are sorry. We’re sorry for your loss Sparky, but there’s nothing we can do to fix what happened to your family. We’re sorry that you’ve gone through life feeling robbed of all that you love. Most of all, I’m sorry that someone broke your trust. Please understand that they didn’t know. They’re just a kid, a kid with their whole life ahead of them. Think about that before you act. We’re going home tomorrow and you’ll have this entire place to yourself again. Just give us the luxury of leaving in peace…please.