Chris Hackett

Laura Kearney

Max Brinly

Kaitlyn

Abigail

Ryan

Dylan

Nick

Emma

Travis Hackett

Constance & Jedediah Hackett

Eliza

Silas (‘White Wolf’)

Camp History Set

Hackett History Set

Harum Scarum Fragments

Radio Loop

Tracks & Prints

A story-driven, PG-13 survival-mystery set at Hackett’s Quarry summer camp. Play as a returning counselor, a last-minute hire, a townie with history, or step into respectful, clearly fictionalized portrayals of canon (Chris, Laura, Max, Kaitlyn, Ryan, etc.). Tone: campfire humor meets creeping dread—banter, choices, consequences, and the feeling that the trees know your name. No graphic violence or gore; we imply, cut away, and focus on tension, relationships, and clever problem-solving. Choices branch scenes, not game-overs. Themes: loyalty, family secrets, responsibility, and the curse that lingers after the campers go home.

Campfire Banter (PG-13)

Radio Repeat

The Hacketts

Town & County

Friends of the Forest

The Lodge

Boathouse & Lake

Cabins A–D

Radio Shack

Ridge Trail

A pale, fast thing seen at the edge of frames; wrong like moonlight in a locked room.

If you send a message after midnight, the typing bubbles stall and you’ll hear three knocks from somewhere you can’t afford to check. Emma swears it’s just bad signal; Ryan logs the times; Dylan named the knocks ‘Left, Right, Middle.’

The ‘Hag of Hackett’s Quarry’ reads your texts.

‘Safety,’ they say, but the detour always sends you past Hackett property. The cones arrive before the storm.

Road crews close the bridge whenever the barometer drops.

Lines go taut, then slack, like something big just sighed. Divers stopped trying after the flood of ’79 (or was it ’89?).

Lake Septimus has no true bottom.

Seen at the tree line, pale as peeled bark. Footprints don’t match any guidebook.

The white animal isn’t a deer and doesn’t cast the right shadow.

Trophies are shiny. So are old stories that bite back.

Hacketts buy silver polish by the crate—for trophies, right?

High Priestess on the pool bleachers. Hierophant in the arts shed. Someone is dealing a hand, one card at a time.

Tarot cards turn up where they shouldn’t.

Canoe Regatta

Talent Show

Founder’s Day Picnic

Camp Games Finale

Movie on the Lawn

The final van coughs twice, then dies with a sigh that sounds almost relieved. Heat wobbles above the asphalt; the forest presses in, all resin and old rain. Chris kicks gravel, offers a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and says the road crew will swing by ‘first thing.’ The sun slides behind the ridge like it has somewhere better to be. In the lodge, trophies gleam in the dim; a bulletin board bristles with Polaroids and warnings. Out by the lake, a buoy clinks—one, two, three—then stops, as if someone pinched the night shut. Your phone spins ‘No Service’ like it’s a joke it’s told all summer. Behind the desk, a key ring waits with tags the color of fallen apples. You could inventory cabins, run a headcount on leftover gear, or pretend the sound you heard under Cabin B was just a raccoon with steel-toed boots. Thunder rolls far off, lazy and mean. The lodge lights flicker once, steady, like a wink. Stay busy, stay together, stay curious. The camp doesn’t love silence.

The Last Van

Someone smuggled sparkling apple juice into paper cups and called it tradition. A half-melted sheet cake slumps on the rec hall table: GOOD JOB, PROBABLY. Laughter ricochets off rafters; Dylan’s guitar finds a tune the radio forgot. Through the open doors, the court glows chalk-white, and the forest beyond looks like a closed mouth. Kaitlyn is running inventory with one hand and the group chat with the other; Ryan’s listening the way some people pray. When the power hum dips, everyone pretends not to hear it. Your cup sweats in your fingers. A walkie on the wall hisses, then repeats the same three words, clipped, like they’re trying to be polite. You step outside to the kind of dusk that makes colors go honest. On the steps: a single, damp paw print. Too big for a dog. Too clean for a bear. The wind shifts; the pines lean closer. Inside, someone kills the lights to tell a story. You don’t catch the first line, because something answers from the tree line with a sound that isn’t quite animal and isn’t quite wind. Time to check the breakers. Or the boathouse. Or your pulse.

Counselors’ Farewell

The detour sign arrived sometime between noon and now, orange bright as a bruise. The county swears the bridge is ‘temporarily unsafe,’ which feels like calling a bonfire ‘warm.’ Chris hands over a lodge master key that’s been polished by three generations of stress. ‘We keep the kids safe,’ he says, then corrects himself: ‘We keep each other safe.’ The sky inks over from lakeward; mosquitoes rise like bad ideas. Past the archery range, a shape moves with the conviction of someone who doesn’t care whether you see it. Gravel pops under your boots as you follow the path you’ve walked a hundred times—except the path has walked you first. At the infirmary, the fridge hum jerks into an off-key drone; a drawer you shut earlier is open just enough to be a suggestion. The camp map on the wall has a thumbtack you don’t remember, pinning CABIN 3 with unusual optimism. Through the window: a pale scrap on the porch rail, snagged like a shed skin of daylight. You bring the master key up in your palm. The door breathes out.

Road Closed

The dock gives that old man creak it saves for people who tell it secrets. The water wears dusk like a borrowed jacket; minnows spark against the posts. Somewhere across the lake, a buoy bell rings twice and then remembers it’s alone. Emma’s tripod stands abandoned, a perfect shot waiting for a subject who thought better of it. On the planks: scuffs like somebody danced with wet shoes and worse intentions. Your reflection breaks when something passes under the surface, too smooth to be driftwood. Wind lifts a strand of caution tape caught on the ladder; black letters flutter: DO NOT—then water hush. Behind you, the boathouse door rattles a question. Inside, rows of life vests hang like patient lungs; a wet footprint dries in the shape of a choice. Your phone camera opens to night vision you didn’t select. It shows the doorframe. And something else. The image grain purrs. The boards tick. The lake, louder now, says: closer.

Lake Whisper

Cabin windows go black in a wave, each square a swallowed star. You do the rounds because somebody has to. The flash of your torch finds bunk graffiti older than your paycheck and newer than the truth. A fan left spinning thunks, thunks, thunks like a slow, polite knock. On a top bunk, a paperback sags open to a dog-eared page where a girl decides badly. The air tastes like ozone and old pine cleaner; under it, something animal and metallic, a distant coin on the tongue. From beneath the cabin comes a scrape, then stillness so complete you hear your own blink. The crawlspace latch is not where you left it. You crouch, angle the light, and the beam catches twin eyeshine low and close, set too far apart. The floor breathes. From the porch, rain starts, simple as a plan you’ll break. The walkie at your hip wakes just long enough to say your name wrong. When it dies again, you realize the night has been practicing. You might as well answer.