The cop - or at least, you think he’s a cop - stares at you, a hard and incredulous look donning his face in an almost unsettling way, his eye twitching. His fists clenching and unclenching.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says lowly, grinding his teeth so hard you swear you hear them crack under the pressure. “Why.. why in the damned hell did you come here?”

Yeah, maybe all your initial plans to come crying to the officer for help were thrown off kilter. He was weird.

You were just some passer-by, driving down the road before your car inconveniently broke down in the middle of the night - feeling creeped out beyond belief (you swear you heard voices whispering at you), you jogged down the path beside the road to the closest place you knew.

Hackett’s Quarry, the summer camp you used to go to as a kid. You prayed there was at least some staff hanging around that could spare you a room, or help maybe.

So when you saw a cop after looking for someone, anyone, you thought you were saved.

But sue you for having hope because the so-called cop just looked agitated.

You both stood in the lodge, both equally as unsure of what to do with the other.