marshland's Graveard

Marshland’s Graveyard

By Daniel G., 8th Grade

It was time. Hugging his mother goodbye,

Charlie raced up to the old yellow

school bus, his mother still shouting the

regular last minute reminders over the

howl of the wind. “And don’t forget!”

she shouted, “Do not wander off! Stick

together!” Charlie grinned and waved

goodbye to his mother as his bus ride

began. As the hours dwindled down,

the bus pulled into the camp deep

into the night. The tired students filed

off the bus. Charlie was still talking

with his best friend Ben. As the other

students got off the bus, their camp

instructor, Mr. Kolmard, met them at

ground level doing a head count. “Fifty

eight ... fifty nine ... sixty ... sixty! A total

of sixty students,” he said to himself.

“Hopefully we can keep it that way,” he

added under his breath. Mr. Kolmard

introduced himself and started leading

the children to their campsite. As the

children continued walking on the mushy

ground, Mr. Kolmard stopped. There was

a fork in the road. He turned and looked

at the kids. “Guys,” he said. “If any of

you ever come this way, ALWAYS take

the right side!” he warned. “If you forget,

remember the saying: right is always

right!” He looked around until they all

nodded to confirm they understood.

Charlie raised his hand. “Yes, you?”

Mr. Kolmard pointed at Charlie. “Um,”

began Charlie. “Why do we have to take

the right side? Why not the left?” Mr.

Kolmard looked into Charlie’s eyes. “If

I told y’all you wouldn’t believe me,” he

shuddered. This only got the students

more curious. Mr. Kolmard looked around

anxiously. “There’s a graveyard.” He

pointed down the left side of the path.

“Except ...” there was another pause.

“The graveyard is said to be haunted!

Marshland’s graveyard is what they call

it! It’s no regular graveyard! The ghost

of Howie Winston Marshland haunts it!”

Everyone gasped. If the counselor told the story, it must be true! Ben raised

his hand slowly and questioned. “W-w-

why is it called Marshland’s graveyard?”

he asked. Mr. Kolmard looked around

one last time. “It was because of the

Marshland incident that happened in

this camp about one hundred years

ago.” he continued, “there was a camp

counselor. He was murdered ... by his

own students ... he was buried here

in this very graveyard! That’s how it

was coined ‘Marshland’s Graveyard’.”

Everyone stared at Mr. Kolmard in

disbelief. No one had any words to say.

“Let’s get to the campsite!” Mr. Kolmard

said marching ahead at a quicker pace.

The night passed uneventfully. The next

evening, the campers gathered around

a campfire bowl. That is, everyone

besides Charlie and Ben. They were

off to fulfill a dare initiated by Ben.

“Ben?” asked Charlie with a bit of fear

in his voice. “Yeah?” said Ben looking

at Charlie in the dusk. “You’re sure you

wanna do this?” he asked. “Of course

2 ...” said Ben with an uneasy chuckle.

The boys backstepped the way they

came until they got back to the fork

in the road. They stared down the left

side. Then, a wave of

memories came flooding through

Charlie’s head. His mother’s warnings,

the counselor’s story, and the eerie

look of the graveyard ahead. There’s no

turning back now he thought. Charlie

followed Ben towards Marshland’s

Graveyard. The deeper the boys walked

down the path, the scarier it got. They

finally reached the haunted graveyard.

Charlie and Ben walked up to the small,

rusty gate and gently unhooked it,

pushing it open. CREEEAAAAKKKKK.

The duo shuttered at the sound

and walked inside, closing the gate

behind them. A coyote howled in the

distance, the sound echoing all around

the boys. Bats flew out of the leafless

trees, barely missing the boys’ heads.

Charlie screamed. Ben laughed. “You

afraid?” he taunted Charlie. Charlie

stood his back straight up and tried to

give a definite no. “Where do you think

Marshall’s grave is?” Charlie asked Ben

as he laid out his sleeping back. “Uhhh

I’m not so sure...” replied Ben. “Hopefully

not around us,” he said with a chuckle.

“Where’s your flashlight?” he asked Ben.

“Oh, no!” exclaimed Ben. “I must have

dropped it down the path.” Charlie bit

his lip. “I can come with you,” he offered.

“Nah, I’m good. I will be back in a second,”

Ben replied as he hopped off before

Charlie could protest. Charlie quickly

jumped into his sleeping back. All was

quiet. The campfire was out, and Ben

still hadn’t returned. Charlie gulped and

tried convincing himself that Ben was

playing a prank on him. Then he heard

a groan. “Who’s there?!” Charlie shouted

into the darkness, waving his flashlight

around feverishly. No one answered him.

“Ben! Stop! You’re not funny!” Charlie

exclaimed. Still ... no answer ... Charlie

shrieked and stood up trying to match

his beam of light to the sound to identify

the source. “BOO!” Something shouted

behind him and Charlie bolted. He

didn’t look to see what was behind him.

Charlie started running all around the

graveyard, oblivious of which way was

the way out. He then tripped over a

gravestone. He crashed to the ground.

Autumn leaves crinkled around him as

Charlie rolled in pain. He stood up only

to realize his flashlight was shattered

on the ground. He heard the sound

again. He took off again, jumping over

gravestones. Charlie skidded to a halt in

front of a large tomb. It opened up, and

Charlie knew exactly who it was! The

ghost of Howie Winston Marshland!

Charlie tried running, but to no avail.

The ghost flew right over him, matching

and countering his every move. The

ghost laughed, “MUAHAHAHAHA!”

Charlie screamed as the ghost grabbed

him, dragging Charlie into the tomb

with him forever, finally achieving his

revenge for his murder those many

years ago ..