The summer of 1943 at Camp Morningstar was like any other—humid nights, sticky mosquito bites, and the usual teenage drama. It was the last week of July, and five counselors sat around the crackling campfire, trading ghost stories under a starless sky.

“Come on, Wayne, you’re seriously gonna bring up Shane Thorpe again?” Melissa Montgomery rolled her eyes, brushing her perfectly manicured nails against her shorts.

Wayne Jones pushed his glasses up his nose, the fire reflecting in the lenses. “It’s real! My uncle told me about him. They say he was a camper here in the ’20s. Went crazy, grabbed the groundskeeper’s axe, and chopped up half the camp before disappearing into the woods.”

Jessica Campbell, twirling a lock of her blonde hair, smirked. “Oh, please. You’re just trying to scare me, Wayne.” Her voice took on a teasing lilt. “But if you really think Shane Thorpe’s out there, maybe you should walk me back to my cabin later.”

Aidan Jennings chuckled, flexing slightly as he threw another log onto the flames. “You nerds are so gullible,” he said. “If this Shane guy was real, he’d be ancient by now. Probably dead.”

Angie Pembroke, Camp Morningstar’s sweetheart and head counselor, tried to change the subject. “Alright, alright. Enough ghost stories for tonight.”

But none of them noticed the shadow moving behind the trees—the faint glint of steel under moonlight.

Later that night, Aidan stayed back to clean up the campfire area. He muttered under his breath, stacking logs and stomping out embers. That’s when he heard it: soft humming, like a campfire song from far away.

“Hello?” he called out, his voice uneasy.

A blur of movement came from the darkness. Before Aidan could react, a massive axe swung out of the shadows. The blade flashed once in the firelight before it slashed clean across his throat. He dropped to his knees, clutching at the gaping wound as his life drained onto the dirt.

Jessica left her cabin to meet Aidan, expecting one of his cocky jokes. Instead, she found nothing but silence. She spun around when she heard humming again—closer this time.

“Okay, real funny, Aidan!” she snapped.

But there was no punchline. Only the shimmering edge of an axe slicing through the air. Jessica’s scream barely had time to escape her throat before the axe came down, cleaving her body in two.

Wayne had stayed in his bunk, flipping through a pulp horror novel. When he saw Jessica’s silhouette outside his window, he smiled nervously.

“Jess? Is that you?”

No answer—just humming.

Wayne stepped outside, glasses fogging in the cool night air. He saw the figure then: hulking, wild-eyed, dressed in a tattered Camp Morningstar uniform soaked with old blood.

Wayne turned to run, but the axe caught him mid-stride. His head rolled into the bushes while his body slumped lifelessly onto the grass.

Melissa Montgomery found herself alone, wondering where the others had gone. “Probably hooking up in the woods,” she muttered, annoyed. But when she returned to the campfire pit, she found the flames rekindled—and fresh blood staining the logs.

Her heart raced as she backed away.

That’s when the axe came down from above, embedding itself directly into her skull. Her body twitched once, then fell still.

Angie Pembroke was the last.

She stumbled through the empty cabins, calling out for her friends. “Aidan? Jessica? Wayne? Melissa?” Her voice cracked with panic.

Finally, she reached the clearing near the lake—and saw him.

Shane Thorpe.

His face was pale and expressionless, eyes dead but alert. His camp uniform was decades out of date, covered in dirt and gore. The old axe in his hands gleamed with fresh blood.

Angie tried to run, but he was too fast. The axe pierced her chest, driving straight through her heart. She collapsed, her lifeless eyes staring up at the blackened sky.

By dawn, the forest was silent.

Shane Thorpe dragged each counselor’s body back to the campfire pit, arranging them in a grotesque circle, arms and legs twisted like marionettes.

He sat cross-legged by the flames, roasting marshmallows over the burning logs, humming softly to himself. His voice, cracked from disuse, sang the old campfire song from his childhood days:

“Kumbaya, my Lord, kumbaya… Someone’s cryin’, Lord… kumbaya…”

The flames flickered, casting shadows over his blood-smeared face.

And in the depths of the woods surrounding Camp Morningstar, the legend of Shane Thorpe lived on.