Creepy Camille

Horror is embodied in the darkest fear that humankind will ever encounter. It is the oldest fear, deeply embedded within the minds of ordinary people. To truly comprehend the extent of its lingering effects, it is necessary to understand that horror is not beholden to truth, nor is it incumbent upon its characterization.

For that reason, horror cannot be imposed by time. Time merely witnesses the evolving occurrences of horror, but it cannot be the essence of its abatement. Within every person, there exists both evil and good. The question that I present to you is simple: What do you call an evil created by people?

Nestled deep within the Appalachian Mountains, beyond the old mines that once yielded cobalt moonstones—now little more than a vestige of the past—is a haunting mystery, an ancient specter whose grip tightens over all who venture too close. It is said by the proud, local people of the region that a terrifying, spectral being of unspeakable terror roams the forests. This apparition spooks instantly those who dare to tread into the darkness of hell beneath the fading twilight, where the towering mountains cast long, threatening shadows.

These mountains swallow the souls of mankind and conceal the secrets of a family's madness. Such are the real legends of the Appalachians. It was here that daffodils once bloomed, and the strong breeze would brush nectar-laden petals, as a girl—barefoot, clad in garments stained crimson as blood—walked among the crackling leaves, her memory desecrated by her parents’ cold negligence. She roams now among the shadows that creep over the isolated cove at Dragon’s Tooth. Enter these woods at your own peril, for there you risk meeting Creepy Camille.

This story begins in 1928, when I found myself driving along a narrow, fog-covered road in the foothills of the Appalachian range. My name is Charles Sunderland, a journalist from New York. I had been traveling through Roanoke County, Virginia, to meet and interview Chester McDaniel, a surviving Confederate soldier. McDaniel's home was nestled in an isolated corner of Catawba Valley, surrounded by dilapidated houses—mere remnants of the once-thriving rural enclave.

The road connected various towns like Blacksburg, Daleville, Tinker Cliff, and Cove Mountain. It wound through rugged terrain, where steep cliffs dropped into narrow creeks, and the paths—though visible—were treacherous to navigate. These lands were once home to the Cherokee and Shawnee peoples, whose spirits are said to linger in the mountains and hollows.

The entire Appalachian range, from the Black Mountains to the Great Craggy and Balsam Mountains, had been home to what townsfolk called "redneck hillbillies"— descendants of the first European settlers who had long abandoned the trappings of civilization for a rugged, country lifestyle.

The road to Appalachia had always called to me. As a journalist of forgotten histories and local legends, I was drawn to whispers—those chilling, half-spoken tales that passed through generations like family curses. Dragon’s Tooth, with its jagged silhouette and tales of hauntings, had appeared in more than one obscure 19th-century journal. I had come in search of stories. I hadn’t expected to become one.

The air thickened as I drove deeper into the road near the mountain. When I finally reached McDaniel’s home that afternoon, I found him sitting on the porch with his dog, watching me with a keen, almost unsettling gaze. He was an old man in his eighties, tall and lanky, with a drawl that was unmistakably Appalachian.

He greeted me not with a handshake or a cordial salutation but with the ominous barrel of a rifle, raised in my direction. I was taken aback. The gesture was unsettling—an unspoken challenge, perhaps? But then, as if noticing my unease, he lowered the rifle and smiled.

“I bet I scared the bejesus outta you, mister! Not too often we get visitors 'round these parts.”

“Most certainly did, Mr. McDaniel. I’ve never been welcomed by a rifle before,” I replied.

“We country folk here are always ready to welcome kindly strangers. But one can never be too careful, especially with all the critters roaming 'round Dragon’s Tooth.”

At first, I thought he meant wild animals—deer, black bears, squirrels, perhaps. “You mean mammals like deer, beavers, and chipmunks?” I asked, still not understanding the depth of his warning.

He shook his head slowly, a grim look crossing his face. “I see you ain’t been to Dragon’s Tooth yet. Maybe that’s for the best, mister. Some things are best left unknown or at least kept secret.”

I pressed further. “Are you talking about the supernatural, Mr. McDaniel?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, and he shrugged, offering a cryptic grin. “I reckon that all depends on what you call the supernatural, mister.”

I let the conversation slide for the moment, reminding myself that I was there for an interview, not a ghost story. Yet there was something in his manner, something offbeat and uncanny, that tugged at my mind. Perhaps it was his tone or the way the shadows seemed to stretch unnaturally long around his porch. But I dismissed the feeling—after all, I had an interview to conduct.

"Mr. McDaniel, I understand you were at the Battle of Gettysburg?"

“That’s right. Was there on the battlefield with my brothers in arms.”

“Which regiment were you with, Mr. McDaniel?”

“The 9th Virginia Infantry, under General Armistead’s Brigade, at the command of General Lewis Armistead himself.”

“You were a brave man to survive such a battle and live to tell the tale.”

He gave a short, dry laugh. “I reckon so. But us folk from Roanoke County, we don’t bow to no Yankee. Pardon my expression, mister.”

I nodded, though I disagreed with his sentiment. “It must’ve been terrible to witness the carnage that took place.”

“It was a hell of a day. Ain’t a day goes by that I don’t think of the men I lost there,” he replied, his voice growing somber. “Had to kill many a man just to survive, but around here, mister, you do what you’ve gotta do.”

I felt the weight of his words and the sadness in his eyes. I then asked, “Do you have any regrets about the battle, Mr. McDaniel?”

His eyes hardened. “Regrets? I regret General Lee didn’t show more ambition after Gettysburg. We could’ve sent those Yankees running.”

“But you realize, sir, that the South would eventually lose the war?”

His eyes bore into mine with an intensity that startled me. “There ain’t no true Southerner who would ever admit that the war was lost. Any man who says that is fibbing to himself.”

At that moment, McDaniel’s wife, Almira, interrupted, calling him in for dinner. I had not met her yet, but I could sense the authenticity in his conviction, despite my differing views. There was no denying his sincerity. He invited me to stay for dinner, and I, feeling the need to finish my interview, agreed.

We sat down together. I didn’t want to offend him, so I joined him at the dinner table, which had been kindly prepared by his gracious wife. She, too, was elderly and possessed that distinctly Southern attitude. Her straight, long gray hair framed a stout figure with a fair complexion, much like Mr. McDaniel himself. Together, they embodied the old spirit of rustic Virginia.

“People here might be impoverished—white hillbillies that speak their dialect and live in cabins—but we like it that way,” declared Mr. McDaniel.

“A quiet life, I imagine. Quite different from the noisy rambles of New York.”

“We call our place here ‘hollers.’”

“Hollers?” I asked.

“A holler is a remote area, mister.”

“What would you like to taste? The Missus has prepared some cornbread, biscuits, taters, gravy, stew, dumplings…”

“I’ll just take some biscuits with gravy—and the stew.”

“There’s no better stew than the Missus’—from here to Chattanooga and Huntsville. Every fixing that woman makes is delicious.”

“Excuse my ignorance, but what’s a ‘fixing’?”

“It’s just a portion of food,” Mrs. McDaniel replied with a nod.

“I see. I suppose I need to travel more through the South to learn about Southern hospitality.”

“I was lookin’ at your automobile out there. That’s a fancy one you’ve got, mister. Not the kind to ball-hoot around in these parts,” Mr. McDaniel said.

“Ball-hoot?”

“It means to drive recklessly fast on rural roads, mister,” Mrs. McDaniel interjected.

“I see.”

It had been a long time since I’d been invited to a good homemade meal, and I hadn’t expected to be treated as an honored guest. After all, I had only intended to spend the afternoon there at their home, then depart. In all my years of research and investigation as a journalist, I had never encountered people quite like the McDaniels.

It was my first time in this part of the country, and I felt somewhat out of place. The roads leading to their home were rough and barely accessible. I was eager to continue the interview about Mr. McDaniel’s days as a Confederate soldier, but he was more interested in discussing Appalachian life. He spoke of his youth with great fondness and of the many days spent hunting with his father.

“I used to spend time as a boy with my daddy, huntin’ varmints—boomers and whistle pigs. I’d shoot one with a pokestoke, a single-shot.”

“What are boomers and whistle pigs, Mr. McDaniel?”

“They’re what you Northerners call squirrels and groundhogs.”

“I wonder what else is out there in those woods, waiting to be snatched. When’s the last time you caught a whistle pig?”

“There’s different breeds of ’em. Been a while.”

“What about a wolf?”

“I ain’t seen one in a coon’s age. But everhow I reckon, on a right cold morning, you might just see one howlin’ out yonder beyond the blue. Nowadays, it’s chancy. I’d tell my Camille not to go messin’ with those nasty critters.”

“Camille? Who is she?” I inquired.

He paused, then answered, “My daughter.”

“Where is she now?”

“She’s no longer with us—the livin’, mister.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that. My condolences. How did she die? How long has it been?”

“Dead? She’s not dead, mister. She’s just gone. Got up one day and left—never returned to the cabin.”

“Where to?”

“That, I reckon, only the Appalachians really know. I like never went to sleep that night. I knew what I’d done. And boy, it like to scared me to death—that young’un was a devilish girl.”

“Devilish? What do you mean by that?”

“I mean she was possessed by the devil himself.”

“Possessed? You mean physically?” I asked.

“Everwhat you wish to call it. We here know all too well about the devil’s tail and Dragon’s Tooth.”

“I don’t believe in superstitions, Mr. McDaniel.”

“That there sounds mighty quare to the folk in these parts. You best be afeard—’cause Camille ain’t no booger story. She’s a real menace, if you find her. Know that she wasn’t always like this,” he uttered. “Camille was born under the blood moon, the midwife said. Even as a baby, she never cried right. Always silent...watching. When she turned five, we started hearin’ her talkin’ to someone who wasn’t there. First we thought she had imaginary friends. Then she started hurtin’ animals. Our dog...the chickens…”

He took a long pause, swallowing something hard and bitter.

“Doctor said she needed help, but there weren’t no clinics for the likes of us. Folks said she was touched by the devil. Her mama tried holy water. Nothin’ worked.”

“You speak as if she’s still alive. Is she, Mr. McDaniel?”

“I don’t chew my cabbage twice. And I’d rather not encounter her again. We’re Christian folk, mister. We follow the Lord’s teachings. We don’t do the devil’s work.”

His words were more than a warning—they were a stern admonition. Still, I was drawn to learn more about his daughter Camille. He grew visibly reluctant, shifting the conversation to the events of the war instead. When our talk ended, he thanked me for coming and sent me on my way. There was a nervous urgency in his tone that I hadn’t picked up on at first.

It was clear that something dark lay between them. Whatever Camille had done, Mr. McDaniel deemed it despicable. I couldn’t fathom a father casting out his own daughter, forsaking her so absolutely. As I bid farewell and left the McDaniel cabin, I couldn’t shake the sense of something unresolved—something lurking.

By late afternoon, I hadn’t made it far. About a mile down the road, I came upon a blockade that hadn’t been there earlier. It seemed deliberate—too carefully placed to be coincidence, though I had no proof of that. I turned down a narrow dirt road, hoping to bypass it, but quickly became lost.

The mountains were steep and wild, filled with thick woods, winding creeks, and narrow trails. Eventually, I found myself at a secluded cove nestled in a craggy enclave. I got out of my automobile, realizing I’d have to find a way out on foot.

As I picked my way through the trees, I searched in vain for any sign of the main road connecting Blacksburg and Daleville. Then I saw it—an old, worn sign nailed to a crooked tree: Dragon’s Tooth. I’d found the place Mr. McDaniel had warned me about.

At the foot of the sign, tucked in a fold of stone, was a cave. From within came the sound of deep, labored breathing. I couldn’t tell if it belonged to a person or an animal in distress. Either way, caution surged through me. And yet, for reasons I can’t fully explain, I was drawn closer.

The breathing grew louder as I approached. I hurried back to my car to retrieve the pistol I always carried—insurance against thieves or worse.

When I returned to the cave, the breathing hadn’t stopped. It echoed from the depths, low and deliberate. I stood at the entrance, heart pounding, gun in hand. Something—or someone—was aware of me. I felt it watching.

Instinctively, I began to step backward. Then, without warning, a wild figure burst from the cave and struck me down. It scrambled into the forest on bare feet before I could react.

I caught a glimpse: devilish black eyes, tangled raven hair. It—she—seemed human, yet primal and feral. My blood went cold.

I entered the cave, shaken. Someone had been living there in filth and isolation. Whoever she was, she wasn’t just surviving—she was hiding. I left the cave and followed her tracks through the forest, but she vanished like a phantom.

Could she be Camille—McDaniel’s lost daughter? If so, I’d uncovered the truth of her exile. Yet that discovery led only to more questions. What had driven her to this state? What terrible thing had transpired to sever her from her family?

Exile is a cruel sentence, especially when dealt by blood. No man should play God, yet that’s what Mr. McDaniel had done.

Unable to find her again, I made the decision to return to the McDaniel cabin and seek help finding another road out of the Appalachians. By the time I arrived, it was around five o’clock.

I knocked. Mr. McDaniel answered, confusion plain on his face.

“Mr. Sunderland? What brings you back? Did you forget something?”

“I got lost. The road I came in on—it was blocked off. You wouldn’t happen to know why?”

“I reckon I don’t quite know.”

“Could you please show me another way out?”

"It's getting mighty late to be out in the Appalachians, mister. I reckon it'd be better if you stayed the night, and I could take you first thing in the morning—rise and shine. We'd have to go up the road a piece to get to the main road. Mister, it's good you're not plum crazy."

"I would rather we go now," I replied, "but if you think it's best to wait, then I’m willing to spend the night here."

We went inside the cabin, where I was greeted warmly by Mrs. McDaniel. She seemed genuinely pleased to see me and had already prepared a room. Once we were seated at the table, I mentioned that I had stumbled upon a cave in the area known as Dragon’s Tooth—where I was attacked by a wild woman.

The mere mention of her was enough to startle the McDaniels into a swift and visible panic. I could see their unease clearly, written across their faces. They began to question me, eager to know exactly what I saw and experienced. I told them everything—how the encounter unfolded, the fear I felt, the madness in her eyes. The more details I provided, the more they leaned in, hanging on every word.

But while they were eager to learn more, I was just as eager to find out whether that woman was, in fact, their estranged daughter. If so, the truth would be a disturbing revelation that might explain the unspeakable events to come.

The McDaniels' dog began barking furiously, alerting us to a presence outside. The commotion shattered the night's silence with violent force—a haunted prelude to the arrival of Creepy Camille.

She emerged from the ominous woods undaunted, like a ferocious wind loosed by the devil himself. The dog, sensitive to sound and movement, sensed her exact direction. The McDaniels, too, were keenly aware of her dreadful approach. Yet there was nothing that could save us from her wrath.

We all rose at once. Mr. McDaniel reached for his rifle. Mrs. McDaniel clutched a wooden cross. I stood there, frozen—part awe, part disbelief at what was unfolding.

"What is going on, Mr. McDaniel?" I asked.

"No time to be yeller, son. She’s a-comin’."

"Who?" I pressed.

"The devil’s daughter!"

"You’re not making any sense. Who is coming?"

"Camille—my daughter!" he shouted.

"Why?"

"Ain’t no time for jabberin'. You best grab a rifle and be ready, mister. She’s a-comin’, I tell you!"

"For who?"

"For all of us!"

"Then it’s true. The wild woman in the cave... she is your daughter, Camille."

"Yes!"

There it was—the sober confirmation I had dreaded and Mr. McDaniel had tried to avoid. It was not just disturbing—it was sickening. How could a father banish his own daughter to these mountains, abandoning her to madness? Whatever had caused him to do it would now bring doom upon both him and his wife.

The wind howled louder, banging the shutters against the windows. Then, the glass shattered completely. The table shook, furniture trembled, silverware clattered to the ground, and the walls trembled under unseen pressure. Mrs. McDaniel began to pray aloud, calling on Jesus. Mr. McDaniel held his rifle tighter, his face grim with dread. I could only watch as the terror escalated by the minute.

"What does she want?" I asked.

"Son," Mr. McDaniel said gravely, "she wants our souls."

"How do we stop her?"

"There’s nothin’ we can do but pray the Good Lord spares us."

"But she’s human, like us," I insisted.

"She may look human, but she’s the devil’s daughter."

"You never should’ve gone to Dragon’s Tooth," Mrs. McDaniel muttered.

I looked into Mr. McDaniel’s eyes. His expression was stark with fear and finality. The dog barked louder. The wind shrieked.

And then, through the front door—open and unguarded—Creepy Camille entered.

She stood barefoot, dressed in a tattered white evening gown, soaked with blood, soot, and grime from the Appalachians. Her face was obscured, save for her piercing, deranged eyes. She breathed heavily, her presence almost too dreadful to endure. Yet she was no ghost—she was flesh and blood.

Mrs. McDaniel stepped forward, begging her daughter to forgive them for what they had done. Mr. McDaniel, rifle raised, ordered her to leave at once. But Camille had come for vengeance, not reconciliation.

She lunged at him. The rifle fired—but missed. They wrestled on the ground until he was overcome by her furious blows and savage scratches. Mrs. McDaniel screamed and tried to flee, but Camille caught her by the door. The punishment she dealt her mother was as merciless as the one she'd given her father.

In minutes, they were both dead—slain by the daughter they had cast away.

I braced for the same fate.

But she spared me.

She looked into my eyes, silent and breathless, then turned and disappeared into the darkness of the Appalachian wilderness.

Why she spared me, I’ll never know. Perhaps it was because I bore her no guilt. I was not responsible for her suffering. Or perhaps, it was sheer coincidence.

Whatever the reason, I lived to tell this dreadful tale—a tale of terror, madness, and sorrow.

I emerged from the forest two days later, hollow-eyed and trembling. My boots were worn through at the soles. My clothes, still streaked with blood and ash, reeked of something older than smoke—something that no washing could cleanse. A forest ranger found me wandering a fire road near Jefferson National Forest. When he asked what happened, I tried to speak, but only a raw sound came out, like the echo of a broken violin string.

They took me to a small-town hospital near Roanoke, where I was treated for dehydration, fatigue, and superficial injuries. A nurse sat beside my bed with gentle eyes, asking questions I barely had answers for.

"There was a cave," I said eventually. "And a girl...woman. Her name was Camille."

The nurse frowned. "You said earlier that two people were killed. A man and a woman?"

"Yes. Mr. and Mrs. McDaniel. They were her parents."

"And you’re saying their daughter murdered them?"

I nodded.

"And where is she now?"

I hesitated. "Gone."

"Gone where?"

I didn’t answer. How could I explain that she walked away barefoot into the forest—calm, quiet, leaving behind a scene of horror like a spirit satisfied with its reckoning?

The police investigated. They found the cabin, just as I described it—smeared with blood, the corpses of the McDaniels still sprawled grotesquely on the floor. But there was no sign of Camille. No footprints in the dirt. No fingerprints. No trace.

The sheriff, a round-faced man with eyes that had seen too much, called it a mountain tragedy—"most likely a bear attack or a meth-fueled hallucination." My story was cataloged as a delusion born of trauma and isolation. They took my statement, thanked me, and told me gently not to worry. "You’re safe now," they said.

But I wasn’t. Not really.

I returned to New York a week later. The city lights glared like interrogation lamps. The noise was unbearable at first. I would wake up at 3 a.m. drenched in sweat, hearing wind where there was none. Every creak in the hallway sounded like Camille’s breath. I couldn’t bear to throw away the boots I wore in the mountains—they sat by the door like relics, forever caked in Appalachian dirt.

I stopped writing for months.

When I finally put pen to paper again, it wasn’t fiction. It was a memoir, or something close to one. I wrote everything I remembered. I left out nothing. I described the cave, the symbols on the wall, Camille’s eyes, the way the wind shrieked like a banshee when she came near. I wrote about Mr. McDaniel’s guilt, about Mrs. McDaniel clutching a wooden cross like it would save her from the consequences of neglect.

But mostly, I wrote about Camille.

I wrote about the girl with a mind unraveled by time and abandonment, who had been turned into a monster not by madness alone—but by shame, silence, and superstition. I wrote of a world that turned its back on her, then blamed her for vanishing into the dark.

My publisher refused to print it. "Too bleak," they said. "Too unbelievable." One editor accused me of exploiting Appalachian suffering for shock value. Another suggested I get therapy.

So I self-published. A few hundred copies circulated among folklore enthusiasts, rural anthropologists, and the obscure corners of the dark web. I received one letter—from a woman in Kentucky who claimed to have seen Camille near Red River Gorge. Another from West Virginia, where someone said a "barefoot wild girl" had appeared to a hunter, whispered in his ear, then vanished before he could speak.

I don’t know if they were telling the truth. I don’t know what is true anymore.

But I believe Camille is still out there.

Not as a myth. Not as a demon. But as a broken branch of our species—severed, twisted by weather and abuse, yet still very much alive. Perhaps in time, she will fade into the folklore of the region. They’ll carve her likeness into wood. Paint her on signs. She’ll be called Witch of the Tooth, or The Pale Woman of the Pines. But none of that will capture what she really was: a mirror held up to all of us.

Sometimes I wonder: why did she spare me?

Was it pity?

Recognition?

Or did she simply not see guilt in me?

I thought much of the Appalachia, and I dream of it. The cabin. The wind. The flickering candle in the window. And Camille—forever walking through the forest, whispering names of the dead, always barefoot, always returning to the cave that once became her cradle and her tomb.

The Appalachian dusk settled like a shroud over the forest, casting elongated shadows that danced with the whispering wind. The scent of damp earth and decaying leaves permeated the air, mingling with the distant, mournful call of a whip-poor-will.

I had returned to the mountains, compelled by a force I couldn't name. The memory of Camille's piercing eyes haunted my dreams, and I sought answers in the place where it all began.

Navigating the overgrown trail, I arrived at the clearing where the McDaniel cabin once stood. Now, only charred remnants remained, the skeletal frame silhouetted against the deepening twilight. The ground was littered with ash and debris, the aftermath of a fire that had consumed not just wood and nails, but memories and secrets.

As I stepped into the ruins, the air grew colder. A sudden gust extinguished the light from my lantern, plunging me into darkness. I fumbled for matches, the sound of my own breathing loud in the silence.

A soft rustle behind me.

I turned sharply, heart pounding.

"Who's there?" I called, my voice barely above a whisper.

Silence.

Then, a whisper, so faint I thought it imagined: "Why did you come back?"

I froze.

"Camille?" I ventured.

No response.

I lit the lantern, its flickering glow revealing nothing but the skeletal remains of the cabin. Yet, the sense of being watched was palpable.

I stepped outside, the forest now cloaked in night. The path back was obscured, the trees seeming to close in, their branches like grasping fingers.

A figure emerged from the shadows.

Camille.

Her hair hung in tangled locks, framing a face both wild and weary. Her eyes, once filled with fury, now held a sorrow that pierced deeper than any scream.

"Why are you here?" She asked, her voice a mere breath.

"I needed to understand," I replied.

"Understand what?"

"You."

She laughed, a sound devoid of joy.

"There's nothing to understand. I'm the monster they made me."

I stepped closer. "You're not a monster."

She looked away. "They said I was. They believed it. And so, I became it."

The wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of smoke and something more primal.

"Camille, you can leave this place. Start anew."

She shook her head. "This is my home. My prison. My sanctuary."

A pause.

"Will you stay?" she asked.

I hesitated.

"Even monsters need company," she added, a hint of a smile playing on her lips.

I nodded slowly.

"Then come," she said, turning towards the forest.

I followed, until I returned to the old cabin.

The ruins of the McDaniel cabin remained untouched, a scorched monument to the secrets it once harbored. Charred beams jutted from the earth like broken ribs, and the surrounding forest had begun to reclaim the site, vines crawling up the collapsed walls as if to bury what was left. Still, some force pulled me toward it—toward something I hadn’t yet found.

The morning mist clung low to the ground as I stepped over the threshold of blackened timber. I wore gloves and boots and carried a canvas satchel and a small hand shovel. I wasn’t certain what I was looking for—perhaps some remnant of Camille’s life, or something the McDaniels had left behind. I needed something tangible to piece together the mystery.

By midday, I had sifted through soot-covered floorboards and overturned what little remained of the furniture. A rusted skillet, a scorched Bible, some melted picture frames. Nothing spoke of Camille—only the family who had cast her out.

It was behind what had once been a dresser that I saw a corner of fabric poking from the ground. Brushing away the ash and debris, I uncovered an old wooden box, no bigger than a shoebox, its lid scorched at the edges but still intact. I paused for a moment, fingers hovering over the latch, feeling an inexplicable weight press down on my chest.

I opened it.

Inside, wrapped in a discolored piece of linen, was a small silver locket on a chain. Its surface was etched with the faint image of a butterfly—now tarnished with age and smoke. Beneath it, folded carefully, was a faded photograph.

My breath caught.

The picture showed a young girl of no more than ten, with long curls and wide, eager eyes. She wore a Sunday dress and sat between Mr. and Mrs. McDaniel on the front steps of what I assumed was the same cabin—before the madness, before the exile. The woman in the photo smiled stiffly, but the little girl beamed.

Camille.

Innocent. Whole.

My hands trembled slightly as I stared into the eyes in the photo. Not yet twisted by pain. Not yet betrayed by those who should have loved her unconditionally.

A sudden gust of wind blew through the clearing, sharp and unnatural. It wasn’t just a breeze—it was as though the earth itself exhaled. The trees groaned. The wind caught the edge of the photograph and lifted it from my palm, causing it to drift in the air like a leaf.

I chased it, snatching it from the wind’s grip before it could vanish into the forest. When I turned around, everything felt different. The light had dimmed, the air thick with unease.

And then I felt it.

Not heard, not seen—felt.

A presence.

It was not the obvious fear of a wild animal or the imagined terror of an overactive mind. It was deeper. A pulse of energy in the bones. The sensation that someone stood behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat of their breath on the nape of my neck. I turned slowly.

No one.

But the trees had stopped swaying. The wind had stilled, as though holding its breath. I looked again at the photograph in my hand. Camille’s smile seemed to shift ever so slightly. Her eyes—though printed in sepia—seemed almost alive. I blinked. A trick of the light, I told myself.

And yet…I knew I was not alone.

The trinket box remained open, the locket glinting in the returning sunlight. I reached down and picked it up. It was warm to the touch. Too warm.

Then I heard it—a whisper. Soft. Barely audible. A voice carried on the wind, speaking my name.

“Charles…”

I spun around again, heart racing. Nothing. No movement in the forest. But I knew. I knew she was there—watching. Not as an enemy. Not now.

As I stared down at the locket, I noticed something curious. When I clicked it open, inside was a tiny scrap of paper, folded and aged. I delicately unfolded it. The writing was in a childish scrawl:

“If I ever go away, don’t forget me. I’ll still be here.”

I sank down onto the burnt threshold of the cabin, holding the note and the photograph like fragile relics. The air was thick again, not malevolent, but charged with emotion. A wave of sadness passed over me so deeply that I nearly wept.

This was not the note of a devil’s daughter. This was the note of a girl desperate not to be forgotten. A soul exiled to the wild not by her own wickedness, but by the cruelty and ignorance of those who feared what they did not understand.

The wind returned—softer now, gentler. It curled around me like a shawl.

"You're still here," I whispered.

I could not see her, but I knew she was near. Not a monster. Not anymore. Just Camille.

I buried the box again, but not under the ash. I took it deeper into the forest, to the mouth of Dragon’s Tooth, and placed it beneath a stone cairn I built myself. A shrine, of sorts. Not to a killer, but to a girl wronged. A girl who still wandered.

As I placed the last stone, the wind howled once more, then fell silent.

Somewhere, the whip-poor-will sang.

And I walked back into the forest, knowing Camille would never truly be gone. Not from these woods. Not from me.

I told myself I survived. But some nights, when I hear her name in the trees outside my window, I wonder if I really did.

I often thought of Camille. If only she had received love and treatment rather than shame and rejection, perhaps she wouldn’t have become a monster in the eyes of others.

I do not deny that evil exists in this world, but Camille was not born of the devil. She was the product of the evil done to her.

She suffered from a mental illness, one that had plagued her since birth. Left undiagnosed, uncared for, she was left to rot in isolation.

And so she roams still—forever lost in the mountains, known only as Creepy Camille.

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