The van pulled in by an old wooden sign. “Crescent Pines Youth Camp” hung crooked on a rusted chain; rusted through to the last link.
A dark blanket covered an ordinarily blue bed; rain threatened a sudden dance.
Still, the camp looked less neglected than just–paused. Cabin windows stared vacantly; discarded prayer banners drifted lamely in the wind. A swing creaked through the air as if someone was gently pushing it. A generator hummed in a pedantic monotone that people had ignored.
Even the lake seemed as if it was stretching its ears to listen to conversations.
****
The past never stays out of the way for long.
Memory moved differently at this camp.It peeled back and revealed–
Old versions of themselves.
The group had found themselves at this camp as teens.
Immature.
They were just…
KIDS.
Not all of them returned.
One, Michael Smith, had disappeared under a shroud of mystery during a scavenger hunt on Friday the 13th.
His keys had disappeared with him.
They searched the grounds, parting bushes and never minding the the thorns.
They combed the grounds, inch by careful inch, to find–
Nothing.
Then, strange livestream glitches whenever they filmed the lake by
the camp.
A flashlight vanishes. Then returns–
WET.
Finally, fresh footprints outside Cabin 4.
They documented them with cameras.Michael’s welfare was never discussed.
****
The group gathered, curiosity piqued, around Cabin 4.
The mud appeared thick. Depth-less. Almost as if it could absorb anything.
Phones rose out of pockets. Cameras started recording. almost automatically.
Theresa Lee knelt near the prints, gently stabbng the soil around them.
“Guys…this is….INSANE.”
She kept her camera peeled on the prints, the surrounding bush. and foliage.
No adult supervision. The group was there of its own volition.
No instruction to stop filming.
So they filmed, their cameras almost in sync.Their laughter was
just a little too loud.
Then, another member, Marisa Song, looked up from her camera abruptly.
“Wait. Don’t you guys think someone’s messing around?” She gestured to the prints.
Bob Lee grasped his phone tightly. “I’m with her. Let’s go back inside.”
***
They walked through the main door, dropping their jackets on the rusty hooks lining the entrance. Rain pattered in an eerie rhythm
against the glass.
The generator in the hall had almost ground to a halt, releasing a weak hum.
Their soaked jackets dripped water in an almost syncrhonized rhythm onto the floor.
Pat. Pat. Pat.
Then, a metallic ping outside. Keys dragged in an accompanying beat across the floor.
Maria stopped. “Listen, guys.”
Not casual jingling..
Scraping. Across wood.
Theresa showed the others her camera. “Look. It’s getting nothing.
Just static.”
And-
An almost grating “Bzzz.”
The keys continued to scrape, making a sickening sound that was almost-
Screaming. Guilty.
***
The scraping stopped. To an empty, unnatural silence that settled badly in the room.
Breath. Held. Almost too closely to them.
Outside, the rain continued.
David Long, who seemed to live a life of perpetual amusement, released a nervous giggle.
The generator hummed, a little more angrily now.
The scraping sound again. A jarring reminder.
Of that day in the surrounding woods, a year earlier.
Michael’s disappearance, never solved.
The lake. The shove. The screams.
Weak bubbles bursting at the surface of the water.
The cabin’s lights flickered persistently.
Then-
A familiar silhouette outside the window.
A face. Just the eyes, at the window.
Everything else below the nose–
Unseen.
The face.
Blank.
The face.
Marisa screamed at the rest. “I told you that we should never have–“
David giggled nervously.
“Guys, perhaps it’s just someone….”
The group looked around the room, panic surfacing.
****
Nothing. Theresa decided to scour the perimeter of the cabin, where the footprints were.
They weren’t caked with mud- they were soaked.
With water–
From the lake.
The lake. The shove.
Michael.
Then, the impatient flicker of the group’s flashlights. None of them had unpacked theirs yet.
And then–
Grate. Grate. Grate.
The familiar scraping of keys.
Slow creaks across the floor.
A flashlight landed on the wall.
In dripping water.
I RECALL.
A loud, metallic jingle.
****
The scraping sounds continued.
Then stopped, just as suddenly.
The silence arrived like a sudden blow.
The cabin seemed to be waiting, for something.
David laughed, uncomfortably.
Marisa snapped.
“This isn’t funny, idiot. What’s wrong with you?
David pushed back. “Hey, I’m trying to stay sane, ok?”
The generator whirred, sputtering almost angrily.
The floorboards creaked.
Grate. Grate Grate.
Those keys.
There was something too oddly familiar about that scraping.
The reason for the shove. Into the lake.
Annoyance.
The wet footprints stopped at a supply closet outside. The water marks stained the wood.
Blood dark.
They ended where the wood should have stayed solid.
The floorboards continued the–
Creak. Creak.
“Probably an animal or something.” Bob insisted.
He approached the closet, flashlight raised carefully.
The others pulled back instinctively
He opened the closet door.
An abrupt pull inward, too quick.
The flashlight spun. He screamed.
The keys clattered violently. The closet door slammed shut.
Tightly.
The group rushed forward. Theresa opened the door gingerly.
Bob’s phone, lying in shallow water, static buzzing softly.
****
Nobody entered the closet totally.
Most of the grouped lingered near the doorway, their breathing uneven.
Sporadic.
Fortunate.
They stared at Bob’s phone. It continued to release static.
The livestream he had started was still running.
Then, comments.
“Behind you.”
“Don’t look back.”
“Just keep moving.”
“Watch out.”
The group looked up.
Then, behind them–
A wet figure, keys dangling from one hand. Water dripped from it’s dark silhouette.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
A step in.
The floorboard creak.
They knew at once.
Marisa broke. “I’m sorry we pushed….the keys were just…annoying.”
David chimed in. “Sorry man….we didn’t mean that…we thought you’d come up. We just…panicked.”
It moved forward. Toward them.
Slowly.
The scraping sound.
Grate. Grate. GRATE.
Raindrops pummeled the window.Their flashlights flickered.
Too sporadically.
They ran out to the van. Theresa reached it first.
She slammed it shut and revved the engine.
The screams of the others, too soft, behind.
Its headlights flooded the camp. They landed on–
Cabin 4.
The group was gone.
Every one.
No figure.
Just–
Keys dangling from the doorknob.
He had been heard.
Clearly.
Mirrors of the Mind by Michelle Liew is a collection of psychological and supernatural short stories that explore the quiet unease beneath ordinary moments. These are not tales of spectacle, but of subtle fracture — where memory distorts, silence speaks, and the self is not always singular. In these stories, what is unseen often carries the greatest weight, and what lingers is not what is shown, but what is felt.
