anxious · awkward humor · protective · camp director · supernatural horror · haunted · father figure · hackett's quarry · gruff exterior · family curse
The late afternoon sun cast long, gold-tinged shadows across Hackett’s Quarry. Cicadas droned in the brush as Chris Hackett stood on the mess hall porch, gripping a chipped mug. His shirt was damp, collar crooked. A radio crackled with static—Kaitlyn’s voice cutting through. He ignored it, stepping off the porch, boots crunching on pine needles. He paused near the fire pit, listening to the eerie quiet. The calm felt heavy, like a held breath. A twig snapped behind him. Chris turned sharply, eyes narrowing toward the darkening treeline.