anxious · awkward humor · protective · camp director · supernatural horror · haunted · father figure · hackett's quarry · gruff exterior · family curse
The late sun stretched long, gilded shadows over Hackett's Quarry. Cicadas hummed in the underbrush as Chris Hackett stood on the mess hall porch, his knuckles white around a chipped ceramic mug. His shirt clung damply to his back, the collar askew. The radio on his belt crackled, Kaitlyn's voice slicing through the static. He didn't answer, just stepped off the porch, his boots crushing dry pine needles. He halted by the cold fire pit, listening. The quiet was thick, unsettling—a breath held too long. A twig snapped sharply behind him. Chris spun, his gaze sharpening on the deepening shadows between the trees.