Phil and the Ghost of Camp Ch-Yo-Ca Read Free Page B

creature off of John Luke? Go here .
    Do you grab some gloves and a knife before helping him? Go here .

QUACK QUACK

    SHOOTING AT THOSE DUCKS WASN’T THE BEST PLAN. Willie has to come pay your bail and get you out of jail.
    “Disturbing the peace?” he asks, shaking his head.
    “Did you see all those ducks?”
    “I didn’t see a single one,” Willie says. “John Luke thinks you’ve lost your mind. What were you doing firing a gun in the middle of the night at the camp? You almost shot the policeman who was approaching you.”
    “I was attacked by ducks! I went to get my gun, and once I had it, they all started coming after me.”
    “Uh-huh. You feeling okay? I mean, did you eat anything crazy tonight?”
    “I know what I saw,” you insist. “I grabbed my gun and they attacked. It was like Gladiator out there. I was surrounded and had to fight them off on all sides.”
    “ Gladiator ?” Willie shakes his head. “I’m telling Mom that you need some rest.”
    “You didn’t find any ducks? Not one?”
    “Nope.”
    “Then there’s some conspiracy going on because I know what I shot. I got a dozen of them. At least.”
    “It’s off-season. You can’t go around shooting ducks, even if they are there. And there’s no way you could hit that many.”
    “You sure can when they’re attacking you!” This was clearly self-defense.
    Willie stares at you for a very long time.
    “They were giving me looks just like that,” you mutter.
    “You need some sleep.”
    You follow him out to his truck and get inside. “Something’s going on at the camp, Willie.”
    “Not anymore,” he says. “Target practice is over. Next time you’ll have to spend the night in jail.”
    As he pulls away from the sheriff’s building, you spot them in the grass on the corner.
    A group of mallards, all standing still and staring at you.
    Watching you as Willie takes you home.
    You don’t say a thing about them. Maybe Willie’s right. Maybe you’re super tired and just need some sleep. But then again . . .
    THE END
    Start over.
    Read “The Shadows That Follow Us: A Note from John Luke Robertson.”

THE STRANGER

    “LET’S PICK HIM UP,” you tell John Luke, and he comes to a stop. “He looks pretty harmless.”
    Some of the weirdest men and women who have ever lived and breathed on this earth have appeared the most normal. So having long hair and a beard doesn’t mean anything. In fact, to you, it seems sorta right. Unless the beard happens to be on a woman, in which case you might have to immediately run and get out of there.
    The guy doesn’t rush to your car but walks slowly. “Appreciate you stoppin’,” he says with a thick Louisiana accent that’s got a bit of Cajun in it.
    “How you doin’?” you ask the guy as he enters the backseat.
    “Good, good. I’m just headin’ over to Cal . . .”
    You swear he said California. “What was that?”
    “Calhoun.”
    “Well, we can take you part of the way.”
    John Luke smiles and wrinkles his nose. You know he’s surely smelling what you’re smelling. Some really bad body odor. Major capital boldfaced BO! with an exclamation point after it.
    Maybe the man is homeless and hasn’t had the opportunity to take a bath in a while.
    “You live in Calhoun?” you ask.
    “Just passin’ through. Originally from New Orleans.”
    “Some fine cookin’ down in those parts.”
    He mumbles something you don’t quite understand. Then he speaks up in a more intelligible tone. “You’re those Robertsons, right? The duck family?”
    “That be us. This is John Luke, my chauffeur and grandson.”
    “My name’s Otis. Visited you guys’ store the other day. You got a big operation.”
    “God has been very good to us.”
    “Nice to hear he’s good to someone . ’Cause it sure seems like he loves ignorin’ some folks.”
    You turn to look at Otis. “Do you know your heavenly Father?”
    “Every now and then.”
    It’s an interesting comment. “Every now and