STORY TO TELL AROUND A CAMPFIRE

The first thing to do is look around the campfire and assess your situation. Do you want to tell a scary story or a romantic one? Who is your audience? What are your goals here?

Either way, the story begins like this. A young man asks a young woman to go away for a long weekend with his family. They’ve only been dating for a few months, so this is a big step. The guy’s parents and brother, who the young woman has not yet met, will be there. They have rented a cabin in the countryside. It is springtime; the wildflowers are just beginning to bloom.

“Everyone wants to meet you,” the young man says. You should probably give him a name at this point. Something unobtrusive, unthreatening—Mark, perhaps.

The young woman—Hannah, or something like it—is surprised by the invitation, but delighted. She thinks she might love Mark, and this invitation must prove that he is beginning to love her, too.

“Yes!” she says. “I’d love to come!” And they hug and kiss, hungrily.

They leave on a Friday. It is a long drive to the cabin, and Hannah watches out the window as the urban landscape fades away to rolling green hills and cow pastures. They turn off the main highway, and for the final hour the road winds dizzily up through the mountains. Hannah, carsick, rolls down the window to let the breeze in. If this is a romantic story, the breeze smells refreshingly like pine. Describe the way the sunlight filters through the trees like a spotlight indicating loveliness—a moss-draped log here, a clutch of orange poppies there. If this is a scary story, describe the way the tall trees press up against the narrow road, leaning in, their thick branches blocking out most of the sunlight. The breeze is cold and sends a chill down Hannah’s bare arms.

The cabin sits back half a mile from the main road in a graveled clearing of pines. Mark parks the car behind his father’s Jeep. He insists on grabbing both his and Hannah’s suitcases from the trunk and carrying them, one in each hand, into the cabin. He smiles and tells Hannah it is not a problem. Yet, she notices how the veins on his forearms accentuate beneath his skin. The front door is unlocked, and Hannah opens it.

“Hey, guys, we’re here!” Mark calls, but the house is still and silent. He sets the suitcases down in the hall. “Hell-ooo? Mom? Dad? Johnny?”

He walks through the rooms, calling out for his family, but there is no response. Hannah, unsure whether to remain in the entryway, follows him through the cabin.

If this is a romantic story, focus on the vases of red and purple wildflowers; the seashells and driftwood lined up on the windowsills; the cozy indoor fireplace and neatly folded, hand-crocheted blankets on the couch. If this is a scary story, mention the cabin’s quirks: the shadowy painting of a horse with bulging eyes; the eighty-seven throw rugs overlapping each other to cover every inch of bare floor; the wedge of walled-in space (too big for a closet, too small for a bedroom) containing nothing but a baby’s crib. Out back is a swath of wooden deck, beyond which is a cliff, beyond which is the churning ocean—sometimes blue, sometimes gray, depending on the light.

“Guess they’re not here,” Mark finally says, shrugging.

“Isn’t that their Jeep out front?”

“Yeah, but they must have gone exploring. Probably taking a walk after the long drive.” He carries their suitcases into the unclaimed back bedroom with a view of the trees instead of the ocean. Hannah gazes out the window, feeling either peaceful or claustrophobic, depending on the genre of story you are telling. Mark comes up behind her, wraps his arms around her waist, and then reaches down and unbuttons her jeans.

“Not now,” Hannah murmurs. “They could be back any moment.”

“Then we better be quick about it,” Mark says, nibbling her ear, unclasping her bra. The bedroom door remains open. The pine boughs tremble in the breeze. In both stories, Hannah’s bare nipples press against the cold windowpane. In both stories, Mark comes quickly. His whiskers are rough against her skin. One hand clutches a fistful of her hair. In both stories, Hannah feels a brief flicker of fear. If this is a romantic story, it is a delicious fear, and she climaxes too. If this is a scary story, it is a deeper fear that lingers after they have both pulled on their shirts and pulled up their jeans and unpacked their suitcases into the dresser drawers.

The front door opens and slams shut, followed by heavy footsteps in the hall. “Mark?” a male voice calls. Mark grins at Hannah, squeezes her hand quickly before exiting the bedroom. She follows, shy, tucking her hair behind her ears.

Mark’s father and brother are also tall and broad chested, with thick hair and wide hands they wave around as they talk. They hug Mark fiercely, clapping him on the back. Mark’s brother, Johnny, is two years younger, but they could easily pass as twins.

“So, this is Hannah,” Mark’s father says, shaking her hand. “She’s even more beautiful than you described, Marky.”

Johnny steps forward and envelops her in a half hug. “Hard to believe my brother hasn’t scared you off yet.”

“Hey now!” Mark laughs.

“Just wait,” Johnny continues. “I know this guy seems sweet and charming, but we’ll see what you think after spending a whole weekend with him.” If this is a scary story, pause here, letting Hannah marinate in an uneasy foreboding. If this is a romantic story, Johnny winks and adds a joke about Mark’s dirty socks and loud snoring, which causes Hannah to catch Mark’s eye and smile because they both know she snores more than he does.

“Where’s Mom?” Mark asks.

“Oh, she wasn’t feeling well this morning, so she decided to stay home. She insisted we still come, though. Didn’t want to ruin the trip. But we’ll probably head home a day early to check on her.”

Mark looks disappointed. “You too, Johnny?”

“Yeah, I’ll go home with Dad. It’s the only thing that makes sense.” Mark’s parents and Johnny live in the same town—the opposite direction from the town where Hannah and Mark live. Johnny adds, “I’m sure you two can entertain yourselves for one day without us.” He shoots Hannah another wink.

If this is a romantic story, move everyone to the kitchen where they begin cooking dinner together, something simple and tasteful, and the wine flows and the laughter is easy and they rave over the tomato sauce Hannah makes for the pasta, as if she grew the tomatoes and plucked them from the vine herself. Later, as Mark and Hannah do the dishes, he discreetly squeezes her ass and kisses her neck, and she blushes, thinking of the back bedroom, the big bed waiting for them with its crisp white sheets.

But if this is a scary story, pause a few moments before the dinner preparations begin. Hannah senses tension among the father and brothers, words unspoken, secrets festering. A natural charmer of men, before this trip she was most nervous about meeting Mark’s mother. But instead of relief she feels a stunning, despairing loneliness. She feels too vulnerable among these tall, strapping men, too aware of her delicate bones, her willowy limbs, her insubstantial voice. Outside the window a bird feeder hangs from the awning, and a sparrow alights on the wooden perch, pecking at the seeds. Hannah watches a blue jay chase the smaller bird away.

In the scary story, our characters do not eat pasta with tomato sauce. They eat thick steaks that Johnny and Mark sear on the grill outside, then serve rare and glistening with blood. Later, when Hannah and Mark do the dishes, she wipes pools of red off each plate with a soapy sponge and rinses fat and gristle down the garbage disposal. Mark swats her ass and kisses her neck and she thinks of the back bedroom with the large bed waiting for them, the trees standing guard outside the window, and feels trapped.

No internet access at the cabin, no cell phone service. Johnny stokes the fireplace, and everyone plays Scrabble until it’s time for bed. If this is a romantic story, Mark and Hannah sleep soundly, naked and spooning. If this is a scary story, Hannah sleeps fitfully, awakened by the tree branches knocking against the window. Mark sleeps like the dead, mouth open, body still as stone.

In the morning Hannah wakes and the bed is empty. She washes her face and brushes her teeth, then wanders out to the kitchen in her robe and slippers. The men sit at the table, discussing something with stern expressions. Arguing, Hannah intuits. But what about? As soon as they see her, conversation stops and their faces reconfigure into smiles. “Hey there, sleepyhead,” Mark says, reaching for her, pulling her to him. He kisses her shoulder.

Eggs and bacon and coffee for breakfast, and then everyone dresses in hiking clothes and climbs into Mark’s father’s Jeep. Mark’s mother is an extensive researcher of activities and excursions, and this popular hiking trail topped her list. Even though she is no longer on the trip, her husband and sons feel compelled to do the hike in her honor. Hannah thinks it is sweet that the men are so devoted; or she thinks there is something a little sad, a little off, in the way they say “in her honor,” as if she is dead. If you are telling a romantic story, give the trail a scenic name like Seaglass Beach or Montaña Bonita. If you are telling a scary story, name it something like Devil’s Creek or Diablo Vista.

They pull into the mostly deserted parking lot and park under the trees. Johnny studies the map while Mark leads the way onto the dirt trail. Hannah follows a couple steps behind, but if this is a scary story she feels like there is a wide gulf between her and Mark. If this is a romantic story, she closes the gap and kisses his neck whenever Johnny and their father pause to study foliage along the trail. Clouds sink in the sky, threatening rain. The trail climbs from the beach into the mountains, becoming steadily rockier and steeper. They’ve hiked about two miles when Hannah steps onto a loose rock and rolls her ankle. If this is a scary story, she stumbles and falls, scraping her knees and palms. If this is a romantic story, she reaches out for Mark’s shoulder and he turns, steadying her in his arms.

“I’m okay,” Hannah insists. “But I’m ready for a break. You guys go on ahead, and I’ll rest here.”

“There’s no way I’m leaving you alone,” Mark says. Perhaps he says it sweetly while kissing her on the cheek, or perhaps there is something almost sinister in his tone. It is decided that Johnny and their father will continue the final mile to the top, while Mark and Hannah will rest and wait for them to come back down.

“We’ll take pictures for you!” Johnny promises, and then they vanish around the bend. Mark and Hannah sit on a fallen log a few feet off the trail. Mark wipes his sweaty forehead and swigs from his water bottle, offering or not offering Hannah a sip, depending on what type of story you are telling.

“Sorry to ruin the hike,” Hannah says.

“It’s nothing,” Mark says. If this is a scary story, they lapse into silence that deepens as the minutes pass.

“Are you upset?” Hannah eventually asks when she can’t take it any longer.

“No, I’m fine,” Mark says, in a flat and emotionless voice. Hannah looks at him and thinks, This person is a stranger. I don’t know him at all. She flashes back to the argument she walked in on that morning in the kitchen, wondering again what the men were discussing. She looks at Mark’s hands, resting on his knees, and notices their girth. Those hands could easily strangle someone, she thinks, then quickly pushes the thought away. Somewhere in the woods a bird calls and Hannah startles. Mark smirks. “You scared?” he teases, and she forces a laugh. That’s when she asks him about the argument.

If this is a romantic story, our characters nestle close together on the moss-covered log. “Sorry to ruin the hike,” Hannah says.

“You didn’t ruin it. I’m just glad you’re okay,” Mark replies, squeezing her knee. She rests her head on his shoulder. They lapse into a comfortable silence, and Hannah thinks about the argument she walked in on that morning.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.” Mark’s large hand cups her knee protectively.

“What were you guys talking about earlier in the kitchen? It sounded like you were arguing. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Mark says, his voice hinting at something else.

Hannah brushes his cheek with her fingertips. “You can talk to me about anything,” she says.

In both the romantic and scary versions, Mark sighs before answering. “It’s just—my family. My dad especially. He’s super controlling, and he keeps pressuring me to do something I don’t want to do. That’s the whole reason he planned this trip in the first place.” He runs his hand down his face. “If I don’t listen to him, it’ll only make things worse.”

In both stories, Hannah’s sprained ankle throbs. The world around her seems liquid, shimmering, and she can hear her blood in her ears. “What do you mean, make things worse?” she asks.

If this is a scary story, Mark says, “Never mind. Forget I said anything.” He picks up a stick and scratches lines in the dirt. Hannah bites her lip, more unsettled than ever. It starts to drizzle.

If this is a romantic story, Mark says, “My dad might seem like a nice guy, but I’ve seen the way he cuts off people who cross him. Johnny was busted a couple times as a teenager for stupid drug stuff, so he wants me to confess to some shady business that’s gone down. I can’t go into details right now. Basically, they think I’ll get a slap on the wrist or probation, not actual jail time.” He picks up a stick and scratches lines in the dirt. “I wish I could just run away. Disappear.”

Hannah bites her lip. “Why don’t we?”

Mark looks up from the dirt, searching her face, seeing she is serious. “I love you,” he says. First time he’s said these words to her.

“I love you too.” Tears well as he pulls her close and kisses her, and it starts to rain in full force.

They huddle under the branches, but still their clothes dampen. The trail turns to mud. Hannah thinks of the dry Jeep in the parking lot, but Mark stays put on the log, so she does too. After a few minutes, the rain throttles back to a drizzle. Johnny and their father come pounding down the trail, soaked.

“We made it!” Johnny shouts when he sees them. “Even in the rain. Gotta finish what you start, eh, Marky?” He elbows Mark in the ribs, and Mark grimaces.

They all make their way back down the trail, shoes slipping in the mud. If this is a scary story, Hannah considers sprinting off the trail into the brush. Being alone by herself in the wilderness feels somehow safer than heading back to that remote cabin with these three looming men. If this is a romantic story, Hannah brings up the rear, limping. When Mark asks, she insists she is all right, but she lets him give her a piggyback ride the final quarter mile to the parking lot.

On the drive home, the men laugh and joke, but Hannah senses palpable tension between them, a brittleness in their façade of connection.

“Mark, you should have taken Hannah back to the car sooner,” his father says. “There was no need to wait for us.”

“But, Dad, aren’t you always saying not to abandon the family? Aren’t you always going on about making sacrifices for each other?”

His father glances at Hannah in the rearview mirror. “Waiting in the rain is hardly a sacrifice,” he says lightly, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Now isn’t the time for this conversation, Mark,” he adds, a cold gruffness in his voice that Hannah has not heard before.

Back at the cabin, everyone disperses to take showers. If this is a romantic story, Hannah and Mark shower together, making love in the steam. Birds chirp sweetly outside the bathroom window. Afterward, the water still pounding down around them, Mark and Hannah whisper plans—where they’ll go, what they’ll do, as soon as the others leave on Sunday morning. Mark’s voice echoes through Hannah’s mind. “I wish I could just run away. Disappear.” How many times has she wished the exact same thing? She kisses him fiercely. She has never felt so exhilaratingly, overwhelmingly, in love—ready to risk everything for another person.

If this is a scary tale, Hannah escapes to the bed, icing her ankle, and tells Mark he can shower first. Outside the window, the tree branches sway in the wind. Shadows dance across the wall. Mark’s voice echoes through her mind. “He keeps pressuring me to do something I don’t want to do.” She wonders what the something is, and feels a strange certainty it has to do with her. He’s going to kill me, she thinks, and almost laughs at such an absurdity. Calm down. She’s jittery because of her surroundings. Who wouldn’t be creeped out in this isolated cabin with the eerie baby’s crib and proliferating throw rugs? Only two more days, and then she’ll be home again, and at home things between her and Mark will return to normal. Still, she has never felt such unreasonable—yet instinctual—distrust of another person.

When Hannah steps into the living room after her shower, the men are again talking at the kitchen table, but this time they are smiling broadly—all of them, she notices, even Mark. With their hair wet and slicked back, Mark and Johnny look even more identical. It is then Hannah glimpses the suitcases, waiting in the entryway like impatient pets.

“What’s going on?” she asks. “Are you leaving?”

“I got a phone call from Deb,” Mark’s father says. “She’s feeling worse. I want to get back and make sure she’s all right.”

Later, Hannah will realize Mark’s father must have been lying, because they don’t have cell phone service at the cabin. But now, her heart pounds when she realizes she will be alone with Mark. The pounding stems either from fear or from elation, depending on what type of story you are telling. She can’t read Mark’s expression, his lips pressed together in an impassive line.

If this is a romantic story, Mark’s father and brother leave when the first streaks of sunset spread across the sky. If this is a scary story, they leave as evening is quickening into night. Either way, Hannah and Mark stand on the front steps of the cabin, waving goodbye. Mark’s arm is around Hannah’s waist. Both are smiling. The Jeep revs, pulls out onto the gravel, and honks twice before disappearing down the road, out of sight. A flock of birds, sparrows or blue jays, flees the pine trees in a sudden burst, dispersing into the colorful or darkening sky.

By now your campfire burns low. By now all the s’mores have been eaten. By now your listeners are yawning, rubbing their eyes with their knuckles. It is soon time for bed.

So, it has all led to this—the ending. Make sure you get the tone exactly right. The facts are the same; tone is what matters.

Romantic story or scary story, this is how it ends: the flowers grow wild around the cabin. The trees dig their roots deeper into the soil. The blue-gray waves crash against the rocks far below. And Mark and Hannah—if those are even their names—are never heard from again.