Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-28788859-20160619072515

When a weary traveller from the north of Scotby, England takes a wrong turn off at a fork junction at Bamber Bridge, he discovers a forgotten little campsite. With its stone masonry from past generations and newly installed (yet still rancid) rudimentary, out of place, cement slabs serving as the measly facilities which oddly rested slap-bang in the middle of an unremarkable green, rolling field, at Preston. Great Birchwood, as it was named, had become a rather popular camping destination for smaller families and the elderly. Residing some fifteen miles from the overhanging cliffs and monoliths as well as the ocean, it was certainly not an extravagant place. It was September when Ellie had mithered her underpaid father and stay-at-home mother to take her down to the campsite for the weekend to see the ocean and what else could suffice her childish, queer need for adventure. The drive down would have cost them more in petrol as opposed to the mere twenty pound entry fee which would be deposited at a clapboard shack where the parkie resided. After a divider barrier was lifted, the family car trundled up a placid dirt road up and along England’s greenest hills.

A scattered number of wooden beams marking the camping spots, as for other campers and tourists there were none, soon came up into view as well as the ancient cliffs that protruded over the crashing waves of the ocean. The sea salt was carried by the wind as vapours from the tides were upheaved into the frigid air. The happy little family skidded their car into a spot next to a cement block building which housed putrid toilets and other necessary facilities for this kind of establishment.

It was not long until sunset dawned early five o’ clock taking into account the time of year. By this time, a shabby store bought tent was up and the three sat under the primordial sky. A feast had been had, yet again, sausages from over the counter, other greasy meats and beverages, tea typically. With this, the now tired eight year old was dragged from under the sky and placed neatly into her fluorescent pink sleeping bag. Prior to the parents retirement to sleep, they woke the little girl in an effort to encourage her to go to the bathroom as she had had trouble with wetting the bed some many times in the past.

The girl staggered with her mother, sauntering hand in hand, to the stinking bathroom block almost near half-asleep while her father gathered things from outside the tent which would surely be ruined in the expected rain, for the night. The mother cleaned her teeth and freshened herself up, cleaning her face with a number of white cottonwool pads while Ellie did what she needed to do.

The toilets were of low quality (consisting of three cubicles, two of which were graffitied and misused to a foul extent, only one seemed fit), utilising a drop-back pit where excrement, faeces and other unnamable things would go. The large cavity beneath the little hole where these materials would be disposed lay a pipe which was most probably connected to a water treatment centre where the matter would be then deposited back into the ocean and its crashing waves. This region was, as imaginable, foul and was certainly the cause for the maddening smell.

It was in the seemingly fit cubical where the little girl seemed to spot something down in the pit, along with the filth and sewage. A red little light, nothing of sinister description, no beasts or ghouls. A little red dot. A light most probably used by workers for maintenance and cleaning (activities which were not carried out frequently judging by the state of the place), left on by mistake. Not worth worrying about, Ellie carried on and did what she needed to do.

The weekend carried on as usual and, close to its end, after a delightful day down at the beach which the little girl had so longingly loathed, they went on to pack away the tent and gather their things, not in haste but with some level of sadness that they were leaving. The place was a little less empty now, more people had arrived that afternoon. It was then, after a trip to the bathroom, the mother seemed a little fazed. The dot of light in the pit of stygian air had troubled her too. She spoke of what she had seen and was simply dismissed by her husband for it seemed like a minor thing that was most probably nothing but a light. It was not until Ellie spoke up about the light when her father had even considered investigating.

Urged by them both, he entered the cement block with little to no expression on his face and with no expectation of him finding something. When he returned, he walked at the same speed, carrying the same expression and said in a calm voice for both Ellie and her mother to get in the car while he called the police. No questions were asked and they obeyed because of the sheer trembling nature of the mans voice.

When the police arrived, few people had gathered to see what the commotion was about since the majority of them were out doing other things outside the campsite. Nothing was discovered, all but a pair of faeces smothered water proof overalls and a top piece to match, a transparent ziplock bag, also waterproof, containing a camcorder and a half used spray can. In the pit under that drop-back toilet were the words, written in black paint: THANK YOU FOR THE VIDEOS 