LEITH AND THE LURKING EVIL

WE ALL LEANED forward. What was this wonderful event? Had they found gold underneath the mysterious bungalow in the forest? Had aliens landed and declared themselves friendly? Had some humanitarian invented an ice cream that didn’t make your fillings ache?

“Dr Grieg has consented to join us, and tell tonight’s campfire story! So let’s have a big Camp Damble welcome for our founder, director and resident inventor - the man who pays our salaries - Dr Pericles Grieg!”

A wave of applause, led by Mut and Ant, broke out, as a tiny man in beige slacks and a bright blue shirt dashed out of the shadows. He came on like a game-show host - a star making an entrance. He had a pot belly, small hands, a mound of wiry brown hair and big round glasses. The lenses reflected the firelight, and at odd moments made it look like flames were leaping out of his eyes. But in spite of his eccentric appearance, I felt no sense of being in the presence of a man of greatness. If he was, as Ant liked to claim, a genius, he must be one of the non-charismatic kind.

“Please, young ladies and gents, be seated. And thank you, Mut, for that lovely introduction. I’d also like to issue an official greeting to our new arrivals who got here today - welcome to the Camp Damble family!” He started to clap and everyone joined in.

I smiled at Pippa, who was sitting to my right one row in front; she smiled back. I knew they probably did this whenever new kids arrived, but still the applause made me feel warm inside, like I really was accepted here. That was a feeling I didn’t always have in the outside world. Maybe this summer-camp thing would turn out OK, in spite of some pretty weird goings-on.

“So I hope I don’t frighten our newcomers away,” Dr Grieg went on, “with tonight’s tale!”

I saw Broody glance at Pippa, then turn around again for another, longer look. I wished something would happen to frighten him away. Maybe Ant would take him boating. No, I wouldn’t wish that on Broody … or anyone.

“For tonight’s hair-raising horror story is not only scary, but ... true.”

Yeah, right, I thought. This is the way all campfire yarns start, just like all fairy stories begin with once upon a time.

But then he said something that made me sit straight up, something that made me forget all about Broody and Pippa and Mut and Ant, and give my undivided attention to the tale-teller.

“Tonight’s little ditty,” Dr Grieg went on, fire seemingly streaming from his eyes, “is a cautionary tale of our own local legend ... Camp Damble’s resident monster - Headless Henry!”

Henry, Dr Grieg explained, was a nice enough young man, normal in every way - or so everybody thought ... until they discovered his album. But that came later, after the deeds had been done and his fate was well and truly sealed.

At first, he just used to go around snapping pictures with his Polaroid, and people would say, “There goes Henry, taking some happy snaps on his way to the meatworks.” Mostly he photographed people from the town; sometimes billboards featuring models or movie stars. And then one day he just ... stopped. Had enough, he said. Enough to complete his album.

Along the way, he’d struck up a friendship with a woman everyone called the town witch. Ever since her son had died, people said this nice quiet woman had begun to practise the black arts, trying to reach her boy on the other side. Some claimed she’d even tried to bring him back.

But surely that could not be, since her husband - against her wishes - had had the boy’s body cremated. Not long after, the husband disappeared. Some claimed she’d killed him. Others swore they’d seen him living in the next town. A few believed she’d zapped him into a parallel universe.

Whatever the truth, everyone agreed that Henry bore a general resemblance to the so-called witch’s son, being the same age, height and build. Except that Henry walked with a limp - his back wasn’t quite straight. And he had a purple birthmark across the left side of his face. No matter how nice people might be to him, Henry had always felt shy and left out. The witch was unpopular but feared, so people left her alone. Henry and the witch were a couple of outcasts who found each other - a substitute mother and son.

Local gossip had it that the witch couldn’t be too good at her craft. Otherwise, she would just snap her fingers and bring her son back, cremation or no cremation. And maybe she’d been thinking along those lines; because one day she stumbled upon a spell. A spell that could grant wishes. Three wishes.

The spell was not easy to invoke, since many rare ingredients (grave-dirt dug at midnight; blood from a vampire bat; a rare mushroom found only under logs in the deepest part of the forest) were needed. But together, Henry and the witch tracked them down. Together, they made the potion. Together, they drank it and cast the spell. And together they would enjoy the spoils. Except that three wishes could not be divided evenly between two people.

So Henry decided to get in first. He pored over his photograph album, cutting out and assembling a jigsaw puzzle of physical perfection. Frankenstein-like, he assembled his blueprint of masculine flawlessness, the man he would become. No longer awkward and funny-looking, he would be flattered by women, admired by men; and as soon as he was snapped up to be the next model for Calvin Klein, he’d give his job at the meatworks the flick.

Meanwhile, the witch was planning to bring back her son. She would wish him back exactly as he had been before the car crash ... her perfect boy.

She worried how Henry would take the news; she would not need a surrogate son once she had the real one back.

She had no idea that Henry was planning to leave her.

She had no idea that Henry had already used the first wish.

So when she came home that night to find a handsome stranger admiring himself in the hall mirror, she panicked. “Who are you?” she demanded. “Get out of my house!”

Turning around, the young man made a face, then turned back to the mirror, preening.

“I said, go away!”

“I’m sick of you,” said the young man, “always acting like the Queen of Hearts in that story you read to me, screaming and throwing your stupid tantrums!”

“Henry? Is it ...?”

“Drop off, witchy woman!”

“Henry, your manners - this is ... outrageous.”

“Go away.”

“Henry, please---”

“I wish you’d disappear!”

“I wish I were the Queen of Hearts - I’d take one look at you and say: ‘Off with his head!’”

In the moment that followed, they realised what they had done. Horrified, they ran to each other, the old feelings of affection and protectiveness flooding back.

“Cancel that!” yelled the witch.

“Didn’t mean it!” shouted Henry.

The witch, throwing out her arms, vanished. Henry, embracing empty air, turned to look for her ... as his head parted company with his shoulders and rolled down the stairs, out the door, and into the night - where he’s been looking for it ever since.

“But look,” said Dr Grieg, his face growing grave, “isn’t that Headless Henry standing right over there behind the boy in the back row?”