Undercurrent by Paul Blackwell

one out there. Which is funny, because I clearly remember having a big marathon session with her here last week.
    I head along to where the park’s reception office is supposed to come into view. Here, I’m stopped right in my tracks.
    Because it’s gone. Vanished. Instead of the big log cabin, there’s nothing but a bunch of trees and some tangled brush. It’s like the place never existed.
    Just beyond the trees, I see an old trailer propped on cinder blocks. On the other side of the road, an old beat-up pickup sits on a square of mud exactly where I remember there was a lame painted replica of Crystal Falls.
    The big, wooden gate at the entrance is gone too. There’s now just a length of rope blocking the road, strung between what look like two broom handles.
    I don’t know what to make of this, but it’s freaking me out. I feel like I should run away, but curiosity gets the better of me. As I approach, I can now make out the actual campground itself. The whole site looks neglected, with overflowing garbage cans and plastic bags blown into the trees. At least three-quarters of the rental trailers are missing, and I can’t see a single tent anywhere. The tennis courts, the miniputt, they’re gone!
    The transformation is so disturbing that I just want to get out of there. After one last look, I begin heading back.
    I’m stopped by a shout: “Hey, where do you think you’re going?” I turn around and see a man in a plaid shirt who is climbing down from the trailer.
    “Come back here!” he yells after me.
    For a second I consider making a break for it. The guy looks old; even feeling stiff and sore, I figure I could probably outrun him. But I’m not a criminal. So why start acting like one? Besides, he could easily catch me in his truck if he really wanted to.
    So I start walking back.
    On closer inspection I see he’s not a stranger. It’s Mr. Guise, the park owner. I don’t know him personally, but I know his face from around town. With business brisk at the Crystal Falls Campground, he’s usually well dressed and driving a flashy new four-by-four.
    But now he looks terrible, his clothes filthy and his face red and flecked with broken blood vessels. And he’s been drinking, I see, as he staggers up the road.
    “Hello,” I say when he reaches me. “Nice day, huh?”
    But he isn’t here for a pleasant exchange. “Well, well, well,” he says, spitting in the dirt. “Where do you think you’re headed?”
    “Home,” I tell him, not that it’s any of his business.
    “Oh, really?” he says, sneering. “You didn’t just see my truck and decide to hightail it?”
    The man’s breath is really bad. “Pardon me?” I say, taking a step back, out of range.
    Mr. Guise screws up his ravaged features. “Pardon me?” he rasps in what I think is supposed to be a girl’s voice. “Pardon me?”
    This can’t be happening—the guy just won Citizen of the Year. “Listen, I’m sorry,” I say, trying to remain as polite as possible. “But is there some sort of problem?”
    “ Pardon? Sorry? You’ve really found your manners today, haven’t you, punk, coming onto my private property?”
    All right, now I’m getting fed up. I’m feeling uncomfortable, being alone on the road with this guy. But still, I don’t have to take crap from someone so drunk, he’s swaying with every breeze.
    “It’s a public road,” I tell him, although, to be honest, I have no idea about this. “I’m allowed to walk on it.”
    His bleary eyes go wide.
    “Oh, you teenagers always know your rights, dontcha?” Mr. Guise cackles, giving me a glimpse of a jumble of stained and broken teeth. “Yeah, you’re right—this is a public road. But everything on the other side of that rope is mine,” he says, flipping a thumb backward.
    “Okay. So?”
    “So the only people allowed on the other side are my guests,” Mr. Guise informs me. “And like I said, every guest owes me rental fees.”
    “Huh?” I reply. “Rental