Camp Explorer Five buses arrived just before dusk, full of squealing children and vomit. A peeling hand-painted sign above the road read Camp Explorer, Est. 1948, One by one, the children scrambled out, some nervous, some excited and little Johnny was completely covered in far too many people's vomit to care anymore It was late 1969, and their parents had all said the same thing in hushed voices: “It’s not safe anymore. Not when they are going to land on the moon.” Some parents whispered about radiation. Others blatantly said the aliens were just waiting for us to go up so they had permission to come down. Camp Explorer would keep their children protected and safe, tucked away in the middle of North Dakota; nothing would get to them through those woods. A tall man in a grey coat appeared from the main hall. His smile unusually happy, and his beady eyes staring just a tad too long. “Welcome, children,” he said. “You’re just in time.” The first few days were fun: swimming, rope swings, and cooking classes for the girls, with archery for the boys. They played games and told ghost stories around campfires at night. But every night, one child was called away. “Just a quick check-up,” the man in grey would say. By the morning, they were back, a little quiet but right as rain. On the seventh night, it was Tommy’s turn. He was led down into a hidden basement beneath the hall. The air smelled like metal, and the spark in the air just after a lightning storm. Rows of glass pods lined the walls. Inside each one was a kid from camp. Standing perfectly still. Tommy glanced along until he found his own face staring right back at him. “Those are clones, they’ll go home as you,” said the man in grey without a smile. Tommy tried to scream as everything went black. *** Back home, the parents welcomed their children with relief. The relief that they were right to send them away. They were blessedly unaffected by the moon landing. *** Years later, way after the camp was abandoned, hikers still gossip through the woods. They say if you wander too close at dusk, you’ll see them, one tall figure surrounded by a group of children in long coats that drag along the forest floor. Their faces hidden behind strange, expressionless masks with horns. They don’t chase you. They don’t speak. They just stand there, waiting, hoping for someone to finally take them home.

It was a tradition. Done every spring, for hundreds of years. The real reason had blurred. Some forgot it entirely; others twisted it to serve themselves. Thaddeus stood in the doorway of his cabin, back bent, hands gnarled, sight blurred. Still, he heard the whispers the wind carried and the wails of the chosen echoing in the gray dawn. Today was the propitiation. It was a condition that everyone participate. But over the years, that had changed until the ones forced into the circle were the lesser-thans: children of drunks, from overcrowded homes, or with no parents at all. Those were the ones who woke to find the colored egg. Thaddeus stepped back inside. He will go this year. The wind called to him, promising it would be different. He grabbed his worn flannel coat and shoved his arms through the frayed sleeves. Memories crashed in. His mother worrying her lip while they waited for his father to open the door. Would this be the year an egg waited on the threshold? It never came. The village resented them for it. The butcher stopped selling to his family, so his father raised their own cattle and pigs which were fatter, healthier than any others. This only deepened the spite. It wasn’t their fault. They had kept the agreement struck hundreds of years ago. By the time he reached the woods, the others were already there. The Mayor and his family stood in Sunday best, the other prominent families dressed the same. Nearby, a huddle of filthy children in ill-fitting clothes waited in silence. This wasn’t how it was meant to be. The Goddess wouldn’t be pleased. The group fell silent as figures emerged between the trees. The Goddess’ guards. Long pastel coats brushed the forest floor, pale rabbit masks hiding their faces. Rabbits meant fertility, renewal, prosperity. The Goddess’ promise. No one spoke. No one moved. Finally, the Mayor cleared his throat. “These are the children who found the colored egg. Take them and bless our village.” Thaddues knew that was a lie. The Goddess would never had selected them. The figures stepped forward in perfect unison. A woman shoved a child forward. “Go on now. We’ve got a celebration to start.” The guards shifted, making room for something still unseen. The air thickened, pressing inward. Something was coming. Slow. Deliberate. The guards lowered their heads. Fear rolled through the crowd, nearly visible. The Goddess was here. Thaddeus turned away. He didn’t want to see what came next. “Goodbye, my one true believer. You and your family have honored the agreement,” the wind whispered, brushing his cheek. “And now those who didn’t will suffer.” Thaddeus walked back toward his cabin. The screams followed soon after.

Harry Coney turned the first cellphone over in his gloved hands. That’s all they found. Of the seven missing students and their teacher. Seven cellphones. Each with a single video only seven seconds long. Something bad had happened to these kids. He knew it in the pit of his detective’s stomach. Harry played the first video. It was easy to mistake it as an unmoving image. A carving of statues in a wooded clearing, looking like children in hundred-year-old Easter masks with tall, misshapen ears. He listened. A background of woodland noises. Crunching footsteps. And teenage grumbling. “Siiiiir, you said there wouldn’t be any art on this trip!” a shrill voice crows. One of the girls. The picture flickers. The statues glitch inside their masks. “There’s nothing manmade,” a teacher’s voice placates. “What’s that then?” The video looped and Harry set it aside. The second video looked like the first. The same still image. Carved children. Tall ears. The same woodland noises. Different dialogue overlaid. “They’re not moving.” A male voice. Wary. “They’re statues.” The same grumbler from before. “They weren’t here last time,” the teacher declares. “Are you for real?” Grumbler queries. The loop. The end. The third was like the second. The same wooden statues. The same vacancy of mute masks. Harry listened. “Their masks look like they’re melted on,” Wary comments. “I don’t think they’re masks,” Grumbler replies. “Don’t touch that!” the teacher barks. End. Loop. A fourth incarnation of the still image. But, the closer he looked, the more Harry could see it wasn’t still. Dead branches flickered in the same light breeze that tickled the tall ears of the carved children’s masks. “That one’s moving!” Panicker squeals. “You’re imagining things,” the teacher reassures. “Sir, my head feels funny.” A new voice. Voices. Gastalt. “Your head?” The teacher. “My ears ache.” The gestalt. Endloop. By the fifth video, things not present before slithered in. Digital artefacts. Little glitches, flicking and changing the positions of the masks, the ears. Was that—? —Were the statues swaying in the breeze? And the audio. More frantic. More urgent. Pleading, even. “I can’t— Stop filming me! Stop filming!” Panicked breathing over not-quite-still images. “What’s happening to me?!” An inhuman creaking. “I’m frightened! Sir! Sir?” Existential crying. Then the same voice. But so much smaller. “Sir?” End. The sixth video was silent. No woodland noise. No frightened pleading. Just the creaking of wooden forms. Close. Loud. And a whispering that seemed to rise all around. ‘We listen. With our tall ears.’ Stillness. Quiet. The promise of the loop. And then, the sudden crash of movement. The lead figure rushing towards the camera as the others sway and sing their dire dirge. ‘We listen. With our tall ears.’ Harry threw the phone away as the rabbit-leader reached the screen. “No!” he cried. He didn’t want to reach for the seventh. He daren’t. And yet here it was. In his hands. He didn’t need to watch it. Harry listened. With his tall, aching ears.