Huron Lake, Pa (July 1, 2016) – When Camp Huron Lake Senior Boys Jake Goldfine and Josh Bernstein embarked on their hike shortly after bunk inspection, they could not have possibly expected to run into a man who has been the source of fear among sleep away campers for untold decades. The boys had heard stories of a man named Cropsey, a child-murdering, mental case who lurked just on the outskirts of seemingly every summer camp, but had always assumed that like many campfire stories, he was only a figment of someone’s wild imagination.
About a half hour into their three mile walk, Goldfine was feeling the effects of the morning’s eggs and Baco Bits breakfast and needed to get to a restroom, any restroom on the double. Luckily for the boys, they spotted a small, run down cabin about fifty yards from the trail so they sprinted over to inquire about using the facilities. After a few knocks, a man wearing only overalls and a hockey mask wielding a machete answered the door. “What the hell do you boys want?” the crotchety old man asked.
“Uh, uh…we were looking for a bathroom,” replied Bernstein who now had to use the toilet after nearly crapping himself in fear.
“Of course, come on in. Excuse my appearance. I was just cleaning up the sustainable garden with this here sickle and I misplaced my safety goggles last week so I had to put on this old 1960’s goalie mask. I’m developing cataracts so I gotta take care of my eyes. You boys hungry?” inquired the man removing the mask as he welcomed the boys into the surprisingly gorgeous interior of the home. “Where are my manners? What are your names?”
Bernstein, shocked, told the man their names and waited patiently for the man to tell him his name while waiting for Goldfine to come out of the bathroom.
“The name’s Cropsey, Seth Cropsey. I’m sure you’ve heard of me and my family. We live in small, rustic shacks always in the vicinity of summer camps. A few of my cousins actually live in the lakes of those camps, too. You’re the first person to knock on my door in thirty years,” he explained. “It’s great to have some visitors. Nobody ever visits any of us.”
“Mr. Cropsey,” Bernstein nervously replied, “we heard you killed a girl thirty years ago. Is that true?”
“Wait! What??? Is that why no one’s come to visit? Oh, man!!! Are you serious? Do you want to hear what happened to that girl?” he offered back.
“Sure,” responded Goldfine feeling better now that he’d relieved himself of the morning’s breakfast.
“In 1987, a group of girls camped out a few hundred yards from here. I actually played the guitar for them. It was a great night. The next morning after they left, I cleaned up after them and one of the girls forgot her sea foam green XXL Champion sweatshirt. It was filthy so I tried to wash it for her but it shrunk to a size L. When she came back to get it she was distraught. I felt so bad for this poor girl that I offered to take her to the mall about an hour away to get a new one so her parents wouldn’t be angry that her $30 sweatshirt was ruined,” Cropsey explained. “We got to the mall and as luck would have it, Debbie Gibson was playing by the food court. The girl I took knew Debbie from Merrick so she stayed to go on the mall tour with her. That’s it. I swear.”
The boys digested the strange but not so unbelievable story along with a homemade batch of chocolate chip cookies then departed from their newfound misunderstood friend. “He’s a pretty nice guy plus he had Charmin toilet paper which is so much better than the sandpaper back at the bunk,” remarked Goldfine upon returning to camp. “We’re planning on going back tomorrow for s’mores.”