In this chilling novel about a 1950s boys' summer camp gone awry, the formerNew York Timesliterary critic has created a brilliant coming-of-age story with undertones reminiscent ofLord of the Flies.Christopher Lehmann-Haupt's novel is at once a fantasy, a barbed portrait of boyhood in the dawning of the Eisenhower era, and a no-holds-barred story of terror of the sort that won him praise for his previous novel,A Crooked Man.Jerry Muller has been a regular at Camp Seneca for years. Now that he's a teenager and counselor, things don't seem quite right at his traditional summer haunt. As Jerry plunges into the mysteries around him, he finds himself growing up fast -- maybe too fast.He's attracted to T.J., a pretty girl who might have a boyfriend but who flirts anyway, and he's shocked by the truth about his friend Oz, who's more interested in Jerry than in the likes of T.J. He sees something is strangely amiss with the husband and wife who own the camp. But above all, he's scared of the cruel game masterminded by Buck.Of Seneca ancestry, Buck is a sinister, bigger-than-life expert on Indian lore. He is also an organizer of scary games who may just possibly be a psychopath and a killer, and in whose hands the camp's make-believe, designed to scare the kids, becomes first a savage and brutal test of strength, then, by small steps, genuinely dangerous.As Jerry unravels the mysteries surrounding the ordinary-looking camp, he struggles to understand how "the Forbidden Woods," which have always been off-limits to campers as a kind of game and dare, have somehow become genuinely frightening -- all the more reason to discover the secrets that lie behind Camp Seneca's facade.The story reaches its climax in a shocking scene that neither Jerry nor the reader is likely to forget. Christopher Lehmann-Haupt's new novel is a wicked, suspenseful, and deeply original tale.

Chapter One: The Campfire The station wagon that had met our train bounced along the dirt road that led to the entrance of Camp Seneca, raising enough dust to make me feel I was riding a stagecoach into some earlier time in history. Adam Lister was driving, despite nearsightedness that required what looked like a pair of thick camera lenses. Because of a remote manner that was partly the result of this handicap, we called him "mister." Mr. Lister."Can I go swimming as soon as we get there?" Peter asked, his bright blue eyes sparkling."No," I said. "Everything begins with the softball game." I yawned, tired from staying awake most of the night on the train from New York City, a lot of the time answering my little brother's nervous questions."Do I have to play?""Yes," said Mr. Lister. "Everybody plays.""You'll have fun," said Buddy Stemmer from the seat behind us. He was a quiet, fourteen-year-old senior camper, so straightforward and reliable that several summers earlier I had coined the nickname Steady Bomber for him. It had stuck. Steady's good looks bordered on prettiness, like what people sometimes said about mine."I'm not good at softball," Peter said."That doesn't matter," said Bordy Udall from the front passenger seat. He had ridden out with Mr. Lister to meet the train. Bordy was short for Borden, and we sometimes called him Elsie (after the Borden's Dairy cow), but only behind his back. He was the head counselor of the camp and, at six feet six inches and 270 pounds, an offensive lineman for the University of Pittsburgh football team. He had an incongruously high-pitched voice that made Peter smile.Next to Steady Bomber, Bernie Kaufman -- a small, stoop-shouldered fourteen-year-old who didn't look like a senior camper but was -- sat practicing his long-necked five-string banjo, just as he had tried to do on the train all the way from New York, until the other passengers made him mute his strings by stuffing tissue between them and the fretboard."I didn't know you had a brother, Muller," Mr. Lister said."Jerry's actually my half brother," Peter said."We have the same father," I said. I lit a cigarette on a new lighter I had been given as a high school graduation gift, and inhaled deeply."How old are you, Peter?" Bordy asked. He reached back and tousled Peter's nearly white blond hair."I'm nine."Bordy whistled. "That's old enough to qualify." I think he was covering up his surprise. Peter looked more like seven."Qualify for what?" Peter asked with a worried frown."For everything," Bordy said.Peter smiled at Bordy's teasing and looked out the window. The station wagon was passing the old farmhouse that served as a place for the counselors to socialize, and where Woody and Win Wentworth, Camp Seneca's owners, sometimes stayed, especially during the off-season. Gazing at the house, which was built so close to the road that it looked as if it was trying to escape the land it was on, I thought of the sharp taste of the hard cider in the cellar. The Wentworths' old Chrysler Town & Country, with its wood side panels, was parked next to the house."This is Peter's first long time away from home," I announced, trying to explain his apparent fearfulness. "Right, buddy?""Your brother will take good care of you," Bordy said. "The five weeks will go by like nothing.""I know," Peter said. "And Woody and Win will be waiting to make me feel right at home.""Sorry, they won't," Mr. Lister said. "Win's not here yet."My heart sank. I had sort of a crush on Win, something I probably shared with half the other campers, but which I kept fiercely to myself. "Why isn't she here?" I asked.Mr. Lister said nothing. He was concentrating nearsightedly on the road in a way that I always found both pitiable and annoying. I was glad Bordy had come along with him to brighten the atmosphere."If I like camp, can I stay longer?" Peter aske