A couple of years back, I signed up for the Armed Forces with a few friends of mine. Everything went fine for the first six months, none of the other recruits had been killed and most of us had been offered a raise. After we moved to an older camp, things started going wrong. Very wrong. 

The camp we moved to was paying high salary to anyone who would operate there for more than two weeks. I, being the doubtful one of the ten, whose basecamp had been changed to here, decided to do some research on the place for peace of mind. While searching on the internet, there was a website all about the camp. It simply contained one sentence:

"These files have been destroyed." Likely, because of the files 'mysteriously' disappearing.

I started asking around the more experienced soldiers that had been working there longer than everyone. 

The first guy I talked to was called Paul.

"Camp's got a reputation," Paul stated blankly. He had a hillbilly accent. "There's been more deaths here than a North American slaughterhouse."

I frowned. 

That night, I went to sleep with Paul's statement floating around in my head. I eventually went to sleep, but not for long. When I woke up, my clock told me it was 2 AM. And there was a man standing at the end of my bed, dressed in the desert camouflage uniform. But it wasn't a man, as such. It looked at me with hollow sockets that maybe held eyes once, but didn't now. When it turned its face, I saw the skin on the side of its face was mutilated by a possible explosion, although one had not been reported yet. It got up and walked out. I passed out. 

I was woken by my bunk mate, Matt, throwing water over my head.

"Jason!" he snickered.

"Jason, mate, it's 8 AM! Seregent wants us out by half past!"

I jumped up, still half asleep, and forced myself under a cold shower. 

At lunch break, Paul, Matt and I sat at a table in the camp lobby and ate what was put in our brown bags. Another soldier I didn't know approached our table. As he got closer, I saw his face and almost fell out of my chair. He looked exactly like the manifestation of the soldier at the end of my bed last night. He held his hand out to me.

"Brad Sanders," he said. I shook his hand, "if I were to die, would you give this to my family?" He held out a white envelope. I took it and hesitantly agreed.

A few hours later I got in contact with the registration office, and asked if there was a soldier by the name of Brad Sanders. The secretary said yes, and questioned why I was asking. In a breath, I explained what happened.

"Well, you couldn't have talked to Brad," she said, "unfortunately Mr. Sanders stepped on a landmine a few days ago and passed away in the Infirmary." 

After that, things just weren't quite right.