darkhorse60 , here is the story you requested!

    "Paul."

    "Meh."

    "Paul."

    Paul continued reading.

    "Paul!"

    The magazine was rudely ripped out of his hands. Paul sat up straighter in the chair, reaching to snatch his magazine back. "Hey! That's mine, John!"

    John rolled his eyes and crammed the magazine into a duffle bag. "We're supposed to be packing for the trip."

    Paul stared at him.

    "What?" John asked irritably.

    "Since when are you ready? And since when do you pack?"

    "I'm excited for this trip," John said defensively, the words tinged with warning.

    Ringo ran into the living room, slinging his duffle bag. "I'm ready to go. Who's ready to go? I am! When are we leaving? How long will it take to get there? This forest isn't haunted, right?"

    John pinched the bridge of his nose.

    "Did you seriously give him caffeine before a road trip?" Paul asked incredulously.

    "No," John spat. "George did."

    Just then, George entered the room, whistling, his suitcase in one hand, a half-eaten candy bar in the other.

    "George Harrison," Paul said, standing up from the chair, automatically going into mother hen mode. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

    George paused whistling. "Payday Bars are amazing?"

    John let out a bark of laughter.

    "No," Paul said with annoyance. "Not about your candy. About Ringo." He gestured to Ringo, who was practically twitching from the sugar rush. "We're about to ride in a car for two hours and he's on a sugar high!"

    "Better that than a regular high," John muttered as he picked at his fingernails.

    "What was that?" Paul snapped.

    "Nothing," John said quickly, zipping up the duffle bag hurriedly.

    George sent John a glare full of daggers. "At least I didn't pack a bunch of weed!"

    Paul whirled on John. "You packed weed?"

    John feigned disbelief, slapping his hand to his chest. "I would never!"

    Paul ripped the bag from his grasp. "We are not smoking weed in the woods."

    "Sounds like a bad horror movie," John mumbled.

    Ringo started cackling, complete with snorting.

    "Everybody shut up!" Paul screamed, hurling the packets of weed from the bag and onto the coffee table. "John Lennon, you should be ashamed of yourself."

    "So, so ashamed," John said, dipping his head.

    George took another bite of the candy bar. "You might want to initiate pat-down mode."
    "Are you kidding me?" Paul exclaimed, looking at John. "Am I going to have to act like airport security just to go on a camping trip?"

    "I swear on Jesus's life that I don't have any weed on my person."

    "Your cat is dead, John," George pointed out.

    "Exactly!" Paul said, jabbing a finger at John's chest. "Therefore, your swearing on his life is invalid. Legs apart."

    John groaned but obliged.

    "Hands behind your head."

    Ringo began to run around in circles. "I am so excited for the trip. Who else is excited for the trip? What radio station are we going to listen to on the ride there? Can I pick?"

    After Paul had removed all the weed from John and they finished packing, they all loaded up into the car. John was driving, Paul in the passenger seat with a map, and Ringo and George sat in the back. George leaned his head against the window, trying to ignore Ringo playing a game of I Spy with himself.

    "John, for God's sake, get it off the heavy metal station," Paul said.

    "Why?" John said as he head banged, swerving around other vehicles.

    "Because I can't concentrate!"

    George yelped as they narrowly missed a head-on collision with a semi.

    "Oh, yes," John said, rolling his eyes. "You need to concentrate. How much concentration does it take to read a bloody map, Macca?"

    "I spy with my little eye," Ringo said, gazing out the window, "the road John should have taken."

    "What?" John screeched, slamming on the brakes.

    George looked out the back window and saw that a mini van almost rear-ended them. The driver began to give them an assortment of colorful gestures, laying on the horn all the while.

    "Are you sure, Ringo?" Paul asked, brow furrowing as he looked at the map. "That's the way to the campsite?"

    "I'm pretty sure," Ringo said as John turned.

    The car began to jostle around, the sound of gravel pinging off the sides filling the cab along with Smashing Pumpkins.

    "The world is a vampire," John said, head banging. "Sent drain."

    "Secret destroyers, hold you up to the flames," Paul muttered.

    "You like this song!" John exclaimed, pointing at Paul and swerving on the road. "I knew it!"

    "And what do I get?" George sang. "For my pain?"

    "Betrayed desires, and a piece of the game," Ringo bellowed.

    "Even though I know," John said, cranking the wheel with every word, the car kicking up dust. "I suppose I'll show."

    "All my cool and cold," Paul said. "Like old job."

    George took a deep breath and screamed, "Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage!"

    "Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage," Ringo said, swaying back and forth.

    "Then someone will say what is lost can never be saved," John sang.

    Paul flung out his arms and bellowed, "Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage!"

    They continued on the gravel road for another hour before Paul said, "It looks like we're in the middle of nowhere."
    "That's the point of camping, silly!" John said, slamming on the breaks. "Look at that cute little cabin over there. Perfect for camping."

    Paul slowly looked over at him. "Are you seriously suggesting that we stay in a CABIN IN THE WOODS?"

    "Yeah."

    "I thought we were going to stay in tents," George said, eyebrows knitting together.

    "We were," John said, putting the car in park and pulling the keys from the ignition. "But this cabin looks better."

    "You do realize," Paul said as they got out of the car, "that someone might live there."
    "The windows are broken," Ringo squeaked.

    John, Paul, and George followed his gaze, and sure enough, the windows were broken out, only shards of glass remaining in the window.

    "Inviting," George muttered.

    "It sure is!" John said, flinging the trunk open and dragging the bags out. "If the windows are gone and the yard's overgrown, that means no one is living here. And that means we get to stay here."

    Paul glanced around dubiously, hands on his hips. "This doesn't look like the place we camped last year."

    "The trees got bigger," John said dismissively, bringing his foot up to slam the trunk down. He staggered with all their bags to the door of the cabin, which was ever so slightly ajar, the wood rotting out. He didn't even hesitate, kicking the door open.

    Rats scurried out of the way, retreating to the holes in the walls. Cockroaches scattered from where they had been having a roach-y party on the floor around a dead rat.

    "Eek!" Paul cried, flailing his arms. "I walked into a cobweb!"

    John stared at him. "You also walked into the spider."
    Ringo leaned forward. "Aw, look, that spider wants to be Paul's friend." He pointed, and George saw the spider crawling up the side of the Paul's face, its numerous eyes staring at them all at the same time.

    Paul screamed and began to run around in circles, but John unzipped the duffle bag and rolled up Paul's magazine. "Hold still," he said before swinging the magazine at the spider on Paul's face. The spider hopped off before the magazine could make contact, but Paul wasn't so lucky.

    "Ow!" he said pointedly, hand going to his cheek, glaring at John.

    "Oops," John said, dropping the magazine back into the bag. He glanced around. "Look at that! There's four twin beds. This place is made for us."

    Ringo wandered over the one of the beds and pulled the sheets back. "There's a bone in here."

    "Brush it aside," John said, dropping the bags.

    "There's two bones in here."

    "Just move 'em," John replied as he rooted through one of the suitcases.

    "John?" Ringo said.

    "What?"

    "There's an entire skeleton sleeping in my bed."
    "Tell him to move."

    George shook his head. "You can't expect us to sleep here in this rat-infested place where somebody died!"

    "They were probably murdered," Ringo said, his lower lip quivering.

    "Bah!" John said, waving a dismissive hand at them.

    "Well, at least it's got a fridge," Paul said, pulling it open. A family of spiders crawled out and scurried between Paul's feet without him even noticing. "Looks like someone left some milk in here! That's nice. Perfect for cereal." He pulled it out and checked the expiration date. "When was 8/7/52?"

    John eyed him. "You talking about the future? Like 2052? Who knew milk was good that long!"

    "I think he's talking about 1952, John," George scoffed.

    Paul unscrewed the cap and took a whiff. His eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled to the floor, a cockroach scurrying away before it got crushed.

    "Paul, this is no time for fun and games!" John said, stalking over and jerking the milk from him. He smelled it and waved his hand in front of his face. "Whew! That stuff is rancid. I don't think it's still good."
    "Ya think?" George said.

    Ringo sifted through their cooler. "Hey, guys, where's all the food?"

    "What do you mean?" John said, pitching the carton of milk outside and slamming the door. Rat nests fell from the rafters, but he ignored it as he shuffled through the twigs and soda cans that the rats had used to make their roosts.

    "There isn't anything in here but drinks," Ringo said. "All the sandwiches Paul packed are gone."

    George began sweating, pulling at his collar.

    John turned his fiery gaze to him. "Well?"

    "Maybe it fell out."

    "Really," John said flatly. "All the food would fall out and the drinks would still somehow remain?"

    "Yes."

    "Huh," John said, his eyes narrowing into suspicious slits.

    "Huh," George replied, still sweating.

    "Huh," Ringo said, scratching his head, genuinely confused.

    "Huh," Paul moaned from the floor.

    "Well, we're miles away from any convenience store," John announced. "So we can't buy anything."
    "What are we going to do?" Ringo asked quietly.

    John puffed out his chest and deepened his voice to sound manly. "We hunt."
    Paul sat up from the floor. "Nope, nope, nope."

    "What is your problem, Macca?"

    "I'm not participating in the slaughter of helpless animals!" Paul said, turning his nose in the air, crossing his arms.

    "Fishing, then."

    "There are animals involved in that, John," George said flatly.

    "Let's go berry-picking," John announced. "Who's with me?"

    George shrugged. "I'll go."

    Ringo nodded.

    John looked at Paul. "What about you?"

    "What about me?"

    "Yeah, what are you doing?"

    "I'm staying here," Paul said. "I don't want to go stumbling through the grimy wilderness."
    George raised an eyebrow. "You'd rather sit on the floor in rat cr — "

    Paul gasped. "George! Ringos are present!"

    George sighed. "Fine. You'd rather sit on the floor in rat feces?"

    "Yes."

    "His funeral," John said, herding George and Ringo out the door. "We men will go fetch the food while the womenfolk stay here."

    Paul harrumphed, still sitting on the floor.

    "Let's go!" John said, pointing out at the forest and marching into the trees.