A Little Later

Elsie poured herself another cup of coffee. Usually by now she would have thrown off all the results of the previous night's drinking, but today she just couldn't seem to shake it. Perhaps what she was hearing over the radio had something to do with it. "I'm Ed Harris with the KLTZ Early Morning Report. Crystal Lake in Pinehurst County, the scene of several unsolved deaths years ago, is tragically back in the top of the news this morning. Police have uncovered the remains of eight, as yet, unidentified persons in a gruesome and baffling story of mass murder."

Elsie shuddered. She opened the cabinet over the sink and took out a bottle of whiskey. She frowned at it. There were only two inches of amber fluid left. Hadn't she bought this just the day before yesterday? Or was it yesterday? Perhaps she'd wait for her first drink of the day.

"Judging from the sheer brutality of the murders, police theorize that they must have been committed by at least four persons."

Elsie closed her eyes for a moment. She unscrewed the cap and tipped the bottle up, pouring a shot of whiskey into her cup. Daphne was sitting at the table. She had fixed herself toast and instant cocoa--the kind with miniature marshmallows. Elsie watched as her daughter dipped the corner of her toast in the sweet brown liquid, then munched it slowly, her eyes never moving from the sketchpad on the table before her. Her other hand moved out slowly, adding a touch here or there to the dark drawing she had begun after Elsie had ripped up her original work.

"The sole survivor of the massacre has been taken, under heavy sedation, to County Hospital in Linfield for observation. She's been unable to provide police with any clues, and is being kept under round the clock guard..."

Elsie emptied the rest of the whiskey into her cup, then turned off the radio. On her way to the living room, she averted her eyes as she passed Daphne, carefully keeping her gaze away from the gruesome art on the table. She turned on the television, hoping to find some light, mindless entertainment. She felt a desperate need to get away from reality. She didn't want to think--didn't want to put things together.

The television droned--talk shows, game shows, and soap operas. Elsie was aware of Daphne moving about the house. At one point Daphne came and put a plate bearing a sandwich, an apple, and a can of soda on the coffee table before her mother. Elsie ate the offering without stopping to wonder when Daphne had begun to take care of her, instead of the other way around. Elsie was finishing the apple when the evening news came on.

"...A police spokesman tells Eyewitness News that authorities have been combing the area since just before dawn. Reports of cannibalism and sexual mutilation are still unconfirmed. Nevertheless, these murders are already being called the most brutal in local history. The motive behind the grisly murders remains a mystery at this hour as does the identity of the killer or killers. The search continues for more bodies."

Daphne was sitting on the sofa beside her mother. Elsie stared at her daughter, half-formed speculations drifting across her mind. Then Daphne tilted her head, and a faint hint of... Puzzlement? Wistfulness? In any case, it was an expression, and those were rare. Elsie looked quickly to see what had elicited this response from Daphne.

It was some sort of love scene. A man was holding a woman in his arms, whispering to her tenderly. He asked her to marry him, and she responded with a teary smile, and a yes. They kissed. "They're in love, Daphne," Elsie said.

"Love?"

The response startled Elsie--she hadn't been expecting it. "Yes, dear. Everyone wants someone to love. They want to find someone they can understand, someone who's like them."

"Like? Look like same? Blame."

It took Elsie a moment to puzzle this out, but she thought she understood. "Not looking the same, dear. The same on the inside. Sharing interests, liking the same things, caring about the same things, feeling the same." She put her arm around Daphne's shoulder, giving her a little squeeze. "I know that it doesn't seem like there's anyone else who's like you, because you're so special. But trust me, dear--there's someone for everyone."

"Yes." The single word was flat and matter-of-fact, as if Daphne were confirming something that was obvious. She got up and went to sit on the floor in front of the television.

Elsie stared after her. She hadn't really believed what she was telling Daphne. She was convinced that Daphne, for all she'd tried to help her live a normal life, would never meet anyone who would understand, and appreciate her. But Daphne seemed serene in the thought that there was someone out there for her--and that disturbed Elsie.

When Elsie was sure that Daphne was engrossed in the program, Elsie got up and made her way back to her daughter's bedroom. She stood there for a few moments, hand resting on the knob. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been in Daphne's room She'd been telling herself that it was because a young woman needed her privacy, but she knew that was an excuse.

Daphne had never made any move or gesture to indicate that she didn't want her mother in her room, but Elsie had a sense that she didn't like it. That was a new development. The last few times she'd done Daphne's laundry, Elsie had left the clean clothes on the sofa--then Daphne had begun doing her own laundry.

After a moment, Elsie quietly opened the door and stepped into Daphne's room. Instead of turning on the lights, she made her way over to the window and pulled the drapes open a few inches. The thin evening light streamed in, and the room looked a little less like a cave...

Until she turned around, and saw the extent of her child's decoration.

There were dozens of sheets of drawing paper tacked neatly on the walls, and they made the room seem darker. They were all in pencil, or charcoal--studies in black, white, and gray. Elsie realized why she'd been thinking about caves. She'd seen pictures of prehistoric cave drawings; crude images on stonewall, illuminated by lantern light. These pictures were not quite as crude as those others, but still there was something disturbingly primal about them.

There was a cedar chest at the foot of Daphne's bed, and there were three scrapbooks lined up neatly atop it. They were thick, obviously full. Elsie figured that Daphne must have started posting her art on the walls after she'd filled them. Now Elsie noticed that there weren't just drawings on the walls--there were newspaper clippings, too. *No, not actual clippings. They're Xerox's. Daphne copied them from newspapers at the library.* Elsie stepped closer to the wall, squinting.

Camp Blood. Crystal Lake. Murders. Serial Killer. Voorhees. Massacre. Tragedy. Mutilations. Mystery. Jason Voorhees. There was a picture labeled 'Police Artist's Representation'. It was a sketch of someone with a rough hood over their head, a single ragged hole over where the eyes should be, and Elsie found herself thinking, *My Daphne did it better than that.*

Then her eyes were drawn to something that seemed out of place. She moved even closer, peering at it. It was a leaf. Nothing unusual, just an ordinary leaf, but it had been thumb tacked to the wall. Elsie knew that some children with Daphne's problem collected odds and ends--pebbles, twigs, bits of string. Daphne had never been like that, though. Why this leaf?

Then she noticed something--it was speckled. She knew a little bit about local floral, and to the best of her knowledge, there weren't any trees with speckled leaves in the area. Could it be some sort of mold, or dirt? She delicately scratched at the leaf, and scraped off one of the spots. She looked at the tiny, dark smudge under her fingernail, then lifted it to her face and sniffed. She was expecting an earthy, musty smell. Instead it was coppery. Feeling vaguely horrified, Elsie wiped her hand violently on her skirt, and turned to leave the room.

Daphne was standing in the doorway. The light from the hall behind her was much stronger than that in the bedroom, and she was almost a silhouette--nothing much more than a dark outline, a shape with no humanizing details. For a moment Elsie's mind seized on Daphne's drawings of the hulking figure in the woods, and she felt cold.

Then Daphne lifted her hand and flipped the light switch. The room was brightly illuminated, and Elsie's rising horror fell back. It was just Daphne--just her poor, damaged daughter. Her innocent daughter. She was ashamed of the doubts that had been creeping into her mind, and she pushed them away quickly. "I was just... I was looking at your pictures. I didn't realize that you'd done so many, Daphne." Daphne came into the room, walking past her mother, and pulled the curtains closed. Elsie continued, "They're very good, but... They're not very cheerful. Why don't you draw some flowers? You used to do lovely flowers."

Daphne had moved up till she was standing facing the wall that held most of her drawings. She was scant inches from it, arms folded, staring blankly. She said, "Draw, saw. Was saw. Was seen. Draw was saw seen. Saw the scene. Draw." Without looking, she touched the wall, her finger skimming just around the leaf pinned there. "Find. Was his. Mine. Mine take. Take home. Roam. Find. Take. His. Mine." Her finger touched the leaf delicately. "Ours."

Elsie left the room quietly, shutting the door. Then she leaned back against it, her mind whirling. *No. Daphne isn't... Isn't what? I can't even put a name to what's worrying me. She just has a strange art style. She's a little obsessed. All right--that isn't so strange. I just wish she'd have fixated on something a little less threatening. Why not horses? Lots of girls go nuts over horses. And if she had to choose a person... Lots of people are obsessed celebrities, even to the point of fantasizing that they have some special, personal relationship with them. That's almost understandable, but I've heard that some women write letters to prisons, to the most horrible killers, and think that they've fallen in love with them. That's just insane.*

She shook her head. *Daphne's not like that. She isn't. She's still just a little girl inside. She's a little different, but there's nothing... nothing dangerous about her. Nothing hidden.*

Elsie heard a soft scraping noise. It made her stiffen in dismay. It was familiar, but she refused to believe that it was what she knew it had to be. To test her suspicion would seem like a slur against Daphne, saying that she doubted her daughter. But still, she had to know.

Elsie stood up straight, turning back to the door. She gripped the knob. *I won't open the door. I don't want her to know that I'm doing this. I don't want her to think that it would matter one way or the other.*

Elsie tried to turn the knob. It held firm.

She rested her forehead against the door, closing her eyes for a moment, then shuffled into the kitchen and began looking for another bottle of scotch. As she poured a glass, she told herself that it was to be expected. It was even a good thing. Teenagers were supposed to be protective of their privacy. But she couldn't help thinking...

For the first time in her life, Daphne had locked her door. For the first time in her life, she wanted to keep her mother out.

For the first time in her life, Elsie was sure that her daughter had secrets--parts of her life that were dark and hidden...

And it frightened Elsie.

A Few Miles Away

*You'd think,* Harold thought, locking the store's front door, *that we'd have more business. We're the only real store in Higgens Haven, 'cept for them damn 7-Elevens, but it hardly pays to open the damn doors on some days. I didn't have a single customer the last hour.*

His transistor radio, in his pocket, was giving him the news, but the sound was grainy with static, and he kept missing words. "brutality of the murders... authorities believe... least four people response..."

He tapped his pocket, trying to improve the reception. It didn't help. He was going to have to sacrifice, and put fresh batteries in it. *Why not?* he thought bitterly. *Ain't like I got anyone to sell them to.*

He made his way around the building to the narrow back yard. He could have gone upstairs by the stairs in the back of the store, but he hadn't felt like walking all the way back, once he locked the front door. By the time he was halfway around to the back he'd realized that he was walking just as far, if not farther, and he was already pissed off when he reached the back yard. It was criss-crossed by drooping lines of damp, flapping clothing. He was going to have to walk right through it to get to the back entrance, and the stairs that led up to his living quarters on the second floor.

Harold wasn't the most graceful man in the world. Add to that the fact that the wind seemed to change capriciously, in order to flap the clothes directly in his face. He ran right into one of the rickety poles holding up the lines. It went down, and he found himself surrounded, and half draped by wet, clean... Well, formerly clean clothes. "Shit," he muttered. He grabbed up a handful, hoping that he could set things right before...

The upstairs window flew opened, and his wife--Edna, leaned out. "Goddammit, Harold! I spent all day yesterday washing your clothes, and now look at what you're doing to 'em! I guess that just goes to show how much you think of me, and all I do around here."

Harold had his back to her, so he risked rolling his eyes. He grabbed his radio and turned the volume way up, effectively drowning out his wife. He'd pay for it later, but at least he wouldn't have to listen to her bitch now. Edna ranted for another few seconds, then gave up, and slammed the window shut.

She stomped back into the kitchen, muttering to herself, "Ungrateful prick. Just see how he likes sleepin' on the couch for a few nights. He may complain I'm gettin' hippy, but he damn sure gets upset if I don't let him climb on any ol' time he feels like it."

There was a ratty little black-and-white television sitting on a stand in front of the sofa. She adjusted the rabbit ears, getting a marginally better picture, then sat back and picked up her knitting. She gave the sweater she was working on a brief examination, then started working on it. It was such second nature to her that she could give part of her attention to the news.

It was much the same as what her husband had been listening to outside. "The motive behind the grisly murders remains a mystery at this hour as does the identity of the killer or killers. The search continues for more bodies."

Edna shook her head, muttering, "Lord, lord, lord."

"...Residents of the Lake region are being urged to take extra precaution when approaching strangers and to report anything unusual to police, immediately. We'll be back with the weather forecast after this important message."

Edna could feel her scalp prickling. It was getting dark, there was a squad of maniacs running around within walking distance, and Harold was outside, fucking around. She went to the stairs that led down to the back entrance and called, "Harold, what are you doin' down there?"

There was no answer. She went and opened the window again, sticking her head out. "Harold, I wanna talk to you." There was no answer. The pole had been set up again, the laundry rehung. She peered at it. For a moment, she thought she saw a man standing in the midst of the moving fabric. "Harold?"

The drone of the television bothered her, so she turned back and shut it off quickly, then went to look back out the window. The figure was gone, and so was something else. There was a gap on one of the lines, showing that several garments had been removed. *Who the hell would want to steal Harold's clothes?*

Edna hurried down the stairs to the store, pausing at the bottom to scan the store. It was dark, save for the dusty shafts of sunlight that were coming through the none-too-clean front windows. A big rabbit hopped out from behind a display of Campbell's soup cans and sat on its hind legs, twitching its nose, staring at Edna, as if trying to decide what she was doing.

Startled, Edna grabbed a tomato off the produce display and pegged it at the animal, yelling, "Pest! What are you staring at?" She missed. Angry now, she began grabbing other vegetables and throwing them. The rabbit dodged almost lazily, and hopped away through the aisles.

Edna considered following it, but for all she knew it might bite if she cornered it. Besides, she was getting worried about Harold. She went out the door at the base of the stairs, into the backyard. She was in her nightgown, but what the hell? No one was going to see her.

It was almost sundown, and the lengthening shadows made it even more nerve wracking to move through them. She started feeling the clothes to see if they were ready to take down. They were still damp. "Damn it," she muttered. Then she looked around quickly. Nothing but flapping clothes. That must have been what she saw out of the corner of her eye.

She came to the empty section of clothes, and racked her brain for what had been there. Harold's khakis, and one of his green work shirts. "Oh, that's great, Harold. Just take what's yours, and leave me to deal with the rest of it. I guess these are dry enough."

There was a clothesbasket at the foot of the pole, and she began to unpin the clothes and pile them in. She caught movement again, and whipped around. A sheet was billowing toward her. Was that someone behind it? "Harold, you're such a child sometimes." She could hear the weakness in her own voice. Angry as well as frightened, she charged and ripped the sheet off the line. But she lost her footing and fell on top of it.

She rolled quickly onto her back, but there was no one looming over her, only the empty, now dark sky. She jumped up, snatched the rest of the clothes off the lines, stuffing them into the basket, and started to haul it to the back door. She passed close to their small wooden shed. The shed's door creaked open; there was a crash from inside it. It might have been just the wind, but Edna had enough.

She rushed through the back door, into the store.

In the store, Harold scooped the rabbit up into his arms. "There you are, you booger. Why d'you always hide when it's time for me to close up?" He put the rabbit on his shoulder, and it perched there calmly. Then Harold pulled a can of peanuts off the shelf, opened it, and dipped out a handful of nuts. He offered them to the rabbit, who deigned to nibble one. Harold stuffed the rest in his mouth. As he chewed, he put the cap back on the can, then tucked it at the back of the shelf. He walked back to the dairy case, opened a jug of milk, and took a swig. The rabbit declined this offering, so he capped it and put it back. He was standing near the produce section, and he noticed the top bag of carrots on the display moving.

Harold walked over and lifted the bag. There was a second rabbit there, with a torn open bag, contentedly eating a carrot. Harold picked it up and put it on his other shoulder. "Gotta put you guys back in the cage before Edna finds ya and makes herself a muff an' matchin' hat." He walked back toward the stairs, but on the way, the pastry display proved to be too much to resist. He chose a package of chocolate donuts, took out two, and once again hid the open package.

The back door opened silently, and a figure moved into the gloom of the store, stalking toward the unsuspecting man.

Harold didn't offer the donuts to the rabbits, telling them solemnly that chocolate wasn't good for them. He stuffed the donuts into his mouth and, cheeks puffed like a chipmunk, turned back to the door leading to his quarters.

Someone was standing right behind him, within arm's reach. He choked on the donuts, stumbling back. The rabbits tumbled off his shoulders and frantically hopped off.

It was Edna. "Didn't I feed you enough at lunch? You can't wait an hour or two for dinner? What am I gonna do with you, Harold? You know that the doctor said you hafta lose weight, and that's not gonna happen if you keep stuffin' your face. And then you hide the open packages. I thought it was those brat kids who were sneakin' food. I been givin' 'em hell about it, and the little snots weren't guilty--not of that, anyway." She pointed at the rabbits. "Will you please put those filthy things where they belong? If the health department finds out they been droppin' their little callin' cards around the food, they'll close us down for sure."

Harold silently scooped up the rabbits, settling one on his shoulder and holding the other, and took them out the back door. He pulled a flashlight from his back pocket, clicking it on. The thin beam found the shed, and he headed toward it. As he entered, the rabbits became agitated. The one on his shoulder jumped down, scurrying into a corner, and the one he was holding began to thrash, squealing.

"What's wrong with you guys? Don'tcha want to go with your buddies?" He swept the light around, looking for the runaway, and it passed over the rabbit hutch. Something didn't look right. He jerked the light back to it.

The other rabbits lay in limp, furry piles, staring with glassy eyes, all dead. He nearly dropped the flashlight in shock, sorrow, and anger. "Who would do something like...?" He lifted the lid of the hutch, starting to reach inside.

A huge timber rattler struck at him out of the pile of dead rabbits. It fell short as he jerked back, but it began to coil again quickly, hissing furiously. Harold slammed the lid back down, stepping back.

Everything inside Harold seemed to rebel at once. His recently eaten goodies were trying to escape one way, and his previous food another. He ran out of the shed, back into the store, up the stairs to his apartment--and right into Edna. She grabbed at him. "Harold, what's wrong?" He didn't reply--just pushed her away and ran for the bathroom, clutching his belly.

"It's all that crap you eat," she called after him. She went and sat in front of the television again, and picked up her needlework. She frowned at it. The needle holding the finished work was there, but the other one was gone. She emptied her knitting bag, pawing through the contents, but it wasn't there. She felt all around herself, hands searching under the cushions. "Where could that other needle have gone?"

Harold had barely made it. He sat on the toilet, sighing with relief, but now that his first bout of bowel trouble was over, he had time to think. "Those poor creatures." He pulled a bottle from behind the toilet tank and took a swig. While he let it burn down to his belly, he looked around the room. It was awkwardly designed. The toilet was on the sidewall, so that if you were sitting on the can when the door was opened, it was likely to bang you in the knees. The room had been a sort of storage room, before they turned the upstairs into their home, and there was still a small alcove curtained off by a dusty sheet of plastic, and a couple of large cabinets, almost like free standing closets.

His nerves were getting to him. What was that shape behind the curtain? Was that noise from in here, not from the television? Harold decided that he'd better check. He didn't bother to pull his pants all the way up--he just held them up around his knees while, still carrying the bottle, he hobbled over and whipped aside the curtain. Nothing but empty crates, and he felt a little easier. The first cabinet held nothing but shelves, empty of everything but dust.

Harold was feeling a little foolish now, but he figured he'd better go ahead and check the last cabinet. He opened it casually.

The meat cleaver caught him square in the chest. He started to scream, and it mingled bizarrely with the shrieks of laughter coming from the television. The cleaver was twisted, and the scream became a ragged cough. Harold stumbled back, dropping to the floor.

In the living room, Edna heard the thud. She turned off the television, calling, "Harold? You all right?" No answer. She got up and went to the bathroom door. "You're taking a long time. Did'ya fall in and drown?" No reply, but she could hear the toilet flushing... and flushing... and flushing.

There was liquid seeping under the door. She dipped her finger in it, and sniffed, then made a face. "Whiskey. I should have known." She rattled the door. "Open up!" No reply, and she started to feel worried again. "Harold, do you need help?"

She hurried across the room to a desk and opened one of the drawers, pulling out a skeleton key. She went back to the bathroom--but now the door was open a crack. She pushed the door, and it swung open. She peered in, seeing that the cabinets stood open, and the curtain had been pulled aside. "Harold?"

She stepped farther into the room. Her foot hit something, and she looked down. It was a nearly empty whiskey bottle. She stooped and picked it up, and the door closed a little. The flushing was continuing, and she looked toward the toilet, annoyed.

Harold was on the toilet, pants ridiculously around his knees. It would have looked comical, if he wasn't dead. His eyes stared, blood drooled from both corners of his mouth, and a meat cleaver was buried in his chest. One elbow rested on the flush handle, keeping it pressed down, keeping the water running.

The bottle fell from Edna's numb grasp, and she started to scream. She was in the process of going into shock, so it's possible that she wouldn't have noticed the hulking figure that moved up behind her in time to do anything to preserve herself.

It would have been futile, anyway. A huge hand grabbed her forehead, holding her head still, as the missing knitting needle was rammed through the base of her skull. Her screams cut off as the needle, skimmed with blood, emerged from her mouth. Edna's eyes rolled up, and her feet drummed briefly on the floor.

When Jason let go of the woman, she collapsed on the blood-and-whiskey dampened floor. He stared down at her, then looked at the man on the toilet, and decided that they were placed well enough.

Dressed in the green work shirt and khaki pants he'd taken from the line outside, he turned and made his way out of the house, into the comforting darkness. He wasn't entirely sure why he'd bothered to take the clothes. After all, the overalls were still serviceable. Yes, they were a little ragged, and were filthy with years of dirt and, from more recently, dried blood. But it wasn't as if Jason had ever given any thought to what he wore, or how he looked.

Till now.

Till he'd met the girl--the one he hadn't killed. The one his mother had said was like him.

The special one.