The ninth grade students thronged the hall as school let out for the day. Most of them were eager to get home, but many of them lingered in the halls, gossiping and giggling, making plans for the weekend. Daphne Breman moved among them silently. She shuffled, long, dull blonde hair drifting free from the too young barrettes her mother had carefully fixed that morning. The strands, fine as baby hair, floated about her thin, pale face. She had both arms folded around her books, clutching them to her chest, and her eyes were fixed on the floor. As she walked, she watched her own feet. She should have often run into other students, but they were used to moving around her by now, and she could avoid them, almost as if she had some internal steering device--radar, or sonar.

Then she bumped into someone directly in front of her. She knew that an apology was expected, but she didn't bother with it. She simply stepped aside, to move around the obstacle. But it moved with her, blocking her way. Patiently, she stepped back, trying to go around the other side, but the student moved, blocking her again. Daphne started to repeat the little dance, but a hard hand came down on her shoulder, shoving her back against the wall. "Hey, Daffy."

The voice was familiar. She sifted rapidly through images, and found the one that fit--Robert Barclay, fifteen, her own age, tall, broad, blond, with small, pale eyes. She didn't respond to him, simply waited. Something unpleasant was going to happen--it always did with Bobby Barclay. Others were gathering around, nudging each other and snickering, ready to enjoy the show. Tormenting Daphne 'Daffy' Breman was always good for a few laughs.

Bobby loved an audience, and he knew that he'd come up with something entertaining this time. "Say, Daffy, I heard my Mom readin' a kiddie story to my little brother. It was the Bremin Town Musicians. You've heard that, haven't you? Sure you have--you read all the time, and it's about your level. Anyway, it's about a rooster, a donkey, and a cat who travel together, right? Well, hey, I was just thinking--it's got YOUR name on it! So tell me, Daffy, which one are you--the cock, the ass, or the pussy?"

There was a burst of raucous laughter, and Daphne felt several harsh pokes. Someone said, "Shit, what's the point? She doesn't even understand."

"Dead," Daphne whispered.

"What did you say, retard?" asked Bobby. Daphne wasn't expected to make any response.

She didn't raise her voice. "Dead. Better dead. Dead is better."

The chuckling died down uneasily. Someone said, "Why the hell do they let these fucking nut jobs come to school with us normal people? Why are we wasting our time with her?"

They started to drift away. Bobby muttered. "Stupid bitch. You ruined my joke." He knocked the books out of her arms, then kicked them down the hall. She squatted slowly to retrieve them. Bobby looked up and down the hall. It had emptied quickly--there was no one in sight. He reached down and grabbed the girl's ass, squeezing roughly, then shoved. Daphne sprawled on her face. Her dress rucked up, showing a long expanse of pale, bare thigh, and just a wisp of panties. Bobby blinked, eyes crawling over the girl, then he shook his head. "Fucking psycho bitch." He planted his foot on her ass and shoved her back down as she started to rise, then turned and moved away rapidly, trying to ignore the thickening at his crotch.

When Daphne was sure that the boy was gone, she finished getting to her feet. A teacher came out just as she was rising, and hurried over. "Daphne, are you all right?" She didn't receive a response, but hadn't really expected any. She quickly scanned the silent girl, and saw no injuries. "My, you're a clumsy soul, aren't you? Let me help." She helped the girl gather her school things. "Is your mother coming for you? Yes, of course she is. You usually wait at this door, right? I'll walk with you."

Mrs. Breman was just getting out of her car when they reached the door. Her expression tensed. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, Mrs. Breman. Daphne just tripped, that's all."

Elsie gave her daughter a fast once-over, gimlet eyes cataloguing every detail. She knew exactly how her daughter had looked when she'd been deposited here this morning. "Tripped, huh? You want to tell me how the hell that footprint got on her ass, then?"

The teacher looked, this time noticing the gray, dusty outline of a sole on the girl's dark dress. "I... Mrs. Breman, I didn't see anyone do anything to her."

"You people never do," she snapped, putting an arm around Daphne and urging her into the passenger side of the car. "All of you!" She got in the car and started it with a vicious jerk of the key, squealing her tires as she pulled out. "I swear to you, baby, that's the last straw! I'm taking you out of there. If he won't pay for you to go to a special school, or have a home teacher, then by God, I'll just keep you home. I'll spit in the judge's eye if he says you have to go back."

The hitchhiker thought that it would be a safe ride. The middle aged woman looked so bland, so normal, with her graying ash blonde pixie cut, and her bright smile. Annie chattered brightly about her new job, how she was looking forward to cooking for the campers at Camp Crystal Lake, how much she loved children... She didn't see the coldness creep into the woman's eyes, didn't see the way her strong hands tightened on the wheel of the jeep till the knuckles were starkly white. No, she suspected nothing till the woman drove past the turn off to the camp, then ignored her protestations.

Annie grew panicked, finally seeing the madness that lurked behind the now stiff, painful grin. The woman wouldn't respond to her demands, then her pleas, and finally Annie realized that there was danger here--real danger. That was when she dived from the car. She hurried through the woods--limping and battered, terror rising sour in her throat, listening for the sounds of pursuit.

She thought she might get away, and then the woman was just suddenly there. Annie didn't even have time to scream or beg. The heavy hunting knife slash once, slicing across her throat. It was so quick, so sharp, that Annie didn't even feel any pain. She didn't know she was dying till the warm, wet flow ran down her chest, starting to soak into her blouse.

Pamela Voorhees stood over the girl for a few moments, watching as the red gush slowed to a trickle, then stopped. She held the knife ready, in case it should be needed again, but the girl was still, staring up at the sky with eyes that were already looking dusty.

Pamela bent and wiped the knife on the girl's jeans. She had to keep it clean--it was going to be needed. She walked back through the trees to the road. They were opening Camp Blood again. She had work to do.

Simpson Breman had used some of the settlement to invest in stocks, and they'd done well. He didn't have to work these days, so he didn't. He spent most of his time in town at various clubs and bars, complaining bitterly about his bitch wife and imbecile daughter, threatening at least once a night to 'just leave your asses'.

He didn't keep a steady woman--hadn't since his 'secretary' had finally realized that he wasn't going to risk losing a dime of the money that had been awarded after his daughter's tragedy. Simpson had never really gotten over the fact that she had dumped him, and now his opinion of women was even lower than before. He'd go with this one or that one for a week or two, maybe a month, but he was determined never again to invest anything of himself in a woman. They just weren't worth it, and he had two prime examples.

They were both out of the house when he got up around 3 o'clock and staggered into the kitchen in search of a hair of the dog that bit him. Elsie had stopped trying to dispose of his booze. She had begun drinking it herself about a year ago out of sheer frustration that she couldn't persuade him to take Daphne out of public school. It had become a point of sheer stubbornness on his part. He knew that his daughter was an outcast at school, but he wasn't about to admit he was wrong at this stage of the game.

Simpson stood at the kitchen sink, staring out the window as he drank his whiskey. The view was lovely--a small, green clearing, ringed by thick trees. He hated it. He would have preferred to live in town, maybe even in one of the big cities. But Elsie wanted to live somewhere that Daphne could wander around without having to worry about running into someone who might harass her. She'd made noises about divorce. Back then, about two years ago, Simpson hadn't been entirely sure that she wouldn't be able to hurt him financially, so he'd caved on this. It was a good investment, after all. Lakefront property was valuable.

He'd about had enough, though. He'd been looking into divorce statistics for this state. There was no such thing as alimony, or community property. If he just paid court ordered child support regularly, that would be all that was required. And from what he'd heard, the judges had a really low estimate of what was needed to support a child. Besides, Daphne would be of age in three years, and any payment would stop then, anyway. *Just give me one more reason, bitch,* he thought as he drained his glass. *Just one more.*

He heard the front door open, and scowled. He'd been hoping to be out of the house before they returned. He heard his wife *of course it's her. That damn kid never speaks unless you fucking DRAG it out of her, and then it's mostly nonsense* Elsie was saying, "Don't be sad, darling. I've had enough of this shit. How you can get such good grades in that sort of atmosphere I'll never know, but you could do so much better if you didn't have to deal with those hooligans. I'll just..." She trailed off as she entered the kitchen. "Starting a little early, aren't you, Simpson?"

"Don't start, Elsie. What's got your mouth running now?"

"What is it ever?" Daphne had put her books down on the kitchen table. Now Elsie took her shoulder and gently turned the girl around. She pointed. "Look at that."

Simpson eyed the dusty shoeprint on his daughter's backside. "Huh. Someone finally decided to motivate her."

"How can you talk like that?"

Daphne had seated herself at the table, an opened book before her. She was slowly writing something on a sheet of paper, eyes moving from the paper, to the page, and back again. She always did her homework, never needing anyone to remind her, or help her with it. That puzzled Simpson. It went against his assumption that Daphne was barely functional, and it irritated him still further, because to him it indicated that the girl could be a lot more normal, if she wanted to.

Simpson moved to pour himself another drink. "Will you just cool it, Elsie? Shit happens. Daphne is going to have to learn to deal with a lot of shit, the way she is."

"Sim, she doesn't have to deal with it! I thought that was the whole point of winning that settlement--that my baby could have a good life, protected from the world." Simpson shrugged. Elsie's brow lowered. "You don't give a damn about her. All she is to you is a valuable nuisance."

Simpson snapped, "And you aren't even a valuable nuisance! I've had just about enough of your shit, Elsie. Don't push me."

"We're taking her out of that school, and that's final," Elsie ground out.

"I told you--I'm not shelling out for any 'special' school."

"You cheap bastard! I just wish I had my name on the account."

"Well, you don't, Elsie." He laughed nastily. "You were so busy worrying about the turnip over there that you didn't insist on any provisions, so that means I'm the one who controls it all."

"You are unnatural. If you won't pay for a proper school, I'm taking her out and keeping her at home. I can teach her, and..."

"No fucking way! With her in school I at least have a little time away from her."

"You have some nerve. You're never here to be bothered by her."

"I don't have to be here! She fucking bothers me no matter where she is. Just knowing that she's out there, somewhere--staring--it's enough to make me sick."

"You don't deserve her, you..."

"You got that right! I never deserved to have either one of you inflicted on me, and I've had enough!"

Their voices were rising. Neither noticed it, but Daphne hunched her shoulders a little as she continued to write, her eyes never straying from the paper. She looked oblivious, but she heard--she heard every word. Daphne had a hard time realizing that she could have any impact on the world around her, but she wasn't oblivious, no matter how blank she seemed.

They would wander away from each other, and she would just pick them off. Her hunting knife served her best, but she'd used whatever came to hand. That time she was under the bed--she hadn't been sure that the knife, as long as it would, would penetrate the mattress and still go deep enough--but the arrow had been close to hand, and it had worked admirably. And then that one in the lavatory... She'd picked up the axe from the woodpile outside. The girl had used her pretty face to lure others into irresponsible acts, so she had destroyed it, splitting it.

The rain didn't hinder her--she liked the rain. It hid, it washed away traces.

There were still more of the councilors to take care of, but she needed to take care of the one who'd started this. Steve--he was the one who was trying to open the camp, trying to tear open her wound and rub salt in it. Steve had to pay. He was out in the rain, trying to ready things--ever the good entrepreneur. Pamela touched the knife at her hip. Steve next.

"Fine, terrific! Why not? You haven't been a husband or father for years. I'll be happy to have you out of the house."

"Yeah? Well, don't get attached to the idea. I'm gonna sell the house."

"You can't! This is our home."

"Too fucking bad. Find an apartment in town for you and the vegetable. I never wanted to live out here in the boondocks, anyway."

"Simpson, you can't sell the house! Daphne and I have to have somewhere to live."

"You can bed down in an alley for all I care. As for HER," his voice was contemptuous. "She can go into the state home. That's what they're there for."

Elsie's voice rose into a shriek. "No!"

"Oh, yes! Who do you think they're gonna listen to, Elsie--you, or me? I'm the one who foots the bills, and you..." he laughed. "You've made lots of friends with the way you snap and snarl at everyone over her. This is how it's gonna be--I'm leaving. I'll get hold of my lawyers and get them to start the sale on the house the same time they start drawing up the commitment papers for Daphne. You should have a few weeks to find something for yourself--place to live, some sort of job. I'd suggest you get something close to the state mental warehouse, so you can visit her regularly." He started out of the room.

"Where are you going?"

"To pack. I'm leaving now, Elsie. Like I said, I've had enough."

Elsie screamed. She snatched the glass he'd left on the counter and threw it on the floor. It smashed. The act of destruction didn't help--it didn't calm her at all. It only fed the anger and fear that was boiling up inside her. She cleared the counter, throwing down canisters, toaster, bottles of cleansers--anything she could reach. With each destruction her rage spiked higher and hotter. The thought that Simpson was in their bedroom, packing, calmly preparing to destroy her life and, more horribly, the life of her child pushed her even further.

She snatched the near empty whiskey bottle. This time, though, she threw her missile at the wall instead of the floor. It smashed just over Daphne's head, and liquor and glass showered down on the silent girl. It brought Elsie back to rationality--at least partially. "Baby!" She rushed over, falling on her knees, ignoring the sting of cuts washed by alcohol. "Daphne, honey, I'm sorry! I didn't hurt you, did I? Baby, you know I wouldn't hurt you; I'd never hurt you. I just want to take care of you and keep you safe."

Daphne carefully lifted the paper she'd been writing on. Acrid liquid dripped from it, smearing the ink. She'd have to rewrite it. Her mother was babbling to her. "I try, Daphne, I try so hard, but now your father..." She was sobbing. "He's going to send you away, and I don't know what to do. I don't know how I can stop him." Her voice rose in despair. "I don't know what to do!"

"Mommy?"

The girl's voice was level, calm. Elsie's instincts kicked in. Any time, any time that Daphne interacted with her, she gave her complete attention. "What is it, darling?"

Daphne slowly pushed bits of glass away. She pulled a fresh sheet of paper from her notebook and laid it on a dry section of the table. Picking up her pen, not looking at her mother, she said, "Dead is better." She began writing.

Elsie stared at her daughter in silence, her mind whirling. Suddenly, it all made sense.

There was a chef's knife on the floor by her knees, thrown there when she'd emptied the drain rack. Her fingers closed over its handle and she stood slowly, her eyes going to the kitchen door. The room was very quiet. She could hear Daphne breathing, the faint scratch of her pen on paper, and beyond that... Beyond that the sound of Simpson in their bedroom, moving about, packing... ruining their lives.

Threatening Daphne.

"Yes, baby," she whispered. "Sometimes dead is better." She smiled grimly. "And he says you aren't smart."

Steve lay on the ground, staring straight up into the rain. Droplets sheeted off his glasses. He had been so surprised. Surprised at first to see Pamela out in the rain, and then so much more surprised by the cold steel sliding into his belly. "You shouldn't have done it," she muttered. "You should have just left it, Steve. I tried to warn you, but you wouldn't listen. If you hadn't brought them here, they wouldn't have died. I didn't want to kill them, but I had to--for what they did to Jason. For what they might have done to other helpless little ones."

She wasn't thinking much about concealing what she did. She wasn't thinking much at all, actually, but it seemed like a good idea to get him somewhere that he wouldn't be found easily. She bundled him into her jeep. She was a strong woman, strong when she needed to be. A woman could be very strong, when she was doing something for her child.

She chose to dump him on the other side of the lake. He might go days, weeks, even years without being discovered. All she really wanted was a few more hours to take care of the others at the camp. Surely once they were killed, any subsequent owners would realize how foolish it would be to reopen this hellhole.

She was dragging him deeper into the trees when she heard something. She dropped her burden and listened. Through the steady patter and drip of rain, she heard a heavy, repetitive thunking sound. She'd worked in her garden enough to recognize the sound of someone using a shovel. Pamela slipped quietly through the trees, tracing the sound.

There were three of them under the tree. The woman was almost knee deep in a pit, working steadily to throw up damp clods, her hair plaster over her face in dark streams. The girl was sitting with her back to the tree, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them, staring off into the wet dark. The man... The man was stretched out on the ground, and there was a stillness about him that could never be achieved in life.

Curious, Pamela stepped out into the clear space, her hand on the haft of the knife at her belt. The woman saw her immediately and stopped. She jerked the shovel up, holding it across her chest defensively. She noticed that the blonde woman who had entered the clearing was staring at Simpson's body--and she had a knife. "Oh, God," she moaned. "I should have known."

Elsie was surprised at how calm the woman's voice was. "What have you done?"

Elsie swallowed. There was no chance she could explain away the corpse that lay beside the grave--the grave that she had been digging. All she could hope for was a little understanding. "My husband. I didn't want to do it, but he..." She pointed, finger stabbing toward the girl *a child, really* sitting nearby. "Daphne. He was going to send her away--his own daughter. He was going to send her to one of those awful places where they'd just lock her up, and maybe they'd abuse her. She'd be caged like an animal. I couldn't let that happen, don't you understand? She's my baby, and he was going to take her away."

Pamela looked more closely at the girl. She wasn't... irregular, like her beloved Jason, but still, it was apparent that she wasn't 'normal'. Pamela took in the blank expression, the unfocused eyes, the seeming total unawareness. She nodded slightly to herself.

Elsie had continued to speak, babbling. "I had to stop him. I'm all she has, and I have to protect her. This was the only way, and now I'm going to jail, and they'll take her anyway. Oh, God, I only wanted to keep her safe, and I've hurt her by trying!"

"It's going to be all right." The gentleness of the woman's tone cut through Elsie's near hysteria. She fell silent, staring at the stranger. The woman smiled a smile of complete understanding--and agreement. "You had no choice. I know what it is to be a mother, and see your child hurt. You wouldn't stand for it." Her voice became soft. "How brave you are. But I don't think you were ready for this. You need help. Let me help you." Elsie studied her. Could she trust her? Surely this stranger would wait until Elsie and Daphne were gone, then notify the police. But Elsie looked into the woman's eyes, and felt a spark of recognition. Two savage, protective mothers shared a moment. Elsie nodded.

"Take Daphne home," said Pamela. "It's cold, and wet. She should be home in bed. Take her home and tuck her in. I'll take care of," she lifted her chin toward the body, "that. Never fear."

"I... I don't want to make trouble for you. They might think you were involved."

Pamela laughed. "Dear lady, believe me--that is the least of my worries."

Elsie left her there, with Simpson. She took Daphne back to the house, and fixed her supper. While the girl ate, then finished her homework, Elsie Breman cleaned the kitchen, removing any trace of her previous rage. The bloodied sheets in the bedroom were stuffed into a large suitcase, along with most of the rest of Simpson's clothes. The case went into the trunk of Simpson's car. The car went into the lake, and Elsie carefully swept away the tread marks as the car rolled slowly deeper and deeper beneath the water.

Finally, around dawn, she went into Daphne's room and crawled into bed beside her peacefully sleeping daughter. She held her child and closed her eyes. Somewhere nearby there were sirens. She tightened her grip on Daphne. *I should be worried. They could be coming for me, but somehow I don't think they are. I wonder what else has been going on to bring the police to Crystal Lake?*