It started raining as they made their way home. The clouds had rolled in so thick that it was as if evening had come early. The downpour was sudden and thick, so heavy that the turn-off to the counselors' training camp was almost invisible. The wipers couldn't keep up, and Elsie had slowed to a crawl, sitting forward to try to make out the road ahead. She didn't notice her daughter slowly turn her head, then wipe fog off the inside of the window, and press her forehead against the chilled glass. Daphne's eyes locked on the barely seen dirt road, and stayed with it till they were past. The sign that had once marked the road had fallen. It still leaned precariously against its post, but was half hidden by brush. It had been pocked by bullet holes, like most signs in rural areas, but the number of holes was perhaps higher than most. Though the paint had faded and flaked, the words were still legible--CAMP CRYSTAL LAKE.

As they parked before their house, Mrs. Breman sighed, "Nasty, nasty day, Daphne. You carry the books, and I'll hold the umbrella over you." She got out, opening the umbrella, and hurried around to the passenger side of the car. She opened the door, holding the umbrella over Daphne as she climbed out, her arms loaded with books. Elsie turned to start toward the house, waiting for Daphne to begin walking, so she could keep her under the umbrella's shelter, but Daphne didn't move right away.

She just stood, staring out at the wet woods. Night was falling, and it was darkening rapidly under the overcast sky. The shadows between the trees were deep. Elsie followed her daughter's gaze, and her mind drifted back to another rainy night in the woods. She looked at Daphne questioningly, wondering how much she remembered of what had happened. She couldn't remember her daughter once looking at the figure shrouded in the blood-stained sheet--not during transportation, or later, when it was laid out near her while Elsie worked frantically with the shovel. No, she hadn't looked at it--but Elsie knew better than anyone that didn't necessarily mean that Daphne hadn't been aware of it. She touched her daughter's arm. "We have to go inside now."

Daphne rocked forward on her toes, leaning slightly toward the woods. Her daughter liked to walk, daylight or dark, rain or clear, and Elsie usually allowed it. They were isolated enough that she could be fairly sure her daughter wouldn't run into anyone. The only close neighbors were the Parkers. They had a girl about Daphne's age--Chris, she believed her name was. Elsie had seen the girl out walking occasionally, and had considered making the effort to introduce herself. Daphne didn't seem bothered by her lack of friends, but Elsie knew that having someone, even an acquaintance, if not a friend, could come in handy some times.

But those few times she'd seen the girl, Chris had reacted like most of the others around Crystal Lake. Her eyes had skittered quickly away from Elsie and Daphne, passing over them in nervous flicks that told Elsie that the girl was quite aware of them, but would rather pretend that she wasn't. Elsie had decided she could rot in hell along with the rest of them.

Elsie wanted to get Daphne inside, so she made her voice firm. "No, Daphne. Go inside." Daphne still didn't move. Elsie bit her lip. For the most part, Daphne was a dream of obedience, but sometimes... Sometimes Elsie could sense a hard, stubborn core in her girl, and this was one of those times.

Perhaps distraction would be more effective. "I bought you something special, dear. Remember those scrapbooks you were looking at the last time we went shopping together? They had them on sale, and I bought you two of them. You can start putting your little clippings in them tonight."

Daphne's head lifted a fraction, then she turned and began to make her way to the house. Relieved, Elsie followed alongside, careful to keep the umbrella over Daphne, never worrying that she was herself getting soaked.

"Chris, where do you think you're going?"

Chris winced. She'd hoped to be able to slip out the back, letting her father think that she was upstairs in her room. Figures Dad would suddenly decide he needed a snack, just when she was about to ease out. "I'm just going to go out to the pier."

"In this weather? I don't think so."

She was supposed to meet Mark, her current boyfriend, out at the boathouse for some serious making out. In fact, she was considering letting him get to third base tonight. She thought the idea of the rain pattering down on the tin roof of the boathouse was kind of romantic, even if the place always did smell a little moldy. "I... think I might have forgotten to pull the boat up far enough. With this sort of rain the lake level might rise enough to float it." A lame excuse, but she hadn't bothered to think up a better one in advance.

"Well, that's just too bad. If that happens you'll have to borrow or rent another one and go hunt for it, but you're not going out tonight."

"Dad..."

Her father was usually very easy-going, but his voice turned hard. "That's final, young lady. You know I don't like you roaming around out there in the dark even in fine weather." He glanced toward the kitchen window, looking out into the wet dark. Chris was a little surprised by how old his eyes looked. "You never can tell what's out there. I'd have moved us away from here years ago, if I could have afforded it, but..." He trailed off.

"C'mon, Dad, you're not still thinking about what happened a couple years ago, are you? That was a freak occurrence, and the murderer was killed--everybody knows that. We can't let something that's over and done with affect..."

"No, Chris. Go back to your room."

Chris thought about protesting, telling her father that she was old enough to take care of herself and make her own decisions, but his expression stopped her. Instead she frowned and made her way to her room, making sure that every movement broadcast her displeasure.

Upstairs she threw herself down on her bed, pouted for a few minutes, then got her phone and called Mark, hoping that he hadn't left home yet. He picked up on the second ring. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, what?" she teased. "Have I reached the party to whom I am speaking?"

There was a snort that could have been a laugh, or a sound of irritation. "Hey, Chris. You know better than to expect Emily Post etiquette when you call me. What's up?"

"I'm glad I caught you before you took off for the boat house."

"Oh, yeah, that's supposed to be tonight, right?"

Chris blinked. "You forgot?"

"Um..."

"If it's that unimportant to you..."

"No, no. You know how I feel about you, babe. It's just that it's raining like a bitch out there, and my parent's aren't about to let me borrow the car. I'd have to come on my bike. Maybe we ought to just postpone it till some other time, huh?"

That had been what Chris was going to suggest, but Mark's willingness to give up their tryst rankled her. "No, I don't think so. We'll just have to meet a little later than we planned. My Dad will be going to bed soon, and it'll be no problem to sneak out. That'll give you plenty of time to get up here."

"Chris... It's really raining out there."

"You keep telling me that you burn for me. Well, if that flame can be doused by a little rain, it can't be all that hot. If you don't show up tonight, you can just forget about doing any kindling in the future." She hung up, thinking smugly that ought to settle things.

Mark stared at the receiver, listening to the buzz. He glanced out the window, watching the rain sheet against the glass. After a moment he sighed. "Fuck you, Chris. Or rather, don't fuck you." He hung up. *No piece of ass is worth pneumonia. Maybe I'll give Linda Carleton a call tomorrow.*

Elsie Breman finished washing the supper dishes while Daphne sat at the kitchen table, working with her new scrapbooks. She had carefully arranged a handful of photographs in one of them, repositioning the selection a dozen times, making various symmetric patterns. When she was satisfied with the lay out she methodically printed out captions for each photo--who was in it, place, and date. Elsie had looked over her shoulder a few times. Each label was accurate, and printed so neatly that it might as well have been typed. Daphne trimmed each label carefully and affixed it below the appropriate picture, then laid the cling film cover over the page, working it down till it sealed almost seamlessly, without a single bubble or wrinkle.

Then she sat with the second book. She ran her hands over every millimeter of the cover, tracing the design of leaves and vines printed there, fingering the binding. She opened it and went over each page the same way. Studying them as carefully as if they were already filled with mementos and memories.

Later Daphne shuffled past her, on the way to her bedroom. She had her scrapbook folded in her arms, cradled as carefully as if it were a baby. Once her bedroom door shut, Elsie relaxed a little. She could never completely relax till she knew Daphne was safely tucked away.

Elsie had gotten down her bottle after finishing her chores. She sat in the living room, watching television, and consumed several strong scotches. This was her usual pattern. Though the number and strength of the drinks had been increasing steadily she was always careful to stop when she was still capable of putting herself to bed safely and neatly. After all, it wouldn't do for Daphne to get up some morning and find her mother passed out on the couch (or God forbid, the floor), sloppy drunk. After the nine o'clock news she shut off the television, wavered into her own bedroom, and went to bed.

Ten minutes after she settled her head on her pillow, Elsie was snoring softly. A few minutes later her bedroom door opened silently. Daphne stared into the bedroom. The hall bathroom light was always left on, and the thin light that seeped into the hall moved past Daphne, just letting her see her mother. She watched the older woman for a short time, expression no more animated than it ever was. Elsie never moved.

Daphne closed the door as quietly as she had opened it. There was a poncho hanging on a hook beside the kitchen door, and she donned it, then slipped out. Once outside she stood for a moment, listening and looking without seeming to do either. Finally she moved off into the woods, her path slanting subtly toward the lake.

Chris listened as the door to her parents' bedroom shut. There was the sound of voices as either her mother or her father turned up the volume on their bedroom television. *Thank goodness Dad's a little hard of hearing,* she thought. *That noise should be enough to cover for me going out.* It had occurred to her that the television would likely be off, and the house dead silent, when she was ready to return, but she didn't feel like worrying about covering her arrival. At this moment all that mattered was getting out, succeeding in what she wanted, despite her father's wishes. She'd worry about consequences later. She hadn't tried to slip out at night before, but judging from how easy it seemed to be this time, she would in the future. She made it downstairs without a hitch.

She snagged her windbreaker from the peg beside the kitchen door and slipped into it quickly. It looked a little dowdy for a romantic rendezvous, but it was still raining. Better a dowdy windbreaker than the delicate blouse she'd chosen to wear ending up plastered to her, like she was engaging in a wet T-shirt contest.

The noise the kitchen door made opening was a little too loud to suit her. She decided she didn't want to risk shutting it, then opening and shutting it again when she returned, so she left it very slightly ajar. As she headed down toward the lake she thought, *It shouldn't be a problem. After all, there's no one roaming around up here, looking to break into anything.* She snickered to herself. *Well, no one but Mark, and I know what he wants to break into.*

She walked off into the night, thinking of the dark, close confines of the boathouse. It was going to be like she and Mark were the only people left alive in the world.

The table before him held a dozen or so candles, all different sizes, shapes, and colors. The guttering flames lit the interior of the shack fitfully, and the jumble of mixed scents (pine, sandalwood, bayberry, vanilla, musk...) made the air seem thick. He'd obtained them the same way he'd obtained all his scant furnishings--stolen from the houses he'd broken into around the lake during the last year or so.

He was staring attentively at the shriveled object that the candles surrounded. His mother was talking to him. She often talked to him at times like these, when it was dark and rainy. Jason listened to the papery whisper, nodding. Perhaps the sounds issued from the dry, wrinkled lips of the mummified head, perhaps he spoke them himself in an altered voice, unaware that he did so, or perhaps they merely echoed in his own mind. Since there was no one else there to hear, what did it matter? What did it matter, since the result would be the same?

Jason got up and went out into the rain.

Jason went hunting.

The straight path to the boathouse would have taken her within view of her parents' window, so Chris decided that she'd cut through the woods. She giggled to herself as she shuffled through the piles of damp leaves, planning her upcoming session with Mark.

*He's not getting any tonight--not after balking about coming out. Nope, he'll just have to wait for the good stuff. Besides, I'm not having my first time in a grody old boathouse. His parents go on out-of-town trips sometimes. We can do it then, or he'll have to cough up the cash for a nice motel room in the next town over. I can tell Mom and Dad that I'm spending the night with Terri--she'll cover for me...*

There was a noise, and she stopped. For an instant all her preoccupation drained away, and she was very aware of where she was, just how dark and isolated it seemed. It only lasted for an instant though, as an idea struck her. Mark must've decided to try to tease her. "Mark? Is that you?" No answer. "Oh, come on, Mark. I'm onto you now." Silence, save for the sound of raindrops on leaves. Just as suddenly as her assurance had arrived, it began to fade. "Mark, c'mon, it isn't funny." There was the snap of a twig. "I swear, if you don't come out right now you aren't getting anything tonight."

A figure stepped out of the trees a few yards ahead of her, and she felt a stab of relief. "Mark, I swear that you..." Her voice died as it began to move toward her. Mark wasn't much taller than she, and he was a thin, almost reedy boy. Whoever this was was much taller, with thick, powerful shoulders. And Mark would never dress like this man. He was wearing tacky coveralls, and...

She stumbled back, beginning to scream just as the big hands moved toward her throat.

There was a crash downstairs, and Melissa Parker jumped, grabbing her husband's arm. "You can't tell me you didn't hear that! It sounds like someone is trying to break down the back door."

Edward Parker frowned, remembering the encounter with his daughter. "Or maybe someone let their temper over ride their better judgment. I'll go check."

There was a second bang as he got out of bed, and his wife said, "That almost sounds like when we used to get a loose shutter at the old house, but we don't have shutters here."

"No, but we do have a headstrong teenage daughter," he said grimly, "who is about to be in a world of trouble if she's done what I think she's done."

Jason felt his fingers sinking into soft, warm flesh. The girl's scream choked off, and she began to thrash and claw at him. He ignored her pitiful efforts, barely feeling them. He could hear his mother whispering to him. Yes, this was one of Them--the neglectors, the callous, the self-involved. She was the sort who had left him alone, let him die.

He had died--in a way. That was one reason why the stories that circulated about him in the area were so confused. He'd drowned. His mother had dragged his limp, blue-tinged body out of the water at the lake's shore. She had screamed and beat at him, her fragile hold on sanity shredding. Then she'd tried the technique she'd seen the lifeguard trying to teach the careless, giggling teenage councilors who should have been watching her baby. She pressed her lips to Jason's slack, cool ones and blew in, then pumped frantically at his chest, then blew into his mouth again.

After endless moments a gush of fetid lake water fountained up, and Jason drew in a whooping breath. She'd snatched him up and taken him to the tiny, isolated cabin they'd shared, rather than returning to Camp Crystal Lake, where they had been staying the last few weeks. The next day he was missing, and his muddy sneaker was found lapping against the shore. They dragged the lake, but found nothing.

In public, his mother skirted hysteria during this time. Her rage grew as the teenagers who had been given the responsibility of watching Jason were no more than scolded. They claimed that Jason had slipped away while they were busy.

Busy. Yes, she knew what they had been busy with, oh yes, she knew. She told Jason this as she nursed him. She detailed what had kept them so preoccupied while he was struggling in the cold, cruel lake water. She told him just exactly what they deserved. Later, she told him how she had meted out justice, how she had ensured that no one would ever again use the camp where such a tragedy had been allowed to happen. No more children would be put at risk. She wouldn't allow it.

She died keeping that vow. At least she died as most people would perceive it. Jason realized, vaguely, that there were things about his world that were different from the one inhabited by most people. He felt this, but didn't spend any time worrying about it. Survival took up most of his time, especially after his mother could no longer care for him. But now...

Now Mother had told him that it was time for him to take up her mission, and so he would.

Beginning with this one.

She was weakening, scrabbling hands moving more slowly as she scratched at him. He could feel the life draining out of her. It wouldn't take much more.

He'd never be able to say what it was that drew his attention away from his prey. A sound? A slight shift in atmosphere? Perhaps it was just that odd, instinctive feeling common to so many people--the feeling that someone was watching him. He looked up, eyes scanning the surrounding trees.

Someone was standing nearby, and he knew that this was wrong. They should be doing something--screaming, running, rushing to the defense of the girl who was going limp in his hands. But they just stood, as still as the trees around them.

Jason considered snapping his victim's neck so that he could go after this new arrival, but just before he did the girl collapsed completely, becoming a weight in his hands. Equating this with death, he casually dropped her, and turned his attention to the intruder. It would be easy to dispatch them, too. No one knew the woods like he did, and it would be easy to chase them down when they fled. But they didn't run. That puzzled him, and he slowed as he approached.

It was another girl. She was about the same age as the one he'd left lying back on the ground--and she was just as still. His steps slowed as he neared her, and he took a moment to actually look at her.

She was draped in a poncho, the slick, dark material covering her from her head to her knees, nothing revealed but the oval of her face. Wisps of blonde hair were plastered against her pale cheeks. She stared straight ahead. She was looking in Jason's direction, but she gave no indication of actually seeing him.

Jason stopped before her, and regarded her silently. He was no more than a foot away, looming over her, but still she didn't react. She didn't move, she didn't blink, her breathing didn't even speed up. Jason cocked his head, puzzled. What was wrong with her? He started to reach for her, and still she didn't move, or make a sound.

But someone spoke.

*Like you. Oh, Jason, my baby, she's like you. She's different. She's special. She's not like Them, Jason.*

Jason's arms lowered slowly.

*I've seen her before, Jason--seen her on a night like tonight. A night of rain and death. Her mother loves her, and protects her--like I do for you. Mercy, Jason. Yes, this one deserves mercy.*

Jason reached out. One finger ghosted down the girl's cheek. She paid no more attention to it than she did the raindrops following the same course. Jason turned away from her, ignoring the body of the other girl, and went back into the woods.

Daphne stood for a moment. Slowly, very slowly, her hand drifted up and touched her own cheek. She blinked, then turned and began to make her way home.

Edward Parker found the kitchen door open, banging in the moist wind. He stared at it, feeling anger bubble up inside. Chris' windbreaker was gone from it's accustom place, and he knew exactly what had happened. His stubborn daughter had decided to sneak out.

He was half tempted to just lock the door and let her spend the night outside (since he was fairly sure she wouldn't have remembered to bring a key, if she'd left the door open like this). But his protective instincts were stronger than his anger at being defied. He slipped on a pair of boots and his own raincoat, and went after her.

She'd said something about the pier earlier, so he headed for the lake. He didn't take the direct route, though. He knew that while his daughter apparently was not experienced enough in sneaking around to get away Scot free, she might still be clever enough to take some form of precaution. He made his way through the trees, trees that would have blocked his line of vision from his bedroom.

He almost stumbled over her. He was practically stepping over her when he realized that the form on the ground wasn't a mound of leaves, or a fallen log--but a body. He dropped to his knees, rolling the limp form over onto its back, and screamed in sudden fear and anguish when he recognized his daughter. "Chris! Oh, my God, Chris! Baby!"

He clutched at her, then shook her. Her head lolled, and in the faint glow of moonlight that filtered through the clouds he saw dark smudges on her throat. "No, Chris! Don't be dead." There was a low, whimpering moan, and he saw her eyelids twitch. She was still alive!

Edward Parker gathered his daughter up into his arm and stumbled back toward his house, shouting for his wife to call an ambulance.

Daphne entered her home as quietly as she'd left it. Just inside the kitchen she took off her muddy shoes, and wiped up the prints she'd made. Then she used a hand towel to wipe most of the moisture from the poncho before hanging it up. It would be dry again before morning. Finally she wiped her shoes clean with paper towels, discarded the paper, and went back to her bedroom.

She turned on her lamp, sat on the bed, and took a sketchpad from her bedside table. After carefully sharpening a pencil, she began...

Elsie got up a little earlier than usual, and took a shower to clear away the cobwebs. She wondered if there was going to come a time when something as simple as a shower wouldn't be enough to wipe away the results of a previous night's drinking, but she didn't wonder about it for long. She knew that as long as her drinking didn't adversely affect Daphne, she wouldn't be stopping.

As she often did, Elsie stopped to look in on Daphne before going into the kitchen. Daphne was sleeping peacefully. Elsie leaned in the doorway, watching her. At times like this, she could pretend that Daphne was just like any other child, that she might soon awake, and fill Elsie's day with chatter about school, clothes, boys...

Elsie noticed that there were several crumpled pieces of paper in the bedside wastebasket, and Daphne's sketchpad was sitting askew on her nightstand--a blunt pencil on top of it. Elsie smiled. Daphne was quite a good artist. Oh, she was sure that a critic would say that her art was nothing but representation, with no true expression, no passion. Mechanical, Elsie had heard Daphne's art teacher say years ago. Of course the woman hadn't dared to say that to Elsie.

What would it be this time? You never knew what would strike Daphne's fancy. She'd done sketches of flowers, but she'd also drawn meticulous images of boxes of washing powder, and the television. Elsie tiptoed over and opened the pad, but the pages were blank. Whatever had been drawn had been removed. She considered taking the paper out of the wastebasket, but she knew the crinkling would awaken Daphne, and if the girl hadn't wanted her to see what was on the paper, she just shouldn't look.

As she was leaving, though, Elsie caught sight of the new scrapbook. It was sitting on Daphne's bookcase, in a carefully cleared spot. Curious, Elsie went over and picked it up, opening it.

It wasn't empty anymore. There was a single picture neatly centered on the first page, but this wasn't a photograph. Now Elsie could see what Daphne had felt inspired to create. It was dark, most of the white space filled in. No wonder the pencil had been dulled. It was almost abstract, at first, but Elsie studied it.

It was a night scene--somewhere in a forest--and it must have been raining. The area at the top of the page gave the impression of moving clouds, with rain slanting down. At first Elsie thought it was just a view of trees, but then she saw that there was a figure in the midst of the trees.

It was unmistakably male, tall and broad. There were no real details discernable, but somehow it exuded an aura of... Elsie shivered. She didn't like looking at it, but she forced herself to look more closely, wanting to see the face. Perhaps then she'd understand the feeling of dread.

She'd never know if that was the case, because there WAS no face. The figure appeared to be wearing some sort of hood, a shapeless blur shrouding his head, with only a rough hole torn open around the area of the eyes. As for the eyes... That area was, again, shadowed. *But,* Elsie thought uneasily, *it's as if I stared at it long enough, I might be able to see in--and he'd be looking back out at me.* Her eyes dropped to the neat caption just under the picture.

She shut the book quickly, putting it back on the shelf. *It means nothing. That's just how her mind works, is all,* she thought anxiously. She hurried out of the room, forcing herself to focus on the mundane tasks of beginning her day, trying to forget those three neatly printed words.

Dead is better.