1985

"That's him--that's the one."

"Funny--he doesn't look crazy."

Paul Holt listened to the hushed voices on the other side of the store aisle, and he sighed. The whispers seemed to follow him everywhere. They had started the day he'd come to Crystal Lake to view the property out by the lake, with an eye to turning it into a training camp for summer camp councilors... and they hadn't stopped. Every time he was in town getting supplies or taking care of business there was a constant buzz around him.

At first the townspeople (most of them, anyway) had tried to pretend they weren't gossiping about him. Lately, though, he'd begun to wonder if there was something about Crystal Lake that made people think that everyone else in the world was deaf.

A hand fell on his arm, and Paul closed his eyes. He wasn't sure which was worse--the whispers, or the statements made to his face. He turned, and found himself looking into a pair of bright eyes. Unfortunately they weren't bright with cheer, innocence, or good will. No, the glint could be laid only to two possibilities--maliciousness, or mental unbalance. He knew the man. The locals called him Crazy Ralph. *Very appropriate,* he thought.

The man was already smiling, and when he knew he had Paul's attention it widened into a grin. "You're the fella who bought Camp Blood."

Paul fought down a sigh. *Stay polite. I'm going to be working around here, and I don't need to be seen abusing the town mental defective.* "No, I didn't buy Camp Crystal Lake," he emphasized the name carefully. "I bought the property on the other side of the lake."

The man's manic smile didn't fade. "Same difference. You're up there--at the lake--in the woods. It's all cursed."

*Terrific. Not just a nutjob, but a religious zealot nutjob.* "Bad things happen everywhere. I think it's just that around here things are a little fresher in everyone's mind, and..."

"Cursed. The Devil lives in those woods. Ya know, usually the Devil tries to be subtle, and steal away a mortal's soul, but not around here. Nope." Ralph shook his head, eyes dancing. "Around here he likes to get his hands dirty. He likes to kill people--physically, not spiritually. Know what I think?"

"I have the feeling I'm going to find out."

"He's on vacation." Paul stared at him, knowing that his expression had to be a little stunned. Ralph nodded again. "Yep. Like how some people who have them sedimentary jobs will spend their vacation wearing their own asses out with white water raftin' or rock climbin'. Satan gets tired of being smooth, and just wants to cut loose with some old fashioned slaughter now and then." The smile stretched to show dingy back teeth. "Crystal Lake is the Devil's playground."

"Ye-ah."

"Paul, they only have store-brand graham crackers--no Keebler, or Nabisco, or Honey Maid..." Ginny approached, frowning at the cardboard box she carried, and almost bumped into Ralph. "Oh--sorry. I didn't see you there."

"You're all going to die," Ralph said cheerfully.

There was a moment of silence. Ginny looked at Paul, who shrugged helplessly. "Oh, it's not that bad. Some of this generic stuff is actually pretty good. Maybe I'll get the cinnamon kind instead. That should make the s'mores interesting."

Now Ralph was quiet for a moment, his smile fading a little. Finally he shook his head, muttering, "Crazy people," and left.

Ginny raised her eyebrows as she put the box in Paul's cart. "Day pass from the local mental health facility?"

"Local color. I'm glad to see that you didn't let him get to you."

"Eh. I don't believe in the Devil. Maybe in 'devils'--plural, with small d's. I mean, let's face it--there are a lot of human monsters roaming around out there, and the history of this area makes it clear that it's had its share." She hesitated. "You know, Paul--I think you ought to tell the kids about the history of this place."

"Do you really think I need to? I'm sure most of them have heard something already."

"Of course they have, but God knows what it is. I mean, suppose ol' what's-his-face is their only source of information? You ought to give them what you know simply and cleanly, without embellishment."

"I guess you're right. I'll do that tonight at the campfire." He grinned. "But I think I'll make them acquainted with the legend first. After al, gory stories around the campfire are a fine old camp tradition. I think I can get one of the guys to help me out there."

"You've only grown up on the outside. We still need to get some dog food for Muffin."

"I shouldn't have let you talk me into allowing you to bring that Benji-wannabe, but I suppose every camp needs a mascot. Did they have any hot dog buns? We might as well make it a weenie roast."

As Ginny and Paul walked toward the bread aisle, they passed a young woman who was standing, staring into a half filled basket. After a moment, Daphne pushed a hank of hair back from her face, picked up a bag of marshmallows, and dropped them into her cart, then moved on. Later Elsie was a little puzzled by the unexpected purchase, but not too puzzled. After all, everyone made impulse buys occasionally.

The dozen councilors in training and trainers were gathered around a hearty campfire that evening, sitting on logs, or thick grass. Weenies had been roasted and consumed with relish--things always seemed to taste better in the open air. The group was now in the process of making S'mores. Stuart, a plump boy with a substantial appetite, was complaining. "One apiece is just stingy! There's still half a case of Hershey Bars left. I want another."

"Then you shouldn't have dipped into the marshmallows earlier," Ginny scolded. "It's your own fault we're out of supplies. You'll just have to suffer. Paul, why don't you Stu's mind off his starving condition? Didn't you have something you wanted to tell everyone?"

Paul cleared his throat. "I suppose by now you've all heard rumors about that abandoned camp nearby--Camp Crystal Lake."

"You mean Camp Blood," Sandra piped up.

"No, Camp Crystal Lake is its proper name. Camp Blood is the nickname hung on it by the tabloids."

Jeff said, "But it's appropriate, right? Wasn't there a slaughter there not too long ago?"

"Well..." There was a rustling in the brush nearby, and everyone (even Paul) tensed, staring toward it. "It's nothing," said Paul. "It's probably just Muffin."

A young, blonde woman stepped out of the brush and stopped just inside the circle of campfire light. She gazed toward the group, but it was hard to tell if she actually SAW them. After a moment, Jeff muttered, "Well, it isn't a dog."

When the girl still didn't speak, Ted said jovially, "It's a mute trespasser."

Paul had been studying the girl. Now he said, "It's our neighbor. I believe her name is Breman--Daphne Breman."

Vickie gave him a curious look. "You believe?"

"We haven't been formally introduced, but I've seen her in the yard of her house, and around town."

"If you haven't been introduced, how do you know about her?" asked Scott, another trainee.

Paul shrugged. "You know how it is in a small town. There's always someone who's happy to let you know about the local tragedies."

As he spoke, Daphne came forward slowly. There was a space at the end of one log, next to Stuart, and she sat there. Mark, who had his wheelchair parked on her other side said, amused, "Just make yourself at home."

Stuart was staring at her, frowning. "She's a little pushy."

Jeff had been studying the girl, and said softly, "Shut up, Stu. She's... I dunno. She's... not regular."

Stu snorted. "Oh, and that's not going to insult her? Us talking about her like she's Muffin? Hey, girly--you should wait for an invitation."

"Stuart," Paul said firmly. "Jeff is right. According to the local librarian and grocery clerk, Daphne is special. Something happened to her when she was a baby, and she just doesn't completely connect with the outside world." He smiled faintly. "But she doesn't do bad. Look what she brought."

Stuart glanced into the girl's lap. When he spoke, it sounded as if he were fighting drool. "Marshmallows!"

Daphne was tearing open the bag. "Marshmallows. Somebody hand the lady a stick."

In a few moments, most of those gathered were turning marshmallows over the low, flickering flames--watching them puff and turn golden brown. Paul began, "As I was saying before our visitor turned up--Camp Crystal Lake." He cut his eyes at one of the councilors, and Ted quietly slipped away into the darkness.

"Yes, Crystal Lake and the camp have had more than their share of tragedy. It stretches back a long way. A little boy drowned in 1958, when the teenage councilors who should have been watching him were, er, frolicking." There were snickers, and Paul said sharply, "It isn't a laughing matter. That seems to have set off the hideous run of luck this place has had. The two councilors responsible were brutally murdered not long after--hacked to death in a hay loft." Now there were uncomfortable murmurs, and Paul nodded grimly. "The murderer was never captured, but later incidents indicated a suspect. But the thing is..." Paul leaned forward, "Did Jason Voorhees actually die?"

Daphne raised her eyes from the marshmallow speared on the tip of her branch. It had caught fire. She brought it closer and, without looking, blew on it, putting out the flame. Then she delicately plucked the charred sugar skin off the marshmallow and ate it as Paul continued. "A body was never recovered. Some people think that he survived. But he was already..." he glanced at Daphne, who was chewing placidly. Paul cleared his throat. "After the trauma of near drowning, who knows how he'd be?"

"Anyway, it was already enough to earn the camp the name of Blood, and the bad luck just kept coming. One attempt to open it ended in arson, and another when the water supply was found to be poisoned. They never pinned the sabotage on anyone, but it was enough to put off most people who considered reopening it. But not Steve Christie. Five years ago he invested $25,000.00 dollars in the camp--everything he had. He brought in a group of young councilors to help him get it ready for the campers. That's when it happened.

He paused ominously. All the young people were watching him with fascination. All except Daphne. She had progressed to scraping the melted inner part of the marshmallow off the stick--with her teeth. Paul shrugged mentally, figuring that he couldn't expect her to be a perfect audience. "There was... I guess the right word would be a massacre. It was a murder spree the likes of which America has never seen before. We can only hope that something so awful never happens again."

"It happened on Friday the 13th. When morning came, Steve and eight of his councilors were dead--killed in various horrible ways. Oh, there wasn't any quick, clean shootings. Death was by knife, arrow..." he shivered slightly, "axe. There was only one survivor--a girl named Alice. You see, Alice fought back. She killed the killer--decapitated her with a machete."

There were sounds of disgust. Daphne speared another marshmallow and held it over the flames as Paul continued. "Yes, I said 'her'. The killer was a woman--Pamela Voorhees." He paused dramatically, then whispered, "The mother of Jason--the drowned boy." There was an enlightened murmur. "Yes, it seems that she'd been driven mad by her loss, and dedicated herself to seeing that the camp where her son died never again opened. But there's much more to the mystery. You see, when the authorities came, all they found was her body. Her head was missing."

Gasps. All the young people were watching him, round-eyed and appalled. *Oh, this is going to be good.* "Some of the locals say that Jason didn't really die. They say that Pamela Voorhees somehow saved him, more damaged than he was before. That she dedicated her life, every breath she took, to caring for him--and she filled him with poison against anyone who might try to reopen the camp where he nearly died. They say that Jason watched as his mother killed off Steve and his councilors, and that he saw her die--saw Alice chop her head off." Paul's voice dropped to a whisper. "And that he took his revenge."

There was dead silence, save for the crackle of the fire. Most of the listeners were holding their breaths. "Two months after she survived the slaughter at Camp Crystal Lake, Alice disappeared. There was a small amount of blood found in her kitchen--that's all. She just vanished off the face of the earth. The police were baffled, but if you ask anyone around here, they'll tell you what happened. Jason found her. Jason tracked down the woman who had killed his mother, and took his revenge."

Paul lifted his eyes to scan the surrounding darkness. His voice still low, he said, "They say he's still out there--in the dark. He wears a hood, to hide his misshapen face. He lives like an animal--stealing from unwatched houses, eating the small creatures he traps and kills, with maybe an occasional local pet thrown in. He's more animal than human himself by now, except that he still has a low cunning--and a vicious drive for revenge--revenge against the whole human race, but most especially... camp councilors."

There was an explosion of motion. A big figure, head covered by a dirty cloth, burst from the bushes, brandishing a large, wicked machete, bellowing. The reaction was immediate. The air was split by shrieks and screams as people jumped, lunged, and fell off their seats. Only four people didn't move. Mark had the brake set on his wheelchair, and his hands slipped on it in panic. Paul and Ginny screamed along with the rest of them, but a close observer might have noticed that they were almost smiling as they yelled. And Daphne... Daphne sat quietly, the only sign that she'd noticed what was going on around her the slow droop of her toasting stick. No, there was one more reaction. Her glance gravitated to the intruder, and fixed on him.

The figure waved the machete menacingly. Stuart stumbled THROUGH the fire. It was a good thing it had died down to almost nothing. Vickie, screaming, was trying to help Mark release his brake. Scott had fallen backward off his log, and Sandra had piled on top of him, clutching him and screaming like a banshee.

The intruder turned, and noticed the single quiet member of his audience. He advanced on Daphne, weapon held high, grunting menacingly. Jeff, about to dash into the night, froze, yelling, "No!" Paul's amusement drained away suddenly, seeing his conspirator menacing the girl. He started to speak, but his voice died away as Daphne moved.

The girl stood up. Her gaze never wavered, and she ended up staring at the threatening figure's top shirt button--at a place just below the ragged edge of the bag covering his head. The man hesitated, radiating confusion when the girl did not try to escape. The eyes peering out of the rough hole torn in the fabric looked puzzled. Then Daphne reached up slowly. One fingertip came to rest on the dirty cotton just over the man's cheek, then slid down lightly, slowly, till her hand dropped back to her side. The various noises of fear and surprise died down in astonishment, and the machete bearing, upraised arm of the intruder lowered slowly.

Paul called out. "It's all right! Everybody calm down, now. Ted, it's over."

The figure reached up and removed the bag, pulling it up and off to reveal the young councilor who had slipped away. Finally there was another reaction from Daphne. The girl flinched slightly, blinking rapidly, and gave her head a small, but definite shake. Then she sat back down, her head drooping a little.

Ted squatted in front of her. "Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you, really. It's just a costume, see?" He held the mask out to her. "And I took the edge off the machete. I couldn't have cut you, or anyone." Daphne didn't respond. "Shit."

"It's okay, Ted," Paul assured him. "I don't think she was frightened. Actually, it looks like she was onto the joke from the start. Will you people pick yourselves back up and sit, like civilized beings? Stuart, you didn't burn yourself?"

"No, but it wasn't from lack of opportunity. You're one to talk about civilized, scaring the crap out of us like that."

"I wasn't scared," Scott protested. "I was going along with the joke."

"Yeah, right."

"The point," Paul continued, "is that all the rumors you've heard amount to just that--rumors. Yes, there have been a few bad incidents around here, but those are ancient history. The legend about Jason is just a legend. There is no boogie man lurking in the woods, waiting to pick us off, one by one." Daphne stood up and, as silently as she had come, left the campfire, melting back into the darkness. "You see? Even a young girl isn't afraid to walk alone here."

"A retarded girl," Stu growled.

"Hey!" Mark snapped.

"Watch it, Stu. Besides, I hear that her mother is very protective. Do you believe that she'd allow the girl to wander alone if she thought there was any danger out here?"

Stuart shrugged. "Maybe she doesn't know. I think that if that girl HAS a mind, she has a mind of her own."

That was pretty much the end of the campfire. Though all the councilors claimed that they hadn't really been scared, and were no longer worried about the legends surrounding the area, it was agreed that it would be a lot more comfortable inside. Most of them went back to the lounge to talk. It wasn't long, though, before Ginny yawned hugely, and excused herself. A little later Paul casually said he thought it was time for him to turn in. The others managed to restrain their snickers and ribald comments till he was gone.

Ralph paused behind a tree to take a nip of courage from his flask. *Shouldn't be out here. Ain't smart to be roamin' around Camp Blood in the dark. But I just gotta see what those fools are up to. See if they're as reckless as I think they are.* He remembered seeing some of the young girls in town--how some of them didn't seem to wear bras beneath their thin cotton shirts. That sort might even sleep in the nude. Ralph licked his lips unconsciously, then took another sip.

There was a cabin not too far from his sheltering tree, and one of the girls had gone in just a moment before. It was the one he'd seen in the grocery store earlier that day. There was a window right at the front--one with a shade only half lowered, and Ralph could see right in to the bed. The lights were on inside, and the girl was moving about, passing in front of the window now and then. Ralph wondered why she didn't strip and get in bed. He wondered what she was waiting for.

He found out when the man arrived a few minutes later. At first Ralph was annoyed. He had no desire to watch the camp owner giving instructions to his assistant. But then Paul took her in his arms and kissed her, and Ralph realized with excitement that he might very well see something much more stimulating than just a little bare skin.

He shifted, trying to get the best view possible without giving up any of his cover. *Not that I need to worry about that,* he thought. *Those two probably wouldn't notice if I crept up and pressed my nose to the window.*

He probably wouldn't have done it. Though Ralph enjoyed peeping, he was cautious, and never got too close to the houses he was spying on. It never came down to a decision, though. Perhaps if he hadn't been so preoccupied he would have heard something, but perhaps not. His stalker had gotten very good at moving quietly.

A slender, shining loop of wire dropped over Ralph's head and, in almost the same motion, was jerked tight. The burning pain was immediate, and Ralph reached up to grab at the wire, trying to pluck it loose and gain some breathing room. Sharp barbs sank into both his throat, and his hands. Ralph jerked his hands away, feeling the hot blood welling up in his palms, and beginning to ooze down his throat. Desperate for air, he scrambled at the strangling device again, ignoring the pain in his hands as skin and tissue shredded against the cruel spikes. A ringing started in his ears. It felt as if his lungs were expanding. Though he knew he was drawing no breath, his lungs seemed to be inflating with searing hot air. Darkness started to blossom before his eyes. As his vision faded, he thought that perhaps he should have taken his own advice, and stayed away from this cursed place...

The body went limp. Jason let it just dangle from the barbed wire noose for a moment, then let go. What had once been Crazy Ralph slumped bonelessly. The hooded figure studied the corpse. He looked up, looking through the window into Ginny's cabin. He impassively watched the half-dressed couple embracing on the bed. One hand, protected from the wire by a thick, dirty work glove, drifted to his hip to touch the large hunting knife sheathed there--touch it thoughtfully.

Finally he bent and lifted Ralph's body. Hoisting it over his shoulder, he began to make his way deeper into the trees. It wouldn't do to leave it here, where it would almost surely be found the next morning.

It wouldn't do to give them warning.