"They are so doing it," said Jeff.

Sandra swatted his shoulder. "I swear, you sound smug. It's Paul and Ginny you're talking about, not yourself."

"Hey, I'm a guy. If any of us gets some, it's a triumph for ALL of us." The two were checking the markers on the camp's hiking trail. Each had long strips of neon colored plastic strips. Whenever they found a tattered on tied to a tree or bush, they replaced it, carefully tucking the old one in a trash bag. Sandra finished knotting one, and started off toward a cleared space. "Wait, not over there. We go back this way."

Sandra frowned, looking in the direction he indicated. She gestured. "But the trees are thinner this way."

"I know. That leads over to Camp Blood. Our property butts up against it right around here."

"Really?" Sandra gazed thoughtfully into the trees, and took a couple of steps.

"Hey!" Jeff protested. "Paul told us not to go over there."

Sandra tossed him a smile. "And we always do what Paul says, right?"

Jeff followed her. "Never mind breaking Paul's rules--it'd be trespassing."

Sandra didn't stop, speeding up. "Oh, come on! It's not like we're going to steal anything, or vandalize something. I just want a look."

Jeff gave up and followed her. "I swear. I bet you slow down to look at car wrecks, too."

"They might not have removed all the equipment after that murder spree," said Sandra. "Maybe they have something we can use."

"Are you kidding? We're not going inside anything. There could be possums, or owls. Owls get pissed if you bother them during the day, and they have pointy talons and beaks. There'd almost CERTAINLY be rats."

She laughed and started forward. "Wimp!"

The sunlight lanced down through the gaps in the branches overhead, so that the area was alternating patches of gloomy shadow and near blinding light. The two councilors were just stepping into a patch of glare as a figure loomed up out of the shadows before them. Their eyes were dazzled--all they saw was a threatening silhouette. Sandra screamed, clutching at Jeff.

"You two aren't supposed to be here." The figure took another step toward them, and the light glinted off the gold badge pinned to the front of his uniform.

Jeff and Sandra wilted in relief, and Jeff said, "It's the fuzz." The man raised an eyebrow, and Jeff said hastily, "I mean, hi, officer."

Sheriff Sherwood fought down a smile, keeping his expression stern. "It's Sheriff."

"You kind of scared us," said Sandra.

"Yeah, who's the wimp?" muttered Jeff.

"You SHOULD be scared," said Sherwood. "You're breaking the law. Didn't your boss warn you to stay away from Camp Crystal Lake?"

"Well, yeah." Jeff couldn't keep the sheepish tone out of his voice.

"Haven't you ever heard that old saying about curiosity and cats? Legalities aside," said the Sheriff, "don't you know how dangerous it is to go roaming around abandoned properties? What if one of you young fools broke a leg, or fell and hit your head? It could be days before you were found--if ever. C'mon, I'll walk you back to your own Center."

Jeff said, "We can find our own way back." Sherwood just looked at him, and Jeff said weakly, "Are we busted?"

"Not this time," said the Sheriff. The two councilors wilted in relief. "But my car is back that way. I was going to have a talk with your boss when I noticed you two slipping through the trees. No, I'm not going to report you to him, either. I just remembered that I have to finish up the vacation schedule by tomorrow, or else I'm going to have my entire office squalling at me." They'd reached the road that led to Paul's camp, just around a curve. The Sheriff walked to his patrol car. "You two want a quick lift back?"

"No sir," said Sandra. "I think we have some adrenaline to burn off." She took off at a fast jog, with Jeff right after her.

Sherwood watched them disappear around the bend, then allowed a smile to surface. "Kids." He got back into his car and turned around, starting back toward town. *Let's see, I promised Tucker the end of August, didn't I? But I think someone penciled in that they were going to charter a fishing trip one of those weeks. Better check my notes.* He leaned over, reaching for the glove compartment.

A dark figure flashed across the road before him, and he instinctively stomped on the brakes. His teeth rattled from the abrupt stop, and he felt the sudden flood of energy that sometimes came right after a disaster averted. "What the fuck was that?" he exclaimed. He'd only caught enough of a glimpse to be able to tell that it had been human, not a deer, but who could it be? Not the kids--there was no way they could have cut around to get in front of him. And no one else had any business running around out here.

Just to his left was a nearly over grown side road, and it was in this direction that the mystery figure had fled. Sherwood turned into it, barely noticing the faded sign beside it. CAMP CRYSTAL LAKE.

He drove a few dozen yards down the road, peering into the trees on either side of the road, and spotted something he didn't expect. It looked like a shed, but it was too far out. It should take another few minutes of driving to reach the camp center. *Might be squatters,* he thought. *I'd better check it out.* He reached for his walkie-talkie, but hesitated. *This should just take a minute. I'll just have a quick look.*

He didn't notice how silent the woods had become as he walked to the shack. He noticed that the closer he got to the building, the more feathers and small animal bones littered the ground. The shack was rough, looking as if it had been knocked together by a non-professional.

The door had a string latch, not a store-bought knob. Sherwood opened it and pushed it open. It was like peering into a cavern. It was so dark that all he could make out were vague shapes. He took a step in, blinking in an attempt to get his eyes to adjust. There was something terribly wrong here, but he couldn't tell what. He took another step in.

The dim light that was falling past him was suddenly blotted out, and he turned quickly. The figure filled the doorway. The only detail Sherwood could make out was that it was wearing a hood. The intruder raised his arm high. He had a claw hammer in clenched in his fist.

Sherwood reached instinctively toward his belt. In the split second he had to watch the hammer descend, he regretted the fact that the town council had decided that there wasn't enough serious crime in Crystal Lake to justify arming their officers.

"No," said Stu, "I am not insulting your cooking." He spread his hands before Sandra. "I'm just saying that I can only handle so much home cooking. I need fast food."

She snorted. "You won't get much of a chance for that in Crystal Lake. I didn't see a single McDonalds or Taco Bell when we passed through there."

Paul was sitting at the kitchen table with Ginny. He said, "No franchises, but there's an old fashioned diner in town. This could be a chance for you kids to experience some fast disappearing Americana."

Ted rubbed his hands together in mock enthusiasm. "Oh, boy! A chance to have liver and onions, or oatmeal-meatloaf with canned gravy."

"I saw a beer cooler back by the kitchen."

Ted stood up. "I'll drive anyone who wants to go into town."

In the end Ted took Stu and the three junior councilors, who were just barely old enough to drink beer. Paul and Ginny went along, because Paul figured that someone had better ride herd. On the way in, Stu wondered out loud why the ones who remained behind had passed up a chance at beer. Ted smirked and asked him if he was really still a virgin?

Since the number of eaters was a little smaller, Sandra, Terry, and Vickie made fried chicken that evening. Jeff, Scott, and Mark were properly appreciative, though Terry declared it was only because they thought they could get out of helping with the dishes afterward. Fat chance. Mark volunteered, and was roundly teased by the other boys for being a brown-nose. Vickie immediately offered to wash, if he'd dry.

Scott tried to wheedle Terry into taking a walk in the woods. "I can bring a blanket," he offered, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

She put one fingertip against his chest and pushed him away. Dream on, horn dog. A walk sounds nice, but I think that solo would be safer--for my virtue, at least." She flounced off, leaving Scott sighing in frustration.

However Scott was another believer of the great 'She's Just Playing Hard to Get' myth--so he followed her. He'd lost sight of her for a few minutes, but when he did find her, he'd struck the jackpot. Terry had walked down to the lake, and was skinny-dipping.

Scott crouched in the brush, watching gleefully. He wished he dared join her, but his faith in the 'Playing Hard to Get' thing had faded a bit. He had a feeling she'd just grab her clothes and split, maybe with a few good slaps or well placed knees. He spotted her clothes piled near the shore, and a wicked idea came to him. He crept forward, thinking, *At least I can get a free show out of it.*

Terry heard a rustling and looked up in time to see Scott grabbing her clothes. "Hey!"

Scott pelted away, laughing like a loon, and waving her bra over his head. "Son of a bitch!" Hardly thinking she waded out of the water and dashed after him. She had to catch him and retrieve her clothes before he got out of the trees, but he was moving quickly.

Then up ahead she heard a peculiar rushing sound, accompanied by the rustling of bushes, and a surprised, and pained, yell. She had no idea what to expect, but she certainly didn't expect what she found.

Scott was dangling from a rope, hanging upside down by one ankle. His flailing hands didn't quite touch the leaf-littered ground beneath him as he swung and spun. He glimpsed Terry, and was so distressed that he didn't even pause to contemplate her nudity. "Terry! Get me down."

She was startled, but she was also angry, embarrassed, and cold. Her clothes had fallen nearby, and she began to gather them up and dress hastily. "Serves you right, you snot!"

"Terry, I'm not kidding. I'm really stuck!"

She'd struggled into her panties, but her bra had somehow ended up on a branch out of her reach. She pulled her shirt on. "Still serves you right. You ought to look where you're going instead of tripping some poor hunter's trap. Whoever set it is going to be pissed to find you instead of a deer."

"No one hunts deer with rope snares, you airhead!"

"Well!" She grabbed her shorts and started to flounce away.

"Terry, I'm sorry! Would you please help? All the blood is rushing to my head. I may pass out."

Terry relented. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Look," he pointed, "it's tied off over there."

Terry went to look at where the rope was tied to another tree. "I'll never be able to untie this--it's too tight, and the rope is too thick."

"Please do something."

He sounded so pained that she started to have a little pity. "I'll go get something to cut it with. Hang on." She trotted away.

Despite his situation, Scott laughed weakly. "Like I have a choice." He dangled, hoping that Terry would get back and release him before the circulation was cut off in his foot. Soon he heard footsteps approaching, and he tried to turn to look. "Terry?" He tried too hard, and ended up spinning. The world swirled around him, making him feel sick. He caught flashes of someone coming toward him, and thought gratefully that this would all be over soon.

He was right.

But not in the way he expected.

Terry thought about going into the lounge to ask for help, but through the window she could see Sandra and Jeff making out on the couch. Vickie and Mark were on the front porch, he in his wheelchair and she on the porch swing. All of them looked very involved in each other. Besides, if she spoke to any of them she'd have to answer questions, and that meant that soon everyone would know that Scott had seen her in the buff. If she could free him without anyone being the wiser, she might be able to swear him to silence about that. She sneaked around to the back, slipped into the kitchen, and found a heavy knife, then hurried back to where she'd left Scott.

He must have run out of energy, because he wasn't kicking and fussing when she got back to him. He was just turning in lazy circles, arms dangling. She went straight to the tree where the rope was tied and started sawing. "I hope you appreciate this, Scott." No answer. "I could have just left your ass swinging in the wind. Imagine what Paul would have said when he found you." Scott was still silent. That wasn't like him. Maybe he'd passed out. The rope was almost frayed through. "Imagine what Stu will say." *That should get a rise out of him.*

The rope parted, and Scott thudded heavily to the ground. Terry yelped, dropping the knife is startled remorse. She hadn't thought that he might not be able to break his fall. She hurried over to the still form. "Jesus, Scott, I'm sorry! Did you bang your head?" She squatted next to him. "Did you give yourself a concuss--" She took hold of his shoulder, rolling him over.

There was blood. At first she thought that he'd cut his head in the fall. She'd heard that scalp wounds bled a lot, but this... There was so much of it. Scott's face was a crimson mask, eyes staring, and his hair was dripping with it. His shirt was pristine, save for some dirt smudges. Somehow this didn't seem right, but Terry was going into shock, so she didn't realize this was because Scott had been hanging upside down when his throat was slit.

She stood up, drawing in a deep breath for a scream, turning to rush back to the lounge for help...

...and impaled herself on the same knife she had dropped a few moments before. Instead of a scream, the air escaped in a sigh as she clutched at the knife buried in her belly. Terry was staring down at where the cold steel disappeared into the sleek flesh of her belly, seeing her own pale fingers against the blade turning red and slick with blood. Just beyond that she could see a brutally large hand clenched around the handle. Her gaze traveled up the arm and fixed on a cloth shrouded face. A single eye peered at her through a ragged hole. As she died she thought that the eyes of someone capable of this should show hatred, triumph, or rage--something--anything--instead of simple, blank curiosity.

In the Crystal Lake Diner

Paul shook his head. "I do not believe it. I think that Stu is actually managing to chat up the waitress."

"I think she's impressed," said Ginny. "I bet she never saw anyone put away two blue plate specials, a plate of fries and gravy, and two pieces of pie, with ice cream."

"Don't forget the rolls," said Ted, lowering his beer bottle. "He called for basket refills twice." The waitress had shown Stu to a back booth after he'd finished dinner, and she hovered near it as much as possible. Now a shrill giggle drifted up to them. "You know, I'm thinkin ' we might not have to give ol' Stu a ride back to camp tonight." He held up his bottle, wiggling it to catch the waitress' attention, and she reluctantly went for another bottle. "And I'm thinking she better have a couch, cause I don't think I'm going to be able to drive."

"We'll take you back," Paul offered.

"Ain't leaving my car here," said Ted cheerfully. I'm liable to come back in the morning and find out it's minus the radio, and someone has attached mud-flaps, or something."

The waitress brought over the beer and set it before Ted, then began gathering up several empties. "You folks plannin' on takin' rooms at the motel?"

Paul wiggled his eyebrows, but Ginny said, "No, we'll be driving back in a little while."

The girl frowned. "You mean you're goin' out to that place in the dark? You couldn't get me out there if you offered me a ride in a gold plated limousine, an' told me I could keep the hubcaps." Her voice was dark. "My Mama says things ain't been right since that Voorhees boy died." She left.

Paul shook his head. "Man, that Jason legend IS ingrained in this area. I mean, most places have their own local legends, but I've never run into one that's taken so seriously."

"This one has more possibilities than most of them," said Ginny.

"How so?"

"The body," said Ted. He was drawing patterns in the film of condensation forming on his bottle. "Or rather, the lack of one."

"He's right," Ginny agreed. "They never found Jason's body." She propped her elbows on the table, and rested her chin in her hands, gazing off thoughtfully. "I wonder..."

Paul sighed. "Don't just leave it hanging. You wonder what?"

"I wonder... if he didn't die, what happened to him? There doesn't seem to be any indication of him after he was supposed to have drowned, but this is a small, close-knit area. He couldn't have lived anything approaching a normal life without someone being aware of him. But it was pretty obvious that his mom wasn't playing with a full deck. She might have hidden him."

Ted nodded. "I could understand that. After all, he went in the lake while someone was supposed to be watching him. Someone fucked up big time on their responsibilities, so she wouldn't trust anyone around her baby after that."

"And she'd have made that clear to him, wouldn't she? He'd have heard constantly about how untrustworthy and rotten the world was, and all the people in it..."

"Especially the sort who neglected him," said Paul, his voice mock-ominous. "Teenagers or camp councilors!"

"You're joking," said Ginny dryly, "but it makes a spooky sort of sense. Pamela Voorhees was very protective of Jason, and she wouldn't have wanted him out of her sight any more than was necessary. It's possible that Jason witnessed all or most of the killings. And if that's so, then there's another, even more disturbing possibility. What if he saw his own mother's death?"

Paul and Ted stared at her. Finally Ted said, "Okay, that's just disturbing."

Ginny nodded. "Exactly. Jason's mental capacity was already--skewed--by his physical condition. Then add the trauma of a near death experience, long days hidden away by a psychotic, smothering parent, probably exposed to hours of diatribes against humanity, witnessing butchery committed in the name of revenge, and then seeing this person, the only person who has ever loved you and cared for you decapitated by one of the ones you've been taught to hate. What would he be like after all that? He wouldn't go to the authorities and make himself known. His instinct would be to hide, as Pamela had taught him. He'd have to live as he could, probably stealing, or killing small creatures for food. He'd be more animal than man after awhile. But an animal with a human brain to guide the vicious impulses."

Ted shivered violently. "Okay, I'm spending the night in that back booth. No way I'm going back out there in the dark. And from now on every window and door is locked, checked, and double-checked, and I mean even in broad daylight. Excuse me, I'm going to see if Stu wants to go to the men's room."

As Ted stood up, Paul said, "I thought it was women who went to the powder room together."

"After a story like that, I bet Rambo would ask a buddy to come along so he wouldn't be alone."

Paul watched Ted go, then looked over at Ginny. "I thought I was the master of creeping people out, but you've got me licked."

She shrugged. "I wasn't trying to. I was just sort of thinking out loud."

"Now I am scared. I left that athletic equipment I was working on piled out on the porch, and I ought to get it inside. Want to come, or do you want to catch a ride back with or one of the others?"

"Ted isn't going to be in a fit state, remember? And I don't want the other kids to feel stifled, so I'm with you." They got up, and she said, "After all, they don't want the ol' 'grown ups' around to cramp their style." As they started out, she said, "I know you want to offer as many activities as possible, but I think you ought to reconsider the archery and javelin training. Ever heard of Dungeons and Dragons? You're going to have a load of wannabe elves and warriors aiming those things at each other."

Elsie Breman, sitting on the couch, watched Daphne once again turn into the living room. Her eyes followed her daughter as the girl made a slow circle of the room, then re-entered the hall. She'd walk down to the end, go in her room, walk around it once, then start the cycle over again. She'd been doing it all evening. Pacing was nothing new with Daphne, but for some reason it was making Elsie nervous. Before the repetitive passes had seemed empty of meaning, simple drifting. But now... Despite Daphne's usual bland expression, Elsie got a sense of nervousness. This was, in turn, making Elsie nervous, and she was drinking more than usual.

*It started yesterday,* Elsie thought, listening to the faint footsteps deeper in the house. *She was agitated when she came back from her walk. Something must have happened to upset her, but what? She didn't seem to be... tampered with. Her clothes and hair were in order; there were no marks or bruises.*

Daphne came back into the room and began her circuit. "Daphne." The girl didn't slow, didn't react at all. Her pace slow and steady, she turned just before walking into a corner, and continued along the wall. Unable to stand it any more, Elsie got up and went to her, taking her arm. "Daphne." Daphne stopped, staring straight ahead. She was near the front door, and her hand started to drift toward the knob. Elsie said sharply, "No! No, not tonight. Something happened last night--you can just stay in. Come and sit down, before you wear yourself out."

Daphne allowed herself to be steered over to the couch, sitting when her mother pressed lightly on her shoulders. Elsie sat beside her, thinking that Daphne might be sitting, but there wasn't much relaxing going on. The girl's posture was ramrod straight, her hands resting flatly on her thighs. Elsie poured herself another drink and took a sip, staring at her daughter. At last she said, "What is it, Daphne?"

Daphne had spent hours pouring over her scrapbooks when she'd come home. That was nothing unusual, but this time there had been something different. Usually there was an aura of contemplation when she did this. That time there had been something almost anxious. Her fingers skittered over the carefully drawn pictures that lined the pages, sliding along under each line of the clipped and mounted articles. Finally concerned, Elsie had asked Daphne what was wrong. There had been no response--till she'd touched Daphne's cheek. Daphne had said quietly, "Fake."

"What, hon?"

"Fake, fake. Make fake at lake. Mercy sake take fake. Not mine."

"Not your what, Daphne? Did someone take something from you? You took that bag of marshmallows when you went out." Elsie had a sudden idea. "The lake? You went over to that new camp, didn't you? You went over there to make friends, and they did something that upset you. Pigs!" She'd hugged Daphne fiercely, promising to have a talk with Sheriff Sherwood. Maybe there weren't any charges they could make, but he could damn sure put the fear of reprisals into them. Then Daphne said something that surprised her. It was something she'd heard other people say often, but she'd never been aware Daphne knew the saying, and it didn't seem very appropriate.

Daphne, with her mother pressing the girl's cheek down on her shoulder, had murmured faintly, "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. No fool. No fool here, dear."

Elsie stared at Daphne now. "Those fools in town, they think I have it so hard, raising you. They don't know. They don't know that aside from your health, you've never given me a worry." She grunted. "Oh, the rest of the world and how it treats you, that's another story--but not you, yourself."

She took a drink. Her voice was becoming blurry. "Missed a lot of the problems most people have with teenagers. Slutty dressing. Disrespect. Cigarettes. Booze. Drugs. Boys." She moved a lock of Daphne's hair back behind her ear. "Never had to worry about you turning up pregnant. But there's one worry I've shared with every other parent, and in my case it's worse than what they've suffered." She sighed. "You don't talk to me. Your life might look like an open book to anyone else, but I know there are secrets inside you. There are things you'll never tell, aren't there, baby?"

Daphne stood up and walked toward her room. Elsie shook her head. She locked the front door, then picked up her bottle, and headed back to her bedroom. Dropping the key on her dresser, she began to undress. About a year ago she'd become suspicious that Daphne was slipping out at night. During the day, Elsie encouraged Daphne to go wherever she liked, fostering her independence. Daphne had even begun to ride her bicycle into town occasionally, visiting the library, or the stores. But at night... Things weren't safe for ANY girl these days if they roamed the night alone. She'd installed dead bolts on both doors, and every night she locked them, keeping the key in her room.

About an hour later, Daphne slipped into her mother's room. Ignoring the woman snoring on the bed, she went directly to the dresser, picked up the key, and left.

Jeff and Sandra were sprawled on the sofa. Actually, Jeff was sprawled on the sofa--Sandra was sprawled on top of him. The making out had progressed to the point where hands were starting to disappear under clothes.

Mark looked over at Vickie. "I think we have a couple of exhibitionists, here."

Jeff didn't even turn his head, but he pulled his mouth away from Sandra's long enough to say, "Or a couple of voyeurs."

Vickie said, "You two need to get a room."

"We're comfortable," said Sandra. "Why don't you two toddle off somewhere?"

Vickie's voice was a little indignant. "It'd be easier for you two to go somewhere than for Mark..." She stopped abruptly, realizing her faux pa, her eyes darting toward Mark's chair.

But Mark liked Vickie too much to leave her wiggling on that social tenterhook. He did a quick spin in his chair. "C'mon, Vickie. The last thing I need is see is Jeff's skinny butt. It might kill my libido forever."

Vickie, relieved that she hadn't hurt his feelings, followed him as he rolled out onto the porch. She'd transferred to Mark's school last year--senior year--and had instantly developed a crush on him, and had absorbed every bit of information and rumor she could glean about him.

Mark had ended up in the chair in junior high--he'd fallen off his bike and landed just right, or rather just WRONG, on a curb, breaking his back. Such a disaster would have thrown many people into a funk, making them withdraw from the world. It seemed to have energized Mark. He'd never been all that active before, but now he seemed determined to be kept from nothing. He helped out with several teams, worked on the school paper and yearbook, participated in the drama program, and became quite a wheelchair athlete. In short, he made damn sure that even if the chair was the first thing people noticed about him, it quickly became secondary. His cheerful personality captivated Vickie--and it didn't hurt that he was very, very cute.

He was also a bit of a mystery among the girls. He did date, but only public ones--football games, movies. There's been a few kisses exchanged, but... The big speculation among the girls was this--was he a gentleman, or was he... you know--not capable? Some believed that chair-equals-impotent. Others countered that they'd heard that every case was different, and some guys who were paralyzed COULD--just not as easily as someone who wasn't impaired. No one ever could say conclusively, because Mark just wasn't interested in the sort of girls who wouldn't mind testing, and telling.

They went down to the far end of the porch, away from the window. Vickie sat in the porch swing, and Mark parked his chair nearby. Since the main building was set up on a small rise, they had the woods behind them, and a wonderful view down to the lake before them. They were quiet for a moment. Vickie kept sneaking glances at Mark, who gazed out at the lake. "Mark, I hope you didn't..."

"Don't apologize to me, Vickie," he said quietly. "I can tell when someone is being condescending, and you weren't. You never have been."

She felt relieved. "I was hoping I hadn't. You know, it never really occurred to me to think of you as... limited. I mean, there were so many guys at school who didn't have a thing to deal with physically, but they were just LUMPS compared to you."

He gave her a wide smile. "Can't be a lump if you want to get the girls."

Vickie felt elated. This was the first time they'd ever been alone together, and when the others were around, the conversation stayed teasing, and shallow. But now... now they were getting to know each other, and they seemed to have a lot in common. She began to hope that this might develop into something that would last past the summer. But she had to admit to herself that though sex wasn't of first importance to her, it WAS still important. She wasn't sure she could handle an exclusive, purely platonic relationship.

Mark said, "You know, with a little help, I could get out of this chair and sit in the swing with you."

"Yeah? That would be great. Let's try it." Mark set the brake on the chair and dropped one side. His arms and upper body had become quite strong, and he really only needed Vickie to hold the swing as he moved. He put his arm around Vickie's shoulder as she sat back beside him, and she immediately snuggled happily against him.

They sat for a few moments, and Mark said, "I'm glad we came out here."

"Me, too."

"I couldn't handle much more of Jeff and Sandra. Who wants to get horny when there's nothing they can do about it?"

*Oh,* thought Vickie sadly. *So he can't...*

"I don't want to be too crude, but if I'd have stayed in there much longer... Well, I think I'm a little too old to excuse a public boner."

Vickie laughed in surprise, and blurted, "I didn't know you could..."

"Oh, I can, all right. Believe me, I can."

"Oo. Talk about putting my foot in my mouth."

"No, it's okay. I know people wonder about whether or not I can have sex. I can. I just haven't. Yet." He smiled at her. "Not WITH anyone, anyway."

"But the other girls... You have a reputation as, er, a 'gentleman'."

"I am. But the reason I haven't been making passes is because I wanted to be DAMN I was capable of carrying things through before I started. After extensive experimentation, I'm pleased to report that not only can I achieve the necessary state," he wiggled his eyebrows, "I can maintain that state for a damn good span."

Vickie knew that her grin had become foolish. "Really?"

"Really."

She cleared her throat. "You know, it might get a little chilly. It might be nice to have a blanket. We could sort of, I don't know--snuggle."

"Sounds good to me."

She hopped up. "I'll be right back."

As she hurried down the steps he said, "There's probably one inside."

"And Jeff and Sandra are in there, too. I have an extra one folded on the foot of the bed in my cabin." She hurried off, thinking, *And I also have my hair stuff, make-up, deodorant, perfume, mouthwash...*

Mark watched her go, then breathed out a gusty sigh, and looked toward heaven. "Please don't let me turn out to have been overly optimistic." He heard footsteps, and said, "Jeff, if that's you, get back in there and keep Sandra happy. Don't go spoiling my chances just because..."

It felt like someone had punched him very hard in the back. He started to protest angrily, but he couldn't seem to get his breath, and for some reason he thought he must have peed himself, because there was a sudden liquid warmth in his lap. Regaining control of his bodily functions had been one of the first steps he'd conquered on the road to recovery, and he'd been very proud of it. What could have happened now? He looked down...

And saw that he hadn't peed his pants. The dampness was blood. The blood was coming from the machete jutting from his belly. He stared down at it in astonishment, his brain refusing to accept what he saw, even as it began to shut down. A large hand gripped Mark's hair, holding him, and the machete was jerked free with a grisly slurping, crunching sound. He'd never know it, but the crunching was the sound was made by the slats of the swing--they'd been splintered when his murderer stabbed through them--then through his body.

Still gripping the dying boy's hair, Jason quickly drew the blade across his throat. There was another wash of blood, but it was much smaller than it might have been. After all, the heart was already shuddering to a stop. Jason let go his grip, and waited to see if he was going to have to do any more to this one. It didn't seem so. The boy slumped a little, head dropping forward so that his chin rested on his chest, hiding the hideous gash in his throat.

Once he was sure, Jason moved over and looked through the window into the lounge. There were two more of them, and they were doing just what his mother had said they all did. Or were they? Jason cocked his head in puzzlement. Wasn't the man supposed to be on top? After a moment he decided that it didn't matter. He lifted the machete again, but hesitated. In his mind he heard his mother's voice. *Two for one, Jason. Poetic justice, my darling boy. They sinned together--they can die together. Look around.*

As he had always, Jason obeyed the voice. He hung the machete back on his belt and looked around. His eye fell on the sporting equipment stacked against the wall, and he bent to examine it. Curious, he lifted a shot, his big hand almost swallowing the heavy metal ball. He lifted it with no more strain than most men would have in lifting a pool ball. But he noticed something else much more promising, and dropped the shot to reach for it.

In the lunge, Sandra's head shot up at the thud. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what? C'mon, Sandra."

"I heard something outside."

"Maybe Mark is getting lucky with Vickie. She has the hots for him."

"That didn't sound like 'getting lucky'. That sounded more like..."

Jeff pulled her back down for a wet, heated kiss. "Keep your mind on what you're doing, lady. Besides, if there's someone out there who shouldn't be, Vickie and Mark will yell and let us know, right?"

Sandra smiled at him. "What if they can't" She made her voice eerie. "What if the Camp Blood maniac is back? This time we don't have any marshmallows to distract him."

"Flash him your boobs--that should work."

They both laughed, and that caused such interesting rubbing between them that they were soon once again engrossed in each other. If they noticed the door drift open, they probably thought that their fellow councilors were trying to get a better view of the action. Still, that was hardly an excuse for their oblivion to the hulking figure that silently entered the room and came to stand over them. Maybe if one or the other of them hadn't had the habit of closing their eyes while they made out...

The metal tip of the javelin wasn't particularly sharp, but it didn't have to be. Enough force in the toss, and the right landing angle, would be sufficient to have it stick upright in the ground. In this case it was used more as a spear, the angle was straight down, and there was a lot of force behind it. Sandra never knew how she died. Jeff lived just long enough to open his eyes and look past her limp body to see Jason just giving the javelin another shove, pinning them both to the sofa.

Jason heard someone coming up the steps to the porch, and a bright voice saying, "Sorry I took so long, but the blanket wasn't quite where I thought it was." Jason tried to pull the javelin out, but it didn't want to come free. He jerked hard, and the two bodies heaved in a twisted parody of the sexual act, limp limbs flailing--but the javelin remained embedded. He couldn't afford to waste much time. Any second now the returned girl would realize she was talking to a corpse, and... An agonized shriek split the air. Jason released the javelin and strode toward the door, pulling his machete from his belt as he went.

Vickie staggered back from the horror in the slowly swaying porch swing. She'd thought Mark had fallen asleep, and had been just a little insulted. But then she'd given the swing a petulant little push, and the motion had made his head roll to the side--too far to the side, laying against his shoulder in a way that shouldn't have been physically possible. She thought vaguely that hadn't Mark been wearing a white T-shirt, not a red one? At last some part of her grasped what she was seeing, and she screamed, starting to move away from it.

She stumbled into someone, and turned, wailing, "Jeff! Somebody killed Mark. He..." Another scream erupted at the sight that greeted her. For one mad moment she wanted to shriek at Ted to quit fucking around, to take off the mask. She wanted to yell at Paul that the joke hadn't been funny the first time, and it was in just bad taste the second time.

Then she caught a whiff of the intruder's body odor--a strange, feral scent that spoke of madness as well as dirt. The man grabbed the front of her blouse and lifted his other hand. He was holding a wicked, blood smeared machete.

Vickie's mother had predicted that her daughter's penchant for flimsy, filmy clothes would eventually get her in trouble. Instead, it bought her some time. She threw herself backward, and the blouse ripped. Jason was left clutching a wisp of fabric, and the blow that was intended to take Vickie's arm off at the shoulder instead barely nicked her collar bone, slicing a shallow gash that narrowly missed bisecting her left nipple. Vickie tumbled backward down the porch steps, landing heavily.

Jason stared, perplexed, at the rag in his hand, while Vickie scrambled to her feet and fled into the night, shrieking. He dropped the material and started down the steps after her, his pace quickening as he reached the ground, though he probably didn't need to hurry. The blood loss was going to counter his victim's adrenaline rush. Still, he didn't want to have to chase her too far a field. After all, he had some cleaning to do before the rest of the camp's occupants came home.

Daphne made her way slowly through the dark woods. She had been doing this most nights for almost a year, spending at least an hour walking the night. Sometimes she walked along the road, but usually she stayed in the trees. Tonight she didn't drift like she usually did--she had a direction. It was more of an instinct than an actual resolve, but Daphne knew the sort of place--and the type of people--that would attract Jason Voorhees.

She was about halfway to her goal when she heard someone crashing through the brush. A little way ahead she was a young woman break into view. She was one of the ones she'd seen the day before, when they played the strange joke. She had been frightened then. She was terrified now, and she was bleeding.

As she watched the girl stumbled and fell. She tried frantically to get back up, but only made it halfway, falling on her face as if she was too weak to get upright. In her desperation she kept trying, clawing at the ground in an effort to crawl. Jason stepped out of the shadows behind her. As if sensing the increased threat, the girl rolled on her back, staring up at him. She drew in a breath and gave a thin scream as Jason lifted a machete. The weapon slashed down, and the scream cut off with a meaty crunch as the machete chopped into the top of the girl's skull. There was a brisk rustling as the girl's legs kicked spastically, tossing dead leaves. Then she went still.

Jason levered the machete free and hung it back on his belt, then scooped the limp body up into his arms and started off, away from the still unseen Daphne. Daphne shuffled out, going to the spot where the girl had fallen. She squatted down and reached out, dabbing at the puddle of blood that was already beginning to soak into the ground. After a moment she picked up a blood spattered leaf and tucked it into her pocket. Finally she stood up and started off in the direction that Jason had taken.

She arrived at the little shack just in time to see Jason enter it, dragging a body after him. She blinked. It wasn't the girl she had seen him kill--it was someone else, a boy. He came out and went off again. Daphne waited, silent and still, doing no more than shifting her weight occasionally. Jason returned, this time with another girl's body draped over his shoulder. Daphne watched as another boy's body was delivered into the shack. Still she waited. But this time the wait drew out. Finally she came out of hiding. After only a moment's hesitation, she went inside.

At the camp, Paul and Ginny had parked, and were walking up to the main building. Paul said, "It's awful quiet. I sort of expected to come back and find something like the parties kids throw when their parents go out of town."

"I'm ashamed of you, Paul!" Ginny scolded. "These are mature young adults." They stopped and stared at each other, then broke out laughing.

"Yeah, right," said Paul as they stepped up on the porch. "And I just saw a pig fly past." He reached for the door, then paused. "Wait a second." He pushed the door, and it swung in. "Oh, I don't believe it! You guys..." He stepped in. "Jeff? Scott? Not only did you forget to lock up, you left the door standing open."

There was no answer. Ginny had come in, and was looking around. She raised her voice. "Mark? I thought at least you had better sense." There was no response, and she went deeper into the room, looking around with a frown. "Paul, I'm starting to worry."

"Don't. I think we've walked in on a prank. They're all hiding somewhere, waiting to see how much they can scare us." He pointed to a heap of cloth near the sofa. "Or maybe they're playing strip hide-and-seek."

Ginny was staring at the sofa, and her voice wavered. "I don't think so." Her hand trembling, she reached down, picking up something, and held it out toward Paul. It was a tuft of blood soaked cotton batting. Paul looked, and saw the gory rip in the cushions. "Paul, I honestly don't think they could come up with something this elaborate."

Paul had paled. He called out, "Last chance! I'm calling the police, and they're going to be pissed if they come out here for nothing." While Paul dialed, Ginny took a step toward the dark entrance to the kitchen, but Paul caught her arm. "No! You're not going off by yourself till we know what the fuck is going on. Hello? Yeah, this is Paul Holt out at Packanack Lodge. Yeah, there's something really weird going on out here. I just got back from town, and I can't find any of my councilors. What? No, some of them are in town, but we left... Yes, at the diner. Well, I know they'd had a few before I left, but that's not why I'm calling. Look, we found what looks like blood... I'm sorry he sexually harassed the waitress, and she had every right to hit him with a tray. As far as I'm concerned it'll do him a world of good to spend the night in jail. Could you send the sheriff out here? What?" He was quiet for a moment. "What about a deputy? But we could be having an emergency HERE. Fine. As soon as possible. And if anything has happened, I'm telling their parents to sue the city of Crystal Lake."

He hung up. "I don't believe this. The sheriff seems to have dropped off the face of the earth. They haven't heard from him since this afternoon. They only have one deputy on duty, and they can't send him out because something might happen in town. They'll send someone when the sheriff checks in, or the next deputy comes on duty--whichever comes first."

"I really don't like this, Paul." She was pale. "Something has happened. What... what if we stirred something up?"

"What do you mean, Ginny?"

"There's already been a lot of death in these woods."

"Ginny, you haven't talked yourself into actually believing the local rumors, have you? I agree that something is going on, but it's something real--not ghosts or the walking dead. I think that one of the locals, or maybe several of them, must've come up here. Small towns can be hostile to outsiders."

There was a noise outside, and Ginny clutched at Paul's arm, eyes wide with fear. Despite his attempts to remain calm, Paul felt a chill run down his spine. He whispered, "Ginny, if anything happens, you go out the back door, and don't wait for me. Understand?"

"Paul, what if...?"

"I mean it!" The noise was coming closer. The front door had swung almost shut again. Now it was edging open.

A small, scruffy dog padded in. It stopped near the door and looked at them, whining. "Muffin!" said Ginny joyfully. "Paul, there's blood in his fur!"

"He doesn't seem hurt." Ginny started toward him. Paul reached for her, but she was already beyond his grasp. "Wait!" He started after her. She'd reached the dog and squatted down, reaching for him. "Ginny, that isn't his blood..."

There was a loud smash as Jason Voorhees hurtled through the front window, landing in a shower of broken glass. The dog ran from the lodge howling, but Ginny stood frozen in horror as the grisly figure stood up. He loomed over her, raising a machete. Paul launched himself, tackling the much bigger man, and screaming, "Run! RUN!" The began to wrestle, and Ginny whirled, racing out the door. Behind her she heard a cry of pain, followed by another.

She ran to her car, fumbling in her pocket for the keys. Then she smashed her hand against the locked door in frustration as she remembered that she had ridden in to town with Paul, and her keys were still on her dresser, back in the Lodge. She looked up to see Jason, clutching his machete, step out onto the porch. The cloth swathed head swiveled slowly, finally turning in her direction. He started down the steps.

Ginny ran. She ran for her life.

She wasn't sure how far she went, searching desperately for some habitation. Finally she spotted a building, and she ran to it, screaming for help. Her brief flare of hope died as she got a look at it. Surely something so dilapidated was long abandoned, and it was so small it would be useless to try to hide in it. But then she saw something that renewed her hope--a flicker of light under the door.

She threw herself against the door, ready to pound and scream till someone responded. "Help! Help me..." The door swung open, and she stumbled in, slipping and falling to her knees. She found that she was staring at someone's legs. She babbled, "You have to help me. Get a gun. There's a man, I think he killed my friend. I think he killed..." She raised her eyes, and found herself looking into Mark's face. It was pale and slack, and a huge gash under his chin showed a glint of bone at the back.

She tried to scramble away, and backed into something soft. She wirled and found that it was Sandra. She was draped over Jeff, both of them bloody and naked, and very dead. The implied violence of the scene they presented was more obscene than the sexual posture. Ginny's eyes bounced around the room wildly. Terry, Vickie, Scott. *Oh, God, that one's wearing a uniform. No wonder they couldn't get hold of the sheriff.*

She saw movement from the corner of her eye, and whipped around. There was someone standing in the corner. The light she had seen from outside came from dozens of candles, most of them on a table against the far wall. In the midst of the candles was something so shocking that it brought Ginny back to cold, clear sanity.

It was a head--shriveled, almost mummified, topped by straw-like blonde hair. The head rested on a thick, cream colored fisherman's knit sweater--one that was stained with long-dried blood. "It's true," Ginny whispered in near awe. "The legends--the rumors. Jason... He's not dead."

But the movement had been more than the flickering of a candle flame. It came again. The quiet girl from the day before stepped out of the shadows that had pooled in the far corner. "Daphne!" Ginny ran to her, looking her over anxiously. There was blood on her hand, but Ginny saw no wound, and she was... She was as she had been the day before--blank, and unresponsive. "Are you...? You're all right. Jesus! What are you doing here? Don't you understand that you could be killed? Don't... No, of course you don't." She heard heavy footsteps approaching, and knew there was no time to run. She couldn't leave this helpless girl behind, in any case. She had to think.

*His mother.* Her eyes went back to the dessicated icon on the table. Its lips were shrunken back from its teeth, and it seemed to grin at her. *She was the focal point of his life--his protector, caregiver. He watched her kill for him. He watched her die for him. He'd do whatever Mother said.* "Daphne," she pushed her deeper into the shadows. "Stay still. Don't make a sound, now." She forced herself to pick up the head. She looked around wildly, but there was no time to really hide it, so she tossed it into the corner near Daphne. The girl wouldn't notice, or be frightened.

Ginny pulled on the sweater, gritting her teeth as her skin crawled. She did it just in time. Jason came through the door. Ginny moved quickly, positioning herself so that she was framed by the candles behind her, and said quickly, "Jason!"

Jason froze, staring at her. He blinked in confusion, then started to raise his machete. Ginny said quickly, "It's all right, Jason! You've done it, you've killed them all. Mommy is very proud of you." The machete lowered slowly. "That's right, Jason. It's all over now. You've avenged yourself. You've avenged ME. You can rest now. Kneel down, so that I can... can give you a hug." Jason hesitated, and she made her voice more insistent. "Jason, go on. You... you're so big. Mommy can't hug you properly if you're standing up."

Jason sank slowly to his knees, his eyes fixed on the face of the woman before him. It had been so long since he'd seen Mommy like this, whole and warm. Yes, she spoke to him often, but he had missed her touch, her hugs, the gentle way she stroked his hair. Now she said, "Put the machete down." He clenched his fist tighter around it, reluctant to turn loose of his weapon. "Jason, do as Mommy says. Put it down. Now, Jason!" He laid the machete on the floor, obeying his mother, as he always had. "That's a good boy. Oh, that's Mommy's GOOD boy. Now, close your eyes, Jason. Close them, and Mommy will give you a hug."

Jason closed his eyes, his big body swaying slightly on his knees. Ginny bent, reaching for the machete.

"Dead is better."

Jason's eyes snapped open, staring past Ginny, and Ginny couldn't help but look, too. Daphne had stepped out of the shadows. She was carrying Pamela Voorhees' head, fingers wrapped in the dry blonde hair. She held it up, like Perseus displaying the head of the Gorgon. Daphne, not looking at either Jason or Ginny repeated herself. "Dead is better."

Ginny looked at Jason in time to see his gaze return to her. There was understanding in that look--and rage--and her death. She swung the machete as his hands came up, reaching for her...

Elsie was awakened by the phone. She made her way to the living room, yawning and rubbing her eyes, and answered it. "Breman residence."

"Mrs. Breman, this is Lois, from the Sheriff's Department."

"Yes, Lois?" *She sounds upset about something.* "What can I do for you?"

"I'm just checking to be sure you're all right. Is Daphne okay?"

"I'm sure she is."

"Check on her, please."

Elsie glanced through to the kitchen, and saw Daphne sitting at the table, hand moving slowly, passing a pencil over her sketch pad. "Daphne is fine. I'm looking at her right now. What's going on?"

"I don't know. Something terrible happened up at the lake. Those people at Packanack Lodge--it looks like someone went and killed most of them."

"Most of them? What do you mean?"

"A few of them were here in town last night, kicking up a ruckus. When they couldn't get hold of that fella who runs the place to come get them, the deputy went up to talk to him. He found blood all over the place. No one has seen Sheriff Sherwood since yesterday, and I just got a radio call from the deputy that he's spotted the sheriff's patrol car abandoned on a side rode. He was just going to check an old shack he spotted."

Elsie could feel a chill creeping up her spine. "I don't know about any shack out here. I haven't seen or heard anything unusual."

"You're the closest ones out there, so I just wanted to be sure you didn't need any help. I think you'd better stay inside till we figure out what's going on."

"We'll do that. I'll call you later."

"I think I'll need to keep the phone free. I'll call you when I know anything for sure. Just be careful."

"We will." She hung up and went in the kitchen. She paused behind Daphne's chair and stroked the girl's hair. "Good morning, sweetheart. What are you drawing?" *I hope it isn't that hooded man again. She's done dozens of drawings of him. They freeze my blood, but this looks like a still life.* It was a carefully rendered representation of a rough table, many lit candles grouped around some odd sort of centerpiece. She finally made out what the centerpiece was, and felt her gorge starting to rise.

She did something she'd never done before--she snatched up her daughter's drawing and twisted it into a ball, ripping it. "Daphne, for God's sake, that's hideous!" Daphne sat still for a moment, then started to sketch again. Elsie could see the outline of a table taking shape. She gave up. This would be one more piece of her daughter's art that she'd have to avoid.

She went into her bedroom to shower, hoping that it would clear her head. It did, a little. She almost wished it hadn't. If her thought processes had been fuzzy, perhaps she wouldn't have noticed the smear of blood on the dead bolt's key.