Saturday, July 14th
The Present
Fear.
A word, a feeling of dread man experiences daily.
Of course, the fear man runs into at the most unpleasant moments takes on so many other forms.
Fear of loneliness, fear of punishment/pain, fear of others, and fear of death are a few of the more common examples.
Obviously, calling fear 'a word' simply does not sum up the terror it brings about within a man's soul.
Nevertheless, it was fear that caused the hospital attendant, who only moments before had been driving along the highway expertly, to lose control of the ambulance, sending it, along with its attacker and its two other passengers, spiraling off of the endless stretch of smooth, black pavement.
Fear that had blossomed into sheer panic had brought about the horrific accident.
Fear and something else...
Jason Voorhees.
xxx
The scene was like something out of a highly-celebrated disaster movie: greasy, black smoke billowed up from the smoldering wreckage, eventually shooting high up into the morning sky.
The sky itself was quite breathtaking, an off-pink in color, mixed with a warm, cozy yellow. Wispy clouds hung suspended within the dull atmosphere, and it almost looked as if rain would be arriving sometime the following week.
Back on earth, rain was quite a meager, insignificant concern.
In fact, considering the hundreds of accidents Assistant Deputy Howard Kenton had investigated within the past six years, the wreckage beneath Interstate 7 seemed to be rather unimportant and not worth the effort of filing an appropriate report.
Upon arriving at the scene, Howard, a tall, imposing man in his early forties sporting a coffee-colored moustache, had momentarily been taken aback by how most of the wreckage had already been reduced to blackened ash.
According to the few eyewitness reports (there had been little to no traffic on the sprawling Interstate so early in the morning), the ambulance had, for no visible reason, turned off of the highway, ramming into the surrounding metal rails and immediately tearing right through them. Then, the vehicle proceeded to roll down the short incline below, no doubt killing the driver and the two passengers: a second attendant, seated up in the front seat, and a local woman, rescued from Camp Crystal Lake, who was being driven to the nearby hospital.
A coroner had not yet been apprised of the situation, so it was impossible to tell if the victims had died right away or some time later, due to their substantial injuries (the Assistant Deputy hadn't arrived at the wreckage until about twenty minutes after the accident had taken place).
Scratching his head, Howard Kenton had done his best to identify the bodies haphazardly thrown from the burning ambulance: the two attendants he faintly recognized, so he believed they must have been locals, as well.
Both bodies completely drenched in blood, Howard had located one of the corpses sprawled like an eradicated puppet atop a smoking piece of the vehicle. The second man, his face and his skin horribly burned and bloodied, lay wedged between two torn seats in the middle of the ever-growing flames, his eyes staring through the fire, into nothingness. Even from outside the ring of inferno, Howard could tell that the burning eyes were blood-shot and glazed.
Shivering, he had then attempted to locate the woman's body, which he discovered was quite difficult to uncover. Gently kicking away a pile of blazing IV bags and scorched IV lines, Howard managed to create a path into the heart of the wreckage.
Keeping his distance from the fire, he removed his gun from its holster, and began to brush back the fiery cinders with its barrel, his heart pounding vigorously within his chest.
What would he find? A third body, no doubt. Of course, one witness claimed to have seen a form leap from the ambulance's rear just before the emergency response vehicle crashed.
According to the questioned woman, she clearly saw the form roll down the incline directly behind the ambulance, yet somehow the figure managed to avoid the accident, escaping into the surrounding woods.
After questioning the remaining witnesses, Howard had immediately jogged down the hill, making sure to steer clear of the catastrophe. He then proceeded to make his way a few hundred yards into the miniature forest, his eyes peeled for any sets of footprints.
As he had expected, he had found none.
Of course, the woods just led back into town, anyway.
If there had been some fourth passenger that had survived, he or she would have been heading in the opposite direction of the hospital; if in fact they had definitely been seen hurrying into the woods.
Howard Kenton suspected that no such sighting had ever taken place.
After a few more moments of searching the wreckage, he found his third victim.
The woman lay face-up atop the ground, her lower torso and what was left of her body pinned beneath an unidentifiable piece of warped, smoldering metal, possibly the backdoor of the ambulance.
Her complexion was pale (she was visibly dead, after all), and she had blood trickling out from the corners of her mouth, dripping down her cheeks and eventually into her dark hair.
Howard frowned...yes, something was clearly wrong with her body.
The woman had virtually identical marks on her throat that seemed to line up perfectly, as if she had been strangled prior to or during the crash.
Impossible, Howard thought, smirking.
Six years on the force did not explain why a hospital attendant or someone else would strangle a half-dead local woman, already on her way to the emergency room.
As Howard kneeled closer, however, the marks looked more and more like the imprint of fingers that had been wrapped around the woman's throat.
The woman, that was what was important...who was she?
If she had her ID with her, that would clear up the small matter.
Howard gingerly checked the woman's jacket pocket.
No ID.
Of course, her Identification could have been stashed within her pants pockets, both of which were inaccessible to Howard; the woman's legs were trapped beneath the ambulance door, and no doubt crushed beyond belief.
That still depended on whether or not she had her ID on her person in the first place.
Most people, ten years into the second Millennium, did not, only making Howard's job that more difficult.
Sighing, he climbed to his feet, eyed the body once more, and grabbed a small two-way radio from out of his own pocket.
Twisting a dial or two and pulling up the silver antennae, he brought the walkie-talkie close to his face.
"This is patrol car 14-A reporting major accident directly below Interstate 7," Howard said beneath his breath in a cool, Southern accent. "At least three people dead, bodies yet to be identified, all locals from the looks of it. Squads, stay by the radio, 'cause this one's a biggie...an ambulance rolled down an incline, according to the few witnesses I spoke with. Rounded 'em all up, too...ought to bring 'em down to the station for further questioning."
Turning away from the wreckage, Howard Kenton continued to speak into the walkie-talkie.
"Need one or two emergency response vehicles out here stat..."
The movement was so fast, so sudden, that even a man with reflexes like a cat could not possibly have dodged out of the way before the sharp metal cord, held by a pair of horrifically-burned hands, wrapped around the Assistant Deputy's throat.
Taken by surprise, Howard attempted to twist his slim body around in order to get a glimpse of his attacker, but the cord simply dug deeper into his flesh, drawing bright red blood that trickled down the dying man's chest.
Eyes bulging, throat clenching violently, he tried to take a step forward, away from his assailant, but the cord would not snap, and continued to rapidly asphyxiate him.
With every last ounce of his strength wasted, Howard Kenton felt the life speedily drain out of him, allowing the walkie-talkie to fall from his numbing hands.
The two-way radio fell to the ground, emitting nothing but static, as a final gasp escaped from the Assistant Deputy's strained throat immediately before Death came to claim him.
xxx
Sunday, August 13th
The Present
The following morning, a bright, cheery grapefruit sun hung in the pinkish, grayish sky, casting light down upon the almost identical homes of the Crystal Lake area. "Time to get up", the sun seemed to shout from high above.
Only one resident cared to listen to the morning star as a young boy atop a dull red bicycle pedaled rapidly down the tree-lined street, flinging newspapers from out of a brown bag he had slung over his left shoulder.
The oak front door to that particular resident's house opened almost immediately after the morning paper had landed with a thud atop her doorstep.
A tall, pale woman, her shockingly-light blonde hair pulled back into an unkempt bun, exited the modest home, draped in only an off-white bathrobe and matching slippers; it was morning, after all, and Kristen Greenwald had just gotten out of bed to the sounds of the local paper boy making his daily routes.
Kristen was quite a bit frazzled-looking as she bent down to retrieve her paper, only after admiring her surroundings, something she did every morning.
She simply couldn't begin to appreciate the fact that her parents had packed up all of their tacky belongings, moving to the other side of town just so that their daughter could live closer to her temporary workplace, Camp Crystal Lake.
And how short-lived her time at the camp had been.
All the outside world knew of Kristen's harrying experience there was that she emerged from the campgrounds with two deaf children by her side, all three of them drenched in blood.
Of course, Kristen, one of the four survivors of Jason Voorhees's latest rampage, liked to keep it that way. Even her parents, the only two people she truly loved in the world after her boyfriend, Jared, had been killed by the local masked psychopath, were only told to keep their doors and their windows locked at night, which their very rarely did, anyway.
They simply could not understand the danger they were exposing themselves to.
Kristen, however, would spend nights lying awake, fighting losing battles in order to keep such thoughts out of her head.
None of the four had seen each other since the bloodbath, which they had escaped from only a month ago, so she could only imagine the thoughts that were racing through their minds.
The children, Ron and Judy, were no doubt still traumatized.
Upon picking up the newspaper and flipping through it casually until she located the headlines for the day, Kristen realized in sheer, mind-numbing horror that she, along with the two children, were now the only survivors of the Crystal Lake tragedy.
Covering her mouth with a trembling hand, her eyes burning and welling up with tears, Kristen hastily read through the small article that had slammed her back against her front door like a bullet: "First Month Anniversary of Local Woman and Two Hospital Attendants' Deaths in in Fatal Highway Accident; Officer Still Missing From Scene; Presumed Dead".
How had she not read about this sooner…?
It was then that the terror set in, the horrific, spine-chilling terror. Shaking unsteadily and clenching her tingling chest, Kristen rapidly threw open the oak door, and stepped inside the dark house.
It took the trembling woman a moment to remember how much she hated the blackness and the shadows that seemed to be encroaching upon her.
Flicking the nearby switch, Kristen allowed the warm light to flood over her before she made her way into the dining room, newspaper clenched in her shaking hand.
The house was small - Kristen called it "modest"- and dusty - Kristen called it "cozy" - but it served its purpose, which was to provide a temporary home for her until she located a second house, somewhere far away from Crystal Lake. Kristen wanted nothing to do with her would-be killer's favorite residence, and the lake was just down the street from where she currently lived.
Camp Crystal Lake...just mention of the name sent Kristen spiraling down into an abyss that she feared she would never escape. It had been there that seven of her friends, seven of her nearest and dearest, had been brutally massacred.
And it had also been within the surrounding woods that she had nearly been butchered, left for dead by a maniac whose only pleasure in life was to make others suffer. Well, in her opinion, Jason had had his chance, and now she was free from him.
But now...with Stevie Parker dead, killed in a horrific accident that Jason no doubt caused directly or indirectly, how safe could she be? Jared, her protector, her knight in shining armor, only managed to defend her for a short amount of time; he had given his life so that she, Ron, and Judy could escape the camp.
Rushing over to the dining room telephone, which hung on the peeling wall by the outdated refrigerator, she grabbed the receiver, and rapidly punched in her chosen number.
At the sound of a low, long drawn-out beep, Kristen hissed beneath her breath, "Pick up, pick up..."
A loud click sounded, and a pre-recorded voice spoke into Kristen's ear.
"Hello, you've reached Arthur and Dolly Greenwald. I'm afraid we are not at home right now, so if you would care to leave a message, press 'one'...if you would like to be forwarded to Greenwald's Grocer and Butcher Shop, press 'two'...if you would like business hours and store location, press 'three'..."
Visibly frustrated, Kristen violently jabbed the 'one' button, her cool eyes no longer worried and afraid, but angry and hostile.
A second loud click sounded, and Kirsten began to speak.
"Hi, Mom, hi, Dad. Sorry to bother you so early in the morning, but who's ever there, please pick up...hello? Okay, I guess you're both still asleep. Anyway, if either of you are up and have seen today's headlines, you'll know why I'm calling..."
Kristen looked down at her wristwatch; it was 6:19. Sighing, she turned her attention back to the receiver.
"...So I just wanted to make sure the both of you were all right. By the way, are you still coming over for dinner..."
Sudden movements on the other end made Kristen realize that someone had picked up the phone. Joy flooding her face, she began to speak once more, suddenly being cut off by a sharp click that made her freeze entirely.
"...Tomorrow?"
She trailed off worriedly. "H-hello?"
There came no response, just as Kristen had suspected; whoever had picked up had almost immediately hung up on her. Quite rudely, at that.
Puzzled and a bit nervous, Kristen replaced the receiver, and stood quietly in the dining room, sunlight seeping in from a nearby window shining brightly in her pale face. The color had simply drained from her entire body.
And then, slowly at first, the terrifying thoughts of blood and gore pounded her head and burst into her mind, leaving her speechless and afraid.
They didn't pick up... Neither one of them picked up.
Biting her lip, Kristen forced a smile.
But what did that mean? So her parents were sleeping in that day; they were both always up by six 'o clock, at the absolute latest. Big deal.
Smoothing out the creases in her bathrobe in order to occupy herself, Kristen placed the newspaper down atop the dining room table, and began to trek up the staircase that lead to her master bedroom and the adjoining bathroom.
Her plan was to take a luxuriously-long shower, wrap herself back up with the bathrobe, and return to bed, where she would sleep the hours away.
After her ordeal at Crystal Lake a month ago, Kristen deserved a bit of a break.
And after all, Jason Voorhees could not claim her in her dreams...
xxx
The hours drifted by lazily.
After trudging upstairs, she undressed and treated herself to a scalding shower, as if the steaming, cascading water could wash away her troubles, burning them into nothingness with the extreme heat of the pounding liquid.
Every so often, Kristen would allow herself to temporarily drift off into sleep as she slumped up against the shower wall, sitting atop a small ledge in the corner of the stark-white cubical.
After being jostled awake by the meows of her pet cat, Whiskers, a cat that she had saved from the Crystal Lake tragedy, Kristen desperately attempted to remember how long she had been asleep, certainly no less than an hour-and-a-half.
It must be around eight by now, she thought to herself, her mind absolutely blank.
The water was now frigid, and due to the fact that she was shivering profusely, she twisted the knobs of the shower until the cascade of liquid ceased to exist, no more than a few cold drops that dripped from the shower head.
Exiting the wet, glass box, Kristen grabbed her worn yet trusty bathrobe from a nearby towel rack, and wrapped herself snuggly with it, enfolding her dripping blonde hair, now out of its bun, with a second towel that she found lying on the tiled floor.
Slipping slightly, she exited the bathroom, and hurried into the next room, should a neighbor stop by and she her barely covered-up.
Closing the door behind her, she entered her bedroom, small as it was dusty. But hey, she needed somewhere to sleep. Somewhere to sleep and forget the horrors of what she witnessed just last month on Friday, July 13th.
It was now Sunday, August 13th, and she could still not get the image of a gasping, bloodied Jared with a machete embedded in his backside out of her throbbing head.
The steaming shower had helped ease the pain, and for one brief, glorious minute, Jared and his horrific death at the hands of Jason Voorhees, melted away, replaced with an image of herself and Jared, quite well and alive, kissing passionately atop her uncomfortable cabin bed. The kiss, however, had made the bed feel like a pile of soft, white feathers.
But now, lying atop her own bed, the blood-curdling image was back, and had no intention of going away again.
Somehow, however, it did, for within a matter of minutes, Jason Voorhees was gone from her thoughts, and Kristen was fast asleep, Whiskers lying beside her, purring softly. Perhaps it was the sounds of her beloved pet that had finally soothed the terrified young woman into sleep.
And yet, sadly, Kristen Greenwald had reasons to be terrified.
For the worst was yet to come.
xxx
The incandescent moon shone brightly through the small, square bedroom window, casting beams of light down upon a half-asleep Kristen, who was lying on her side, her strands of blonde hair every so often falling down into her face.
The shadows of night had come and were now drawing to a close; the time was 2:07, and soon morning would arrive with all of its shimmering glory.
Morning with its round, glowing sun and its cotton-like clouds colored with soft hues that reminded one of a child's nursery.
Kristen could easily be described as a morning person, though she appreciated a set time of absolute darkness, though such times sent chills down her spine, to lie down atop her pillow and dream of far-off places, romance, and adventure.
That particular night, however, her dreams were more along the lines of nightmares, plagued by a masked stranger wielding a bloodied machete.
Kristen had found herself running through a never-ending stretch of forest that seemed to grow larger and larger with each step she took. The setting of her nightmare was quite familiar to her, and so it came as no surprise to Kristen when her assailant leapt out from behind a withering pine tree.
At first, Kristen had stood her ground, for she appeared to have nowhere else to run; run at the killer, and she would no doubt be caught, or run away from the killer, and risk stumbling across the butchered corpses of her friends.
She had seen enough blood already...no need to uncover any more bodies.
Gritting her teeth, she broke out into a mad dash, with the feeling that she could dodge the masked psychopath before he rammed his blade into her chest.
The horribly-burned, reanimated carcass, however, sported reflexes like a panther, and before Kristen to sidestep her attacker, he had already shoved the machete into her gut.
Nausea washed over Kristen as she felt the blade dig deeper and deeper into her frail, trembling body, until it exited it out through her backside. The pain, the searing, burning pain of death, was unbearable.
Kristen felt herself fall to her knees, and she realized in sheer horror that she was at the mercy of her inevitable killer.
Jason Voorhees.
xxx
The terrifying nightmare jolted Kristen awake as nothing else would.
Shaking unsteadily, she surveyed the cramped bedroom before her, expecting to locate the towering monster lurking about the shadows.
To her relief, she found nothing but Whiskers, who was still lying beside her, curled up into a ball atop the double-sized bed.
Her heart pounding like African tribal drums, Kristen smiled slightly, and began to scratch behind her cat's left ear. Whiskers, purring contentedly, looked straight at his owner with glassy, emerald eyes, eyes as round as the cream-colored moon.
Kristen loved Whiskers with all of her heart, though she had only acquired him on Friday the 13th, after his previous owner, Courtney, had been dragged off of the campground trail by Jason, only to be found hanging from a tree, her throat slit, later on by the authorities. Courtney's boyfriend, Jonathan, met a similar fate, for he was fatally stabbed just as rescue was at hand.
Kristen originally believed that Jonathan had been the final victim...but now with Stevie Parker's death, any of the three remaining survivors could be next.
Only if, of course, the ambulance crash was something more than an accident.
Which it wasn't.
A loud creak outside her bedroom door made Kristen snap to attention.
Craning her neck for a better view of the door before her, she was relieved to see that it had not been opened from the outside. Instead, it was securely closed, its golden knob glistening in the moonlight.
Kristen then wondered if she should lock it.
This house is falling apart...it's a miracle the floorboards aren't giving way. A few creaks don't mean anything.
Nevertheless, Kristen was used to fear crawling up her spine, and she could not hold her tongue.
"Hello?", Kristen asked, her voice faltering slightly, eyes staring fixedly at the bedroom door.
The only responses to her call were the distant screeches of a night owl and the low barking of a lonely dog.
Kristen, however, was not entirely convinced that she was alone within her house; how many horror movies had she seen in which the killer stalks up a flight of stairs, and ambushes the female victim within her bedroom?
Well, Kristen Greenwald refused to be the helpless, big-breasted fatality.
She would fight for her life, should it come to that.
Which, she prayed, it would not.
The sharp creak sounded once more, and she could have sworn that she heard the sound of shuffling, dripping feet...
Keep it together, Kristen...you're letting him get to you...
Allowing the killer to influence your thoughts was the surest way to get yourself massacred in such a movie.
But this was no movie.
And the shuffling feet, now drawing closer and closer to the bedroom door, were not sound effects.
The realness of her current situation was enough to make Kristen's heart explode.
There's someone outside my door...and I'm defenseless.
No. Kristen Greenwald was never defenseless, especially when she had masked murderers on her trail.
The only objects within her bedroom that could pose as weapons were a nightstand lamp, an umbrella stashed away within a dusty corner, and a pair of blunt scissors that she had shoved within one of her many nightstand drawers.
Grabbing the umbrella from its hiding spot, Kristen brought the hand-held sunshade up to her face, and crept along the far wall of the bedroom, making her way towards the door.
It can't be him...he should be dead...
Not one to fall for tall tales, Kristen had nevertheless heard stories documenting Jason Voorhees's astounding escapes from Death's clenches.
Twisting the umbrella by its handle within her shaking hands, Kristen pressed the side of her face against the door, so as to hear the movement outside in the hallway.
A loud, raspy breathing directly outside of her bedroom door caught her attention almost immediately.
Oh, no...please, Lord, no...
The breathing...where had she heard it before? It was like a deathly wheezing reverberating out through charred lungs.
Suddenly, images of a masked lunatic sporting a machete flooded her mind.
It had to be him.
Without warning, the knob was twisted violently from the outside hall, and the door slowly began to open.
Eyes widening in terror, Kristen allowed the umbrella to fall from her hands as she threw herself against the bedroom door, ramming it closed.
Whatever was waiting for her on the other side of the door no doubt stumbled backward, and silence followed.
The only sound Kristen could hear was her own rapid breathing.
She was finally safe.
Of course, the door had probably just opened because of the air conditioning, or maybe a draft had blown by.
That was all.
Yet the shuffling feet, the breathing...they were both so real...
No.
Her imagination.
There was no other explanation...
Stooping over to reclaim her fallen umbrella, Kristen was returning to her bed when curiosity got the better of her.
Puzzled, she spun back around on her heel, grabbed the knob, and with a slight gasp, threw open the door...
The shadows of the dark hallway forced their way into the dimly-lit bedroom.
Hesitantly opening one eye, Kristen saw nothing out of the ordinary...a typical hallway in a typical, modest house on a typical July night.
Perhaps the heat was getting to her.
The darkness was slightly overwhelming, for there were no windows in that particular hallway to allow moonlight to seep in. Instead, every mirror, every painting that hung on the peeling walls were pitch black, as if they had taken on demonic shapes and colors sometime during the night.
Kristen took a step out of the open doorway, but almost immediately a faint, sour odor stung her sensitive nostrils.
Something foul, like rancid, burning breath...
It was then that she stepped into the thick, slimy puddle of black liquid.
Kristen's heart stopped beating.
Nausea overtook her.
No.
The realization struck her like a cannonball.
Jason Voorhees was waiting for her, somewhere within her very own home.
He wanted her dead.
Fearfully bending down to examine the puddle, Kristen hesitantly grabbed a handful of whatever was floating about the water.
The texture was smooth, and it felt cool and slick against her pale skin.
In the faint light escaping from her bedroom, she could tell that the strands were a deep green.
Algae...lake plants...
Oh no...Jesus, please, no...
Jason Voorhees was no doubt downstairs, waiting for her, waiting to spring his trap...
This can't be happening...not here, not now.
Sidestepping the puddle and dropping the handful of algae, Kristen raised the umbrella above her head, and began to descend the staircase, the wooden floorboards creaking and groaning beneath her feet.
He couldn't surprise her this time...no, she was prepared.
Kristen clenched the umbrella handle even tighter as she stepped down onto the cold living room floor.
A blinding light shown from the nearby dining room, just down the hall.
Afraid to even breathe, her heart pounding vigorously, she crept across the uncarpeted floor, clawing desperately at the telephone that seemed just out of reach.
She would call the police...yes, that would work; she'd have to keep quiet, though.
And anyway she didn't need to tell them everything, for they would certainly dub her insane and hang up on her...just the facts. Someone had broken into her home, the same someone who had probably murdered her parents...
Trapped with a madman...
Clutching the umbrella close to her chest, Kristen frantically grabbed the receiver, placed her temporary weapon down atop a nearby sofa, and frenetically dialed 9-1-1.
There came no response.
No human voice, no automated voice.
No dial tone.
Kristen shakily studied the receiver and, in sheer horror, realized that the line had been cut.
Oh my God...He's…disabled the phone...!
Weighing her options, Kristen noted that she could attempt to flee out through the nearby front door, but what good would that do? She could try to escape in her car, but the outdated automobile had no doubt already been tampered with.
Oh…oh, what can I possibly do...?
The phone. The second telephone in the dining room! If she could just...
A sickening slash sounded from the adjoining room, and Kristen could only imagine what her attacker had just destroyed. Now there was no chance of getting help.
She'd have to fight and get him out of her house.
Creeping alongside the nearest wall, Kristen, swallowing her heart, hesitantly poked her head into the dining room.
The blazing light was turned on, yes, but she saw no one.
No one, of course, except for her cat; Whiskers, curled up on the wooden table, meowed at her.
Kristen visibly relaxed, forcing a slight smile.
"Whiskers! Come on, sweetie, go back upstairs..."
She and her lovable pet were both still in danger, after all: someone had to have turned on the dining room lights. Unless it was faulty wiring. Or, had Kristen left them on before she took her shower that morning? She hadn't come back downstairs...
No.
There was someone waiting for her, there had to be; Kristen could sense movement in the adjoining hallway.
Turning her head, she spotted the slashed cord hanging lifelessly down from the receiver.
Just as she had feared.
The only two telephones in the entire house were now completely useless.
Out of curiosity more than courage, Kristen stepped past her refrigerator, past her microwave and past her counter space, until she reached the doorway that led into the hall.
Beads of sweat dripping down her pale, expressionless face, Kristen was just about to switch on the lights within the corridor when something behind her caught her wary eye.
Spinning on her heel, Kristen noticed almost immediately that the freezer door was slightly ajar.
Not knowing what to expect, she crept up to the freezer, her heart racing, her palms sweating profusely, and clenched the handle with her free hand.
The door flew open, and a bag of frozen blueberries fell from a shelf, landing with a thud atop the cold floor.
Breathing heavily and laughing silently at her own stupidity, Kristen stooped over to grab the bag, replacing it back within the freezer.
Extending the arm holding the umbrella like a sword, she bent her knees, and began to creep into the next hallway, which was as dark as the night outside.
Kristen moved stealthily out into the open, pinning herself against the floor so as not be seen.
Suddenly, her gaze drifted up to the ceiling above her head, and she could have sworn that something was...dangling from what appeared to be a metal chain complete with a rusted hook.
Terrified, Kristen made a move for the light switch...
With a flick of her wrist, the lights were activated, and a flood of brightness from overhead fought back the shadows that had surrounded the suspended object.
Kristen felt a part of her die.
Dripping what could only be blood from its severed neck, the disembodied head stared down at the trembling young woman with glazed, sickly eyes.
The pale face, however, was familiar.
Jared.
Kristen clutched her chest with both hands, allowing the umbrella to clatter to the floor.
Her lips formed words, but no sound emitted from her constricting throat.
"J-Jared...?" , she choked in numbing horror.
My God...hewas in her home.
He had to be.
There was no other explanation.
Jason Voorhees had found her.
"Oh...oh my God...!"
Throwing herself off of the wall, Kristen broke out into a mad dash, racing back into the kitchen, dodging the chairs, the tables, and the couches within her living room, and eventually stumbling back up the staircase.
This was the end.
She would no doubt be uncovered, trembling within a closet or a bathroom or something.
And then he would draw his blood-soaked machete.
"Jared... Jared!", Kristen wailed, blinded by her own tears.
Leaping up from the last step, she emerged atop the landing, her body shaking due to uncontrollable tremors.
She raced down the hall, praying that Whiskers had found a decent hiding spot away from the dining room.
Grabbing her bedroom door knob, Kristen did not notice that the door itself was slightly ajar...
Rushing into the room, her head throbbing, her chest ready to explode, she was about to jump back beneath her blankets and covers when she froze in mid-stride.
Oh...God, no...
There, beside her small, dusty bed, stood a tall, menacing figure enshrouded with the darkness of the night, gently petting Whiskers, who was curled up within the form's arms.
Kristen felt her voice crack as she spoke, her eyes burning with unshed tears.
"W-whiskers...?", she sobbed quietly.
Upon hearing his name, the cat leapt from the figure's arms, and rapidly disappeared out through the open door.
The figure, barely visible within the shadows, cocked its head to one side, and brandished a bloodstained machete, its rust-colored blade sharp enough to pierce the toughest of hides.
Kristen felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand as she began to back away from her assailant.
"N-no," she stammered softly. "No, you should be dead!"
The figure took a step forward, its face now partially visible in the moonlight; the sickly, off-green skin, portions of it badly burned and rotted, the bald, bleeding skull, the gnarled, grotesque features...there was only one Jason Voorhees.
Kristen was momentarily taken aback, for she had never seen the killer unmasked; she assumed that he had lost his infamous hockey mask during his lengthy battle with Stevie Parker.
"Stay away!", she wailed, spinning on her heel and attempting to flee.
Jason lunged forward with inhuman speed, extending a gloved hand and grabbing the young woman by her hair.
"Ugh!", Kristen screeched, almost falling to her knees in pain.
As blood began to trickle down from her shredded scalp, she kicked a small, nearby waste paper basket over in her direction with her left foot.
Leaning down slightly to pick up the temporary weapon, she turned her attention to her attacker.
"Get off of me!", she cried, flinging the trash can at Jason.
The basket struck him across his face, sending him stumbling backwards into Kristen's nightstand.
A lamp, an alarm clock, and a box of tissues flew up into the air, each landing atop a dazed Jason with loud thuds, clangs and crashes.
Gritting her teeth to fight back the pain emanating from her skull, Kristen ran out into the hallway, panting wildly.
Groaning in agony, Jason stumbled to his feet, and swayed unsteadily, limping out into the moonlight; he wore a tattered, bloodstained brown jacket, a torn, mud-covered shirt that hid his rotted flesh, and ripped black pants that dripped with lake water.
Limping across the room, he moved with incredible speed for a being nearly burned alive only weeks before. Reaching out for Kristen, who was only a few feet in front of him, he swung his machete wildly, striking a line of framed photographs atop a nearby drawer.
The frames shattered against the impact of the blade, and fragments of glass flew everywhere, raining down atop Jason and momentarily disorienting him.
Kristen, frantically looking back behind her shoulder to see if she was still being followed, noted to herself that her assailant was not moving as fast as he had when she had last encountered him.
Great, she thought with a slight smile. Let him be slow...it'll give me more of a chance to escape and get some help. But what good will the police be against him...?
Suddenly, Kristen's left ankle became caught on a loose floorboard, ripping her skin and causing her to collapse to the floor.
"Ugh!", she cried, pain shooting up her bleeding leg. "Damnitt...!"
Shuffling footsteps behind her made Kristen realize that Jason had freed himself from the debris that used to be her nightstand.
"Leave me alone!", she wailed, pounding her fists against the ground.
Turning over onto her back, she managed to free her scraped ankle, and began to crawl away from the deformed maniac, who was drawing ever closer, machete raised above his head.
"Please," she whimpered pitifully, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks. "Please, just go away...!"
Jason cocked his head in a mocking, sympathetic manner, yet continued to close in on the helpless woman nonetheless.
Realizing that she needed to find some way to defend herself, Kristen stumbled to her feet, her body trembling with gasps and sobs. She looked up at Jason, her expression dark and livid.
"Get away from me, you son of a bitch!", she screamed, grabbing an empty vase from off of a chestnut table positioned against the wall.
The lavishly-decorated pot struck Jason's head, and almost immediately it sent him propelling backwards.
Small and large portions of the decimated vase, tinted bright red with Jason's blood, landed everywhere, slicing Kristen's ankles and the soles of her feet.
Ignoring the searing pain, she made a move for the staircase, dodging as much debris as possible.
Further down the hallway, Jason climbed to his feet, regaining his footing and continuing to pursue Kristen throughout her house.
Grunting inaudibly, he stalked up the hall, not bothering to avoid the broken hand-blown glass fragments that littered the floor.
Kristen, breathing heavily, was just about to take the first step down the staircase when a bloodied machete struck the wooden handrail beside her.
Spinning around, she came face-to-face with the unmasked serial killer.
"You bastard," she breathed in horror. "You're not real...you can't be..."
Jason raised his machete, his inhuman eyes staring down at his next victim, as if he were trying to pierce through her trembling soul.
Kristen began to shake as backed away.
"What are you?", she asked, though she expected no answer; Jason simply crept ever closer.
Desperately looking for yet another weapon, Kristen's eyes drifted down the steps and focused in on a pair of gleaming knitting needles resting peacefully atop a coffee table below the staircase.
Looking back up at Jason, she smiled evilly, her face darkening as she started to move away.
"I'll see you in Hell!", she promised, spinning on her heel.
As she turned to race down the steps, a thousand different thoughts flooded her mind.
If I can just reach those needles...I'll stab him once in each of his goddamn eyes and then make a run for it...! That son of a bitch won't know what hit him.
Jason looked on in what could be described as amusement as Kristen hurried down the first step, the second step, the third step...
As her left foot struck the fifth step, her smile blossomed into a full-fledged grin.
I'm gonna make it...I'm gonna make it! A dozen or so more steps to go...
The sixth step was only millimeters away when Jason extended his right leg, striking Kristen in her backside.
Her eyes widening in terror, she involuntarily let go of the handrail as the force of the kick sent her flying forward.
"AAAAAAAAHHH!", she screeched in sheer horror as her knees buckled, her head and her spine striking the seventh step, the eighth step, the ninth step...
By the tenth step, Kristen Greenwald, still screaming at the top of her lungs, began to roll down the remainder of the staircase, her arms and legs flailing wildly.
As she reached the bottom, her left arm spasmed, crashing into the coffee table that proceeded to fall atop her limp body; the screams had ceased after four or five rolls.
Jason, lowering his machete, lumbered down the stairs after her.
Upon stepping down onto the solid floor, he leaned over the body before him; at a glance, he assumed that her neck had been broken during the fall, though he wouldn't have been surprised if her spine had also been fractured. Nevertheless, she was dead, her expression blank and her eyes wide and staring.
Climbing back to his feet, he prodded the body gently with the hilt of his machete; there came no responsive movement.
Satisfied, Jason sidestepped the corpse, grabbed the knitting needles to use as weapons at a later point in time, and made a move for the door.
Throwing it open, he limped out into the dead of night, his mission complete.