The Lake
It was happening again. Someone had come.
The Man stirred awake from a deep slumber. The world came into focus as he slowly regained consciousness. Immediately, the Man knew he had not rested long enough. His hands were raw and weathered, his ribs ached, and his head hurt with a sharp stabbing pain. Sleep allowed him to heal and recuperate. All bodies, even his, needed to rest at some point. Sleep not only let him heal, it also gave him solace from the world. When he was sleeping, he had no dreams. He heard no voices. Everything was quiet and tranquil. There was only the cool, dark water and wonderful peace. Sleep was all he knew to call it, though that word hardly did justice to the torpor he would enter when his work had finished. Had he known the word, he'd have called it hibernation.
Regardless, it had ended. He didn't know how long he'd been gone this time. More and more, he didn't care. When he had come out of his first sleep, he was lost and confused. Nothing made sense. Everything was different. The world, the lake, even himself, all had changed. They had not changed much, but enough so he knew things were different. He'd hidden out of sight, trying to grasp what had happened. Only when they had come to him did he understand. That was long ago now. How long, he was not sure. The Man didn't think in terms of days, months, or years. Those measures were for the ones in the town. The Man was only vaguely aware of the passage of time, primarily the seasons. Mainly, he knew when things were quiet, when the ones from town didn't bother him, and when Her voice was silent. And the Man knew when things were not quiet, like in the summer. Things were not quiet at all in the summer.
The only thing that mattered now was that someone had woken him. He had been sleeping and he'd heard them. Then Her voice began calling again, and he rose up to do his work. He would have to work until everything was quiet again, before he could go back to sleep. He got to his feet and looked about. Things were still the same, mostly. There were no new buildings, no new roads, not since the last time. In many ways, it still looked like it did when he had first come here, so very long ago. The Man's introspection lasted only a moment, until he heard the voices. He heard the voices of the newcomers, though not with his ears. He heard them deep in his mind, as he had done ever since his first time to wake up. They were a few miles off, by the water, in the worst place they could be. The Man hated that place. Bad things had happened there, very bad things. And now the ones from the town were back. He remembered the bad things and started towards the place, gradually filling with a burning hate. He heard their voices, and he heard Her voice. The Man listened to Her voice.
--
She was quite pretty, a girl any mother would love for her son to bring home. She wasn't movie star good looking, but for a woman in the real world, especially a career woman, she looked good. She was successful, and had developed quite a name for herself before she ever met the man who would become her husband. She could make politicians quake and business leaders break into a cold sweat. "The pen is mightier than the sword," her editor had said. She'd done it all on her own, of that she could be proud. Like Sinatra had said, she'd done it her way. All of that was before she'd met Mr. All-American. She'd never expected to fall for him. She'd been wined and dined by some of the richest men in the world. She'd seen a tycoon with more money than sense (and more ego than money). She'd been courted by a blue-blood socialite who could name everything about a wine just by smelling the cork. His parties drew the richest of the rich, by invitation only (she'd never forget the look on Brad and Jen's faces as they were turned away at the door), and he'd taken her in on his arm amidst the flash of a thousand cameras and the glitz of a gorgeous diamond necklace he'd given to her for the occasion. Despite his early departure (such men always have other "pressing engagements" just as you start to get in the mood), she'd had a wonderful time. She still had the necklace somewhere (okay, not just somewhere, hidden in a small compartment at the bottom of her underwear drawer--you don't leave priceless pieces of jewelry lying about randomly). But then she had met the one, though she didn't know it at the time.
When she'd first met him, she was quite skeptical. He was 6'4", 220 pounds, and had the bluest eyes she'd ever seen. A walking cliché, he also had the dullest personality one could imagine. She was a New York girl, raised in the big city, used to fashion and politics and international foods. He was a country boy who was more interested in making it back for his high school's homecoming football game than, well, just about anything else. As she got to know him, she discovered he had one thing that none of those other men did, sincerity. He was actually listening when she spoke. In a city full of noise and hustle, a listener is rare. He wasn't merely nodding and agreeing while trying to get her naked. He had two other things over the other men: his biceps. She'd badly sprained an ankle one day when her heel broke, and he'd lifted her into the air as if she were a feather. Cradling her in his arms, he'd carried her six blocks to the hospital. When they arrived at the emergency room, she was in lust. Church-boy had made her marry him before she got to sate that desire. He was very traditional. Once they were married, however, she had been pleasantly surprised to discover that he wasn't quite as boring as he seemed. He had a number of talents she had never suspected. "It's always the quiet ones," she mused.
She was a girl any mother would be pleased as punch to have her son bring home (and yes, his mother was very happy). Sadly, she mused, she didn't quite qualify as a girl anymore. Perhaps twenty... no, she corrected herself, fifteen years ago she could have still called herself a girl. Now, she was undoubtedly a woman. She was not yet showing her age, a rigid regimen of facial cleansers and herbal supplements and a liberal application of cucumber slices over her eyelids, along with a gaggle of other feminine beauty tips had kept her looking younger than other women in her '29 and counting' age bracket. Unfortunately, the 'and counting' was beginning to amount to quite a sizable sum by itself, and the poisonous seeds of doubt again began to creep into her mind. How long could she expect to keep Mr. All-American? She was beginning to see wrinkles. However hard she fought them, she knew they were coming. Despite her workouts, her thighs were getting a little bit bigger, her breasts were sagging a little more, and she plucked her first gray hair the other day. It wouldn't be too long before she'd have to choose between growing old gracefully and going under the knife. Meanwhile, her darling husband, blessed with the world's greatest genes, barely looked a day over 30. His physique was still incredible, and every woman in the office knew it. She saw them all looking. It was no coincidence at all that he was the guy every girl went to when they needed to lift something heavy (or not so heavy) or get something on a high (or not so high) shelf. Being the perfect gentleman, he always helped out. If he had been any other man, he'd have cheated already. "But how long until he stops turning down those advances?" she wondered.
She gazed across the clearing at him, chopping wood with an old axe they'd found in one of the cabins. He was whistling the theme from some pop tune he'd latched onto a few months before ("It's 'Five For Fighting'" he'd told her. "I like it." She'd become sick of that tune lately). His muscles rippled under his shirt with a power and purpose that still made her heart flutter, despite nearly ten years of marriage. That sight never got old. He'd found a nice place to get away for the weekend. It was a lakeside camp whose finances had apparently gone under years before. No one lived nearby, the real estate market here having dried up long ago, so there was not a soul for miles. The closest town was a twenty-minute drive away. It was rustic. It was romantic. It was perfect. They both needed a break, from work, from friends, from responsibilities. So they'd left their cell phones and pagers and any other kind of communication device they could think of at home (even two cans and a piece of string were verboten) and had traveled into the New Jersey countryside. He was a country boy; he knew how to do this sort of stuff. They'd block out the world and spend time alone together, just the two of them.
--
The Man stared from the trees at the woman. She was sitting on an old cement picnic table, the kind that got put in when the last ones from the town tried to re-open the bad place. She was pretty. The thought sent strange feelings through the Man. He saw her and was fascinated, and he stared. Yet the longer he stared, the more his fury built. He began to hear Her voice again, louder and louder. His work had to be finished before he could return to sleep. The Man looked over at the male who was with the woman. He was tall, almost as tall as the Man. He looked strong, too. And he had an axe. The Man would have to be careful. But the Man was not worried. He was sure he was stronger than this one. The Man was always stronger, had always been stronger. There had been a lot of men like this one, and the Man had always been stronger than them. There had been a lot of ones like this. The Man turned back into the woods and was gone. He had been here long enough that he never made a sound, except when he wanted to. This was, after all, his home. For now, the Man had preparations to make. It would be dark soon. Then he would do his work.
--
The woman glanced over her shoulder. Something wasn't right. She couldn't put her finger on it, but her instincts were telling her that something was wrong, very wrong. Within a few seconds, she figured it out. The animals were silent. The birds weren't singing. The squirrels weren't running around. Not even the insects were making any noise. Something had spooked them. And then, a moment later, they began again. The birds started singing, something that might have been a snake rustled through the underbrush, and a mosquito bit her arm.
"Wonderful," she thought. "The wilderness."
Her husband came over, holding a stack of cut wood under one arm with an axe swung over the other shoulder. He looked like he belonged on the Brawny paper towel rolls.
"Why do we need firewood? It's 90 degrees outside" she asked.
"Duh. Marshmallows. It's not camping without marshmallows."
She smiled and decided that she'd married a five-year-old child.
--
As the fire died down, she leaned back against his strong chest. Her mind floated blissfully as she reclined against him and felt his arms envelope her. The marshmallows were his idea. The wine was hers. He'd had a glass to complete the romance, but she had been the one to finish half the bottle before he'd set it aside and pulled her in close. He was always watching out for her like that. He was quite overprotective. She could feel the warmth from the fire on her face, the warmth from her husband's arms around her waist, and the warmth from the merlot in her belly. Life was good, and right now, she was feeling very, very romantic.
"Honey?" she purred.
"Yes?"
"I'd really like you to do something right now."
"Oh?" A look of concern crossed his face, as if he'd forgotten to bring some essential item. "What's that?"
She turned her head and gazed deeply into his clear blue eyes before breathing huskily, "...Me."
She reached one arm around his neck and pulled her lips upwards until they met with his.
--
Now was the time. The Man had waited for this moment. He was prepared. He had gotten the tools he needed, and had stolen away the axe after the male had set it down. He'd watched them for some time, until he was certain they were alone. The voice would tell him when it was time. He was in no hurry. One small problem bothered the Man. He had always done everything the voice told him. He had gone to the cabins and stripped out the wires that gave the buildings light. No light had flowed from those buildings for a very long time, but he always made sure. He had sharpened the blade carefully. It had to be razor-sharp. He remembered the first time he saw it used, and the rage from that memory nearly caused him to charge the couple immediately. But Her voice told him to wait, to complete the preparations first. That would help with his work. They would not be able to get away if he did everything Her voice told him. But this time, he failed the voice. He couldn't find their car. He was going to pull out the wires from the car like he did with the cabins, but he didn't find one. He didn't see any bicycles, either. This worried the Man. The last one to come without bicycle or car had been a tough one, long ago. He was a hunter. The hunter had come with a gun, and he knew the Man was in the woods. He knew the identity of the Man, and he had come to kill him. The Man had done his work on the hunter's sister, and the hunter had come to do the same to the Man. These ones, however, didn't have guns, which reassured him. The Man pondered this in the back of his mind as he watched them from deep in the woods. If he sat perfectly still, he could see what they were doing, though there were too many trees in the path for normal eyesight to be of any use. He saw it in his mind, like he heard Her voice.
Now, he could see what they were doing. They were kissing, and beginning to lie down on the ground by the fire. Now was the time. He felt the fury of the bad place they had disturbed. That place was angry, and he felt it. Something deep in him understood that it had been a bad place even before he came there, and before his mother died. There was something wrong with it, had always been something wrong with it, even before it was a summer camp. It wanted people to stay away. He was part of the bad place now, and the Man felt what it wanted. He could see what people did in the bad place. It told him what they were doing. It showed him. And then he felt its anger. He felt the anger of the lake against the intruders. He felt his own rage at being disturbed. And he felt Her fury for losing her son and then being killed herself. It gathered inside of him and spurred him forward, through the woods towards the couple as they made love.
Her voice spoke to him. "Kill them, Jason. Kill them. Mommy wants you to kill them both."
The Man made no sound as he moved through the trees. Camp Blood wanted no warnings.
--
The woman sighed in contentment. Her husband looked down at her and smiled, an easy, gentle smile that belied the man's complete lack of guile. She let her eyelids drift closed, leaned her head against his chest, and breathed his scent in deeply. She loved the way his chest smelled, especially after... physical activity.
"God, you're beautiful," he said. "I'm the luckiest guy in the world. I will always love you. Always."
The woman opened her eyes and screamed. It was a scream of mortal terror. A man had emerged from the edge of the woods wielding a large weapon. He was a towering figure, clad in faded clothing stained in mud and grit and blood. On his face has a mask, an old battered hockey mask smeared with blood and filth. In the firelight, she saw a single eye peering out of the left hole, a lump of solid flesh showed through the right eyehole, the top of a deformed eyelid just barely visible at the bottom. He strode forth as a man possessed, a demon from some terrible unnamed hell unleashed upon the land of the living. Her heart froze as she beheld the gruesome figure before her, her eyes focused upon that terrible mask. Some part of her soul told her that, however horrific and frightening his visage now, something infinitely more terrible and gruesome lay just below that hellish mask. For the thousandth of a second that her conscious mind could register it, she thanked God that she did not have to behold whatever sight was underneath.
Her husband's eyes shot wide open and he turned his neck about to see. The figure grabbed him by the hair with his left hand and pulled back, hard, exposing his neck and lifting the husband into the air. With his right he swung a gleaming machete, and the air whistled as it struck home on her husband's exposed throat. His body lurched to the side and rolled into the campfire, sending logs tumbling and embers scattering about like fireflies. The woman shrieked in wide-eyed terror. She tried to backpedal with her arms, but her hands refused to find purchase on the ground. She inched backwards, screaming incoherently, eyes locked with the one visible eye of the man before her. The figure approached her, towering over her shaking form. The Man studied her intently, and then with sadistic glee, he lifted his mask.
"Ohmigod..." she whispered. "...ohmigod..."
The most hideous man she had ever seen looked her right in the face. He raised his machete high into the air. And then he grinned.
--
As she waited for the stroke to fall, the earth exploded. A sound that dwarfed a thousand thunderclaps tore out through the night.
"GET AWAY FROM MY WIFE!" boomed a voice that could command gods.
Both heads turned to the man who was slowly rising to his feet in the scattered campfire. The night was lit by a piercing red glow that came, not from the ashes and cinders, but directly from the man's eyes. He shook with righteous fury, and the ground trembled beneath his feet. The woman's face bore a look of great relief, the deformed man's one of total shock and surprise. The woman shakily rose to her feet, staring at her husband with joy in her eyes.
The deformed man looked at the woman out of the corner of his drooping, lowered right eyeball and reared back his arm, intent on ignoring the man and cleaving the woman's head from her shoulders. A great gout of fire and light surged forth from the eyes of the husband, then a pile of ash hit the ground and scattered into the air where the deformed man had stood moments before. The air shimmered with heat, and the husband stared at where the monster used to be. He picked up the man's machete, bent in the middle but still white-hot from the burst of heat that had incinerated the man.
"Oh my God. It was him. It was the butcher of Camp Blood," said the woman. "I thought those were just stories girls told at slumber parties. Not real at all..."
"He had so much blood on him, from so many different people... I just..." He turned towards her, concern suddenly overwhelming him. "Are you okay? You're not hurt, are you? God, I love you so much. I don't know what I'd do if you were hurt. I couldn't let him hurt you."
She slowly shook her head, trying to deal with the shock. "No, no, I'm okay. It just... scared me is all. What about you, are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine." He pointed to the now very dull edge of the slightly deformed blade. "Just caught me by surprise there. I didn't hear him. Why couldn't I hear him?"
"Well, why don't you take me home now. I'm sick of the woods. Next time you want a get-away-from-it-all weekend, why don't we just rent a movie?" A smile suddenly crossed her lips. "Actually, the weekend is just starting. It's only Friday night. Why don't we do Paris? You owe me for almost getting me killed."
He let out a long sigh. He knew what Paris meant. No marshmallows. And shopping. Clark hated shopping.
--
The dark waters had returned. The Man was sleeping again. As thoughts faded from his mind, and his spirit sank back beneath the waters of the lake, the Man knew that it would take longer to heal this time. The voices would be silent for a long while. His mother would wait. Jason could sleep again, his essence returned to the body of the little dead boy underneath the placid surface of the water.
And as the married couple caught a very direct, private flight to the City of Lights, a single air bubble broke the tranquil surface of Crystal Lake.
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Coming soon: How Jabba Got His Groove Back; Goodbye Yellow Brick Road; The End of the World