Drip, drip.

Blurry lights wink in and out of my eyes along with the contant splashes, and my head pounds along as if there's a little person in there going to town on the snare drum. Grumbling, I move to sit up and snap my eyes open at the hard floor beneath me.

What the hell am I doing on the floor? Why aren't I in bed?

I look up and see I'm between a light blue threadbare couch, worn to the fabric and marred with cigarette burns and beer stains, and a chipped coffee table that looks as though a cat attacked it at one point. Below me is a plain dark oak floor. None of these things are mine.

The drumming in my head intensifies as I push myself in a sitting position. Another cold drop hits my already freezing skin. Slowly, I peer up over the back of the couch. I let out a terrified scream at the sight of the blood before me. My hands clamp down on my mouth to stifle the rising vomit. Closing my eyes, I count to three and try to catch my breath.

I'm just dreaming. That's it. I'm having a bad hangover nightmare and if I just pinch myself, I'll wake up and see everything is back to normal.

I suck in a breath and pinch my lip. The pain shocks me into awareness. Blearily, I open my eyes and this time, can't stop myself from emptying my stomach on the shredded corpse on the couch. Rejected liquor and stomach bile mix with the blood and gore, adding a hellish touch to an already gruesome scene. The sight makes my stomach cramp and I retch harder, spewing unendingly all over what's left of him.

Finally, the storm in my stomach quietens. I weakly expel one last dry heave before collapsing in a spent heap beside the couch. I'm so dizzy and my body won't stop shaking. I think I'm going into shock.

I need to call someone. The police. Campus security. The fucking president. I don't know, but someone needs to come out here. Someone needs to know what happened here.

But what did happen here?

I don't want to, but my curiosity won't die until I look again. Holding my breath, I use the couch for support as I climb shakily to my feet. My stomach roils when I look down at the corpse, but I somehow manage to hold my shit together. Breathing through gritted teeth, I let my gaze roll over his naked body, taking in the dried blood and the multiple stab wounds. He has deep puncture marks all over his chest and stomach. Whoever did this to him must've used something incredibly big and sharp, like a fucking machete, because this poor son of a bitch looks like Jason Voorhees got to him.

Voorhees.

A shudder races through me as my head echoes with the name. No matter how many times it happens, I know I'll never get used to associating myself with him.

It's not easy when you share the same name as a notorious monster.

Even worse when you live in the same state, hours away from where he wreaked havoc at Camp Crystal Lake for nearly three decades. Some say he's immortal. Others say Jason lives on by his ability to infect others with his essence, like some kind of parasitic serial killer virus. Or possession, as the Catholics call it, but I'd rather not think of those sadistic fucks. Jason Voorhees may be a monster, but at least he never touched little kids.

I've had people ask me before whether I'm related to him. Truthfully, I don't know, but I tell people I'm not. Voorhees isn't that uncommon of a name, but even I can't deny it's pretty coincidental that I not only share it with him, but even my first name sounds eerily similar to his.

Jessa Voorhees.

Jesus just repeating it to myself gives me the chills.

But I'm no killer; hell, I don't have the same motivations to be one as Jason did. I don't get bullied. I don't have some weird mommy or daddy issues. But I am afraid of water…

Stop it, Jessa. Being afraid of water doesn't make you a reincarnation of that hockey mask-wearing fuck. Hell, you don't even like hockey and you just puked at the sight of blood. Now how are you Jason Voorhees again?

Shaking my head, my gaze catches a glint of something silver. Sinking on all fours, I peer down beneath the coffee table. At first, I don't see anything except for more blood and torn tissue. But then, beneath the macabre shroud, my vision focuses on the unmistakable hilt of a two-foot long blade.

Jesus, fuck! I shoot to my feet and race for the door. What the fuck is a machete doing here?! And - fuck! I scream at the figure racing beside me. Heart racing, I turn back and see it's only a mirror. Something compels me to walk toward it. I don't know, maybe to check my own reflection to see whether I've been hurt. Somewhere deep in my heart, I already know the answer, but my mind is stubborn on finding the truth for itself.

I step up to the mirror and gasp. Holy cow shit! I hastily wrap my arms around myself to cover my nakedness, but there's no hiding the blood splatter trailing down my neck, across my breasts, and leading down to the juncture between my thighs. Dried rings circle around my forearms while my palms appear as I tried finger-painting with it. Jesus fucking Christ. How did I not see this before? I look like a fucking psycho version of a Barbie Doll!
Fuck, I can't tell the cops about this. They'll think I fucking did it! Shit, I don't even know if I did it, but what else am I supposed to think? I'm here aren't I? I woke up next to a fucking body hacked to bits with a machete nearby and now I look like I went Benihana on someone's ass. Of course the cops will think I did it! I'm probably the only one here!

Am I, though?

Forgetting my blood-stained nakedness, I look in the kitchen and downstairs bathroom for a sign of someone. Nothing. Everything in both rooms looks untouched by violence as well as some serious cleaning. Definitely in a guy's apartment, but even in such ragged shape, I doubt only one could afford to stay here on a college kid's salary. I head upstairs to check the other bedrooms. Hopefully everyone is still asleep and too hungover to know I had any part in what happened here.

I get to the landing of the second floor. The door to the bedroom across from me is standing wide open. A large picture window with the curtains drawn back reveals a crystal blue lake reflecting golden rays of bright morning sunlight. Several groups of people already have taken residence along the stone-dotted beach. Great. More fucking witnesses to avoid. Could this day get any goddamn worse?

I slowly tiptoe my way across the hall and into the bedroom. It's shared by two guys, both clearly into displaying posters of half-naked chicks, while one is into classic rock and the other decorated his side of the room with memorabilia of his favorite sports teams. Both beds are empty - not a good sign. And just looking at the halves of the room gives me no clue as to which guy I might have chopped to bits.

Well, my guess is the guy who likes the Dallas Cowboys, because anyone who knows me is well-aware of the fact that my blood runs green. Literally nothing turns me off more than the thought of sleeping with someone who wears that pussy blue star like it's some kind of badge of honor.

Only more motivation to have killed the guy.

But I decide to look around the room for a sign of my clothes. I definitely came in this place with them, so I must've taken them off somewhere. I go over to the rock fan's side first and just as I suspected, they're not there. That only means…

Goddamnit. I did sleep with a Dallas fan.

Or did I?

To confirm my doubts, I throw back the navy blue comforter and groan at the sight of my pink butterfly thong and pleated mini skirt tangled amongst the blue-striped sheets. Son of a BITCH!

Well, that does it. There goes my fucking hopes of not leaving my mark on this place. I know how this will go down if I call the cops: They'll bring in their CSI guys to collect blood samples, hair fibers, and they're damn sure gonna test for fingerprints all over the fucking place. And if they take in the glass with the tell-tale lip gloss smudge left behind, they're gonna bag that shit right up and find out it was me who drank from it after they run their tests. Hell, they'll probably find my hair and possibly girl-juices here, too. There's no way out of this. I'm fucked.

I don't know if it's the weight of my situation or the hard possibility that I actually did this, but either way I collapse in a wilted heap on the floor. My head bounces off the carpet and my eyes drift shut. Within seconds, everything goes from nightmare to black.