You guys are awesome. Thank you for your reviews, Rising-From-The-Wreckage, EmilyEverlasting, Madusa, IRENIDAE, KMBenidir2012, Yifrodit, mAutumn, and ArmedWithAPen.

I hope you're all enjoying the story so far! Let me know what you think, if you get a moment. I love and crave interaction and feedback.

I also want to give a quick shoutout to Rising-From-The-Wreckage for introducing me to the song "Wolves" by Down Like Silver, which I've been listening to on repeat for the past three days. She's also a damn good writer, so if you want an extra dose of our beloved, smart, and sexy badass, Jason, check out her story, Tortured Souls.

THE SHERIFF

The house was dark when he finally dragged himself up the front steps and unlocked the door around midnight. He didn't call out for Tracey or the girls; he knew where his wife would be, and if it was this quiet, that could only mean that Beth and Sarah were staying at a friend's house for the night.

Steven took a moment to be thankful for the brief respite from his two pre-teen daughters, who always peppered him with questions the moment he walked through the door. It had gotten worse, since the Crystal Lake Incident. They were constantly demanding answers that he could not give them.

Tracey was sitting in her grandmother's old, white rocking chair on the back porch, staring out into the darkness with a cigarette hanging from her fingers and an empty bottle of wine on the wicker table beside her.

"The girls staying at Stella's tonight?" he asked as he eased himself down into an Adirondack chair. His joints popped and his muscles protested and he grimaced; he was only thirty-three, he shouldn't be aching like this yet.

Tracey nodded.

"Mom and Dad landed in Columbus an hour ago," she said, taking a deep drag on her cigarette. Her voice was hoarse. "Their flight was delayed by the snow."

Steven sighed. At least he didn't have to deal with his in-laws during this shitstorm.

"Glad they're home safe," he said dutifully.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. They just sat there, together, staring out at the backyard, covered in snow and shadows.

"Are they sure it wasn't him?" Tracey asked, her voice soft.

"Dental records match," he said. Then he reached over and picked up her pack of Camels. He lit up a cigarette and sucked in a lungful of smoke. "It's Harrison."

Tracey laughed breathlessly. Or perhaps it was a sob. Or a little bit of both.

"I thought for sure it would be him," she said.

"Well, it's not," Steven said, a little more sharply than he'd intended. "He's dead. He's been dead for twenty years."

"But the stories…"

"Were all bullshit, Trace. Just bored kids and stupid tourists. Jason Voorhees is dead."

Tracey winced at the mention of the name. It had been like this all their lives. The mention of his name made Tracey flinch, and it made Steven angry. He grit his teeth and took a few deep, calming breaths.

"We were just kids, Trace," he said softly. "It was an accident."

Tracey's laugh was bitter and humorless.

"You keep telling yourself that, Steve," she said. "I was there, too. I know what happened."

Steven scrubbed his hands over his face.

"Tracey, there's no way it was…"

"Shut up, Steven," she snapped, turning to face him. He could see her eyes in the faint, orange glow of her cigarette, swollen and raw from crying. "Just shut the fuck up. I don't want to hear it anymore. I've been hearing it all my goddamn life. You let a serial killer walk free out in those woods for ten fucking years because you thought it was him. Don't try to tell me you didn't. I know you. I've known you all my life. You thought it was him, and you covered it all up, just like your daddy did, because if it was him, then he was out there because of you. Because of us."

"We didn't push him in the fucking lake, Tracey," Steven snapped.

"We might as well have!" she cried. "We're just as guilty as Celia was." She dropped her head in her hands, and when she spoke, her voice was muffled. "At least she had the decency to hang herself."

"Jesus Christ, Tracey," Steven said with a sigh. "We didn't push him in! They were just words. How many kids get bullied every year? How many kids drown every goddamn year, Tracey? It was an accident, you hear me?"

"Fuck you, Steven." She was sobbing, and drunk, and Steven was fresh out of patience.

"I don't have time for this shit," he muttered. "I got journalists crawling up my ass, digging through public records and asking too many goddamn questions. I've worked my ass off for this town, I'm not going to let one little mistake ruin my goddamn career."

"One little mistake?" She looked up, eyes blazing. "How many women did that bastard, Harrison, rape? How many people did he kill, Steven? Tens? Hundreds?" She stood, pacing. "Bracket? You remember Bracket, right, Steven? Your fucking deputy? Dead. Murdered. By this… this monster that you let wander free, all because you were too afraid to face your one little mistake."

Steven lit another cigarette and got to his feet.

"I'm going back to the station," he said, his words clipped. "Try to sober up a little while I'm gone."

Tracey laughed, wild and shrill.

"God damn you, Steven Price," she cried. "God damn you and god damn this place!"

Her voice faded as he moved through the house, grabbing his gun and badge and jacket as he went. He threw himself into the driver's seat of his patrol car and slammed the door behind him. Memories flashed through his mind like the blue lights on his cruiser, memories of the past, memories of his father. His family. His mistakes.

It was over. Voorhees was dead. Harrison was dead. He should have been able to finally, finally sit back and breathe a sigh of relief.

He should have been celebrating the end of this nightmare.

But as he drove through the quiet, snowy streets, back to the station and back into the fray of journalists and TV crews, he couldn't help but feel as if the shadows weren't completely gone from the edges of his sight. As if a little bit of the darkness still pressed in on all sides, the secrets of his past still whispered to him on the wind.

This nightmare wasn't over, yet.

ANA

She waited for Emory's reaction, wondering what it would be. Minutes passed in tense, heavy silence.

But Emory did not condemn her. Emory just tilted her head and looked at her with a very intense, focused expression. Ana imagined she could see Emory's thought process reflected in her eyes as she worked through a problem that was as frustrating as it was fascinating.

Then, suddenly, Emory's slate gray eyes went very wide.

"What was his name?" she demanded.

Ana blinked at her.

"What?"

"Please, Ana," Emory's voice was urgent and low. "Just tell me his name."

Ana's gaze shifted to the big window behind Emory. She could see the mountains in the distance.

"Jason Voorhees," she whispered.

"Are you sure?"

What…

"Yes."

Emory was quiet for a long moment, staring at Ana with that look of absolute determination. Then, she glanced down at her clipboard.

"Do you recognize the name William Lee Harrison?"

The…

"No."

Emory held a photo above Ana's head, interrupting her line of sight. "Do you recognize this man?"

It was a grainy Polaroid of a young man standing in front of an old, burgundy Camaro. Short blond hair, dark eyes, square jaw. Mid-twenties. Tall and well-built, but nowhere near as muscular as Jason. He was smiling in a way that made Ana's skin crawl.

She stared at the picture in blank incomprehension.

Hell?

"What kind of doctor did you say you were?" she asked dazedly.

Emory sighed. "This is… I know this is difficult for you, Ana, but I have to ask. The stories I've heard about Jason involved a… a mask of some sort, and…"

Ana looked at her and waited.

"Did you ever see his face, Ana?" Emory asked quietly. "Are you positive it wasn't Harrison? Can you be sure?"

Ana laughed. It wasn't a strong laugh, and it wasn't particularly joyful or pleasant, but it was laughter, nonetheless, pulled from a deeply buried part of her that still appreciated irony and dark humor.

"They're saying it wasn't him, aren't they?" She shook her head. "They're saying it wasn't Jason."

"Correct," Emory said with a nod. "They are saying that the man who held you prisoner was a serial killer and rapist named William Lee Harrison, or Billy Lee, as he was known by the press. They're saying that Jason Voorhees is a myth; that he drowned when he was eight years old, and the legend of Voorhees allowed Harrison to roam this area for ten years without being discovered."

"Who?"

"What?" Emory asked.

"Who's saying all this?"

Emory consulted her magical Clipboard of Knowledge.

"Local police. The Sheriff… his name is Steven Price. He's leading the investigation." She frowned up at Ana. "Does that mean something to you?"

Ana remembered Price. Tall and lanky, short dark hair, graying at the temples. Cold brown eyes.

"No," she said.

"Ana," Emory said quietly, "are you positive it wasn't Harrison?"

"Miss Brighton, just what do you think you are doing?" a sharp voice demanded from the doorway. Ana and Emory simultaneously snapped their heads around to face the newcomer.

An older gentleman in a white coat stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest with a frown on his weathered, clean-shaven face.

"I thought I told you no unsupervised rounds," he said through gritted teeth.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Anderson," Emory replied evenly. "I was the closest resident available when Ms. Mitchell woke up. I was just about to page you, I promise."

Anderson's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. He turned his gaze on Ana, and his expression softened.

"And how are you feeling, Ms. Mitchel?"

Ana considered telling him the truth for a brief moment. She considered telling him exactly what she'd told Emory, because what was one whitecoat over another, really?

And then she realized that Emory wasn't just another whitecoat, staring at Ana over her clipboard with judgment in her eyes and a condemning frown on her lips.

Emory had gotten through to her. Emory had reached her.

And maybe it was because Emory truly cared for the people she looked after, or maybe it was because she was the kind of person who had to get down to the heart of things, no matter what, but either way, it didn't matter. Because Emory had not gone running to her fellow whitecoats the moment Ana said she was in love with the man whom everyone thought had raped and tortured her. Emory had sat with her and asked her questions. Emory had talked to her, not at her. Emory had figured it all out.

Emory had listened.

And that meant something.

Ana stared at the old man for a long moment, and then laid her head back on the pillow and stared up at the ceiling.

Emory cleared her throat delicately.

"I believe she may be suffering some kind of gender-based catatonia, Doctor. Specifically… men."

From the corner of her eye, Ana saw Anderson nod.

"Of course. And she has been interacting with you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. Come see me when you're finished, Brighton." He turned and closed the door gently behind him.

Emory let out a relieved sigh.

"That went better than expected," she said, tilting her head at Ana. "I'm a little bit surprised you didn't out me."

"Your bedside manner is atrocious, you know," Ana replied.

Emory grinned briefly, and the expression lit up her entire face. Then she sat back against the wall behind her and sighed.

"Ana," she began, hesitating.

"It wasn't Harrison," Ana said. She closed her eyes, fighting the darkness, fighting the pain. Would it always be like this? Would there always be a hole within her, a gaping wound, a missing piece?

Probably, yes.

"Jason was… he was Jason," Ana said. "He wasn't anybody else but him."

"…Did you ever see his face?" Emory asked, her voice gentle.

She saw it now, in her mind, the smooth white mask, and his eyes, so empty. So utterly desolate. And…

"Blue," Ana whispered. "His eyes were blue. He was tall, at least six-foot-five. He had light brown hair. He was Jason Voorhees. He protected his land. He protected me. He..." She stopped. "The man in that picture, I've never seen him before in my life. I would know. It's not him."

"Okay."

Ana opened her eyes. Turned her head to look at Emory.

"You believe me." It wasn't a question. She saw the truth of it in the younger woman's eyes.

Emory nodded.

"Why?"

"Because it makes sense. You aren't acting like a victim of rape and torture… I mean…" Emory winced, "shit, that sounded horrible, I'm sorry. What I meant is that you're not, um…"

"It's okay," Ana interrupted. "I know what you meant."

Emory sighed. "So it wasn't Harrison?"

"No." Ana shrugged one shoulder, and winced at the pain that shot down her arm. "It was always Jason."

"He killed all those people?" Emory's voice was a bit faint.

"Yes," Ana replied.

For a long moment, they two women stared at each other.

Then Emory nodded, just once.

"Okay," she said. "So how did Harrison get there? They found his body in the house."

"He died a long time ago," Ana said, remembering neat handwriting on cheap notebook paper. "He tried to dump a victim in Jason's house to get the police off his scent. Jason…" she closed her eyes as the pain hit her again, all at once. Christ, it was just as strong as the first time. Agonizing. Like someone stabbing her in what was left of her heart. "He must have kept Harrison's body," she whispered.

He'd set the whole thing up.

She should have known.

"So he kept the body and… used it to frame Harrison?" Emory's voice was awed, and not nearly as horrified as Ana would have thought it would be. "To make everyone believe that he was a myth, and that Harrison was the one who had caused the disappearances over the years? But... why?"

Ana took a deep, slow breath, fighting the pain.

"Because of me," she said quietly.

Emory lifted her eyebrows, but it wasn't a skeptical expression. She almost looked… impressed.

"Okay," she said. "Well, that answers that." She sighed and stood. "I've got to go blow a lot of smoke up my supervisor's ass. I'll submit your psych evaluation after lunch. The fleas – that's the medical staff, sorry – they'll probably give you the all clear in a few more days. You should be able to leave within a week."

Ana blinked. For a long moment, Emory's words didn't register in her brain; they were just a jumble of unintelligible sounds, bouncing around inside her skull.

But then, and with alarming strength, they came crashing through the hazy drug-fog that surrounded her thoughts.

"You're not going to commit me?" she demanded.

"No," Emory replied.

"Will you go to the press?" It didn't matter to Ana if she did, to be honest. She was dead, anyway. But she wanted to know because… If word got out that Jason wasn't a myth, that he had been real... She didn't want people to know him. She didn't want to share his memory with anyone else.

"Hell no," Emory said with a huff of amusement. "Are you kidding? I'd be laughed out of the state."

Ana just stared.

"It's okay, Ana," Emory said, sobering. "I'm not going to tell anyone what we've talked about. I can't, actually. Patient confidentiality." She scribbled something on her clipboard and turned to go. When she reached the door, her hand hovered over the knob.

A heartbeat later, she turned back.

"Look… I know it's none of my business, but they haven't… I mean, there wasn't…" Emory took a deep breath and started talking in a low, rushed voice. "This goes against every oath I've ever taken, but I want you to know that they've identified the bodies of all five men and..."

She stopped, and took a deep breath.

"Most of the coalmine collapsed during the explosion, but they searched the surrounding woods and the lake. They never found a sixth body." She hesitated. "There's… there's a chance that Jason might still be alive." She leveled her pale, colorless eyes on Ana. "I thought you'd want to know."

Then she turned and left the room.

Ana watched her go, unmoving.

Strange.

She had thought that dead things couldn't hope.