Chapter Four
**********
The streets of Springwood, Ohio has been silent and care free..well, other than countless teenage
drunken parties, but as far as---he--goes? It has been safe.
Over the years, when they tried the hypnocil, what was a 100 deaths became 20, that became 5, that soon
over the period of a year became 0. Life was peaceful, and normal, for this town. The Springwood P.D. still
had cases, sometime serious, sure. But never of him. To make sure no one, no one, would ever find out about
the evil child slasher, they erased all records.
Somehow, the pudgy, middle aged balding cacausion male, sat in his chair. Wearing a black officer suit, his officer cap
on the wooden table, where there were so many paper work, all piled onto eachother like a JINGA board. He scratched
his gray mustache, looking at the table, while his free pudgy hand picked up and took a sip of his black cofee. Streight.
Lt. DeWitt somehow, deep in his thoughts of thoughts, knew that the nightmare will never be over.
Not intill -all- the children are gone. Dead.
His hazel eyes grow wide, he springs out of his wooden chair, that is too small for him, and looks around in alert.
"Who's there?" he asks, in his deep gruff voice, mostly for being a recovering smoker of twenty years.
As soon as he speaks the words, all the lights went off. His heart jamed against his chest, sweat perspires over his forehead down to
his chin, running down his neck, he adjusts his collar, to try to breath better, or have more hair. His right hand clasps tightly over the rifle
in his poket, his belt of normal weapons are layed on the desk, but he always kept an extra one, in case he ever needed it. Through his nostrils,
a smell of rotten meat and a sort of stinch of death aroused through his nostrils to his lungs. He gags outwardly, fully disguisted by the smell.
Unknown to the poor man, who was never married, had no children he knew of, but still a nice man. A sharp machete swings at his neck, cutting it off.
Blood begines to spill from his mouth and throat, his body trembeling. Ironicly, the last thing Lt. DeWitt see's, the last thing his body can remember feeling,
is when he fell against his desk, and onto his paper work, blood pouring out of his body like a foutain.
The infameous killer, the Zombie King at his best, Jason Voorhesse looks down at his latest kill, with his only one good eye behind his white hockey mask.
Even though, Camp Crystal Lake will always be his playground, its time to find a new one, for now anyway.
Springwood would scream once again.
This time, by their nightmares and while they are awake.
**********
The streets of Springwood, Ohio has been silent and care free..well, other than countless teenage
drunken parties, but as far as---he--goes? It has been safe.
Over the years, when they tried the hypnocil, what was a 100 deaths became 20, that became 5, that soon
over the period of a year became 0. Life was peaceful, and normal, for this town. The Springwood P.D. still
had cases, sometime serious, sure. But never of him. To make sure no one, no one, would ever find out about
the evil child slasher, they erased all records.
Somehow, the pudgy, middle aged balding cacausion male, sat in his chair. Wearing a black officer suit, his officer cap
on the wooden table, where there were so many paper work, all piled onto eachother like a JINGA board. He scratched
his gray mustache, looking at the table, while his free pudgy hand picked up and took a sip of his black cofee. Streight.
Lt. DeWitt somehow, deep in his thoughts of thoughts, knew that the nightmare will never be over.
Not intill -all- the children are gone. Dead.
His hazel eyes grow wide, he springs out of his wooden chair, that is too small for him, and looks around in alert.
"Who's there?" he asks, in his deep gruff voice, mostly for being a recovering smoker of twenty years.
As soon as he speaks the words, all the lights went off. His heart jamed against his chest, sweat perspires over his forehead down to
his chin, running down his neck, he adjusts his collar, to try to breath better, or have more hair. His right hand clasps tightly over the rifle
in his poket, his belt of normal weapons are layed on the desk, but he always kept an extra one, in case he ever needed it. Through his nostrils,
a smell of rotten meat and a sort of stinch of death aroused through his nostrils to his lungs. He gags outwardly, fully disguisted by the smell.
Unknown to the poor man, who was never married, had no children he knew of, but still a nice man. A sharp machete swings at his neck, cutting it off.
Blood begines to spill from his mouth and throat, his body trembeling. Ironicly, the last thing Lt. DeWitt see's, the last thing his body can remember feeling,
is when he fell against his desk, and onto his paper work, blood pouring out of his body like a foutain.
The infameous killer, the Zombie King at his best, Jason Voorhesse looks down at his latest kill, with his only one good eye behind his white hockey mask.
Even though, Camp Crystal Lake will always be his playground, its time to find a new one, for now anyway.
Springwood would scream once again.
This time, by their nightmares and while they are awake.