A tall spindly man stared at the reflecting sun on the lake. Small ripples disturbed the glassy surface. From fish, the man supposed. The lake appeared so peaceful. The trees that surrounded it looked idyllic under the sun. There was no sign of the horrors the lake hid. The lake should be scarlett from the amount of blood that had been shed here over the years. Camp Blood really was the most appropriate name for this spot, not Camp Crystal Lake.
174.
174 people dead because of one man, because of one event, because of one summer.
All because of him.
His father had been right, the man thought. He truly was damned.
He leaned back, his hand brushing over the bulging scrapbook next to him. The book was greedy for more, as he had added yet another article just that morning.
"Accident in Bio-Lab: 6 More Added to Camp Blood Legend"
The man hoped that it was finally over. His son had at long last been caught, and was now frozen. The man hoped his son would never be thawed out. So the legend of Camp Blood at least might rest.
The man didn't dare hope that it was over, though. It should have been over in 1957. Then 1958. Then 1980. Then 1985. It just seemed to go on and on and on. The man got some rest during those years, but it always started up again. He didn't know how. He didn't know why. But it always did.
Who would have seen that one summer of teenage romance would start a legacy of horror? One hot summer. A boy. A girl. Young passion and fun, doused with the cold water of reality in the winter.