Daylight was nothing but a distant memory as the football game drew to a close.
Down by eighteen points (three touchdowns), the Clearmont Cavaliers had all but given up hope, and for good reason - Bill Blackwood, Lincoln Park High's running-back, and trampled six of their best players a total of forty-something times.
Mark, one of the Cavaliers nearly crushed by Billy the Bull, as he was called, limped off of the field, his left ankle aching and his head throbbing as blood trickled down from a gash on his forehead.
Like the caring, compassionate girlfriend that she was, Gina had hurried over to the bench, handing Mark towels, tissues, and bottles of water.
"This'll stop the bleeding," Gina said, holding a wad of tissues against the wound. "Just stay still - don't wriggle like that!"
Just what I need - my girlfriend treating me like a baby in front of the guys...
"I'm fine," Mark grunted, nudging Gina away. "I can take care of myself..."
Gina, however, did not take the hint.
"That Blackwood guy really knocked the crap out of you, huh?" she asked, smirking. "I thought he was going to kill you or something - I mean, the way he just pushed you down...the girls in the stands were saying that could easily kick your ass in a fistfight!"
At that, Gina burst into laughter, nearly falling backwards into a wooden bench.
Mark was less than amused.
"What are you, stoned?" he snapped, his face turning red with anger. "Your eyes are all bloodshot, and every part of your body is trembling..."
Gina waved the thought away with a flick of her wrist.
"That Ritalin stunt was a onetime thing," she muttered. "And besides - I was suffering from narcolepsy..."
"Yeah, you were really suffering from narcolepsy, all right," Mark chuckled. "That's why I found you stealing some out of Ruth Trenton's bag last semester?"
"Well, Ruth Trenton didn't have narcolepsy, either." Gina retorted, offended.
Mark merely laughed - he truly did care for Gina, the kind, mild-mannered Korean-American he had bumped in to during an environmental science lab Junior Year.
Five months and still going strong...
Suddenly, a firm, muscular hand crashed down on Mark's shoulder with a slap.
Spinning around, Mark came face-to-face with Coach Callaway, who looked even older and groggier than usual - five straight loses mustn't do good things to a celebrated local hero.
"Hey, Coach." Mark mumbled, smiling nervously.
Oh, boy - he's gonna be pissed that we lost...
Coach Calloway, however, responded to the greeting by affectionately patting Mark on the shoulder with his massive hand.
"Not lookin' too good there, son," he grunted, poking at Mark's forehead gash with a beefy finger.
Mark grimaced, as if the Coach's finger was a sharpened knife.
Pulling himself away, the teenage football star asked, "Sorry I couldn't finish the game, Coach - I know the team really fell flat after the refs pulled me out."
As a second thought, Mark added - "Is there anything I can do to help with the clean-up? I could carry some of those bags round back, if you want..."
Coach Callaway looked at down at the three of four bags, each arguably about thirty five pounds, that lay on the ground at his feet.
"Well, since you offered - would you mind taking this bag of jerseys and helmets to the equipment shed at the end of the field?"
Mark smiled slightly as he struggled off of the bench, his legs trembling unsteadily.
"No problem, Coach."
The tall bald man grinned happily.
"It'd be a great help - I'll be back with the other bags in a few minutes..."
He reached for his jacket pocket and pulled out a creased and dented box of Marlboro Lights.
"I gotta light up first."
Mark nodded, grabbing the bag closest to the bench.
Turning to Gina, he whispered, "I'll make this fast, okay?"
Gina merely frowned, unsure of her boyfriend's motives.
"Why are you doing this?" she snapped beneath her breath. "Don't waste your time..."
"I owe it to him." Mark shot back as he began to trudge across the green, the bag swung over his shoulder.
As Mark disappeared into the darkness of the night, Gina shook her head in frustration, and strolled back the way she had originally come, in the direction of the parking lot...
She'd wait for him there.
xxx
Damn - it's pretty freakin' cold tonight...
Readjusting the stretchable sack that lay on his shoulder, Mark fought against the bitter, crisp wind that blew down from the north, striking him head-on and almost forcing him to head back, his chore uncompleted.
No - Coach Callaway will eat me eat me as a midnight snack if I don't bring this bag of crap to the equipment shed...
Why the hell did I volunteer, anyway?
Mom was right - I am stupid. I'm a stupid Asian. Christ, that's some contradiction...
At that moment, a very strong chill shot up and down Mark's spine, turning his insides to blocks of ice, as if someone, something, had been breathing down his back...
Allowing the bag to fall from his shoulder, Mark spun on his heel, but met nothing aside from the darkness that had replaced the blazing afternoon sun.
Huh - I could have sworn...
Shaking his head, he reached down and grabbed the bag, and began to drag it the rest of the way across the seemingly-endless football field.
Luckily, Coach Callaway had left the field lights on for him, but the reliable sources of illumination did nothing to quell the uneasy feeling in Mark's stomach.
What's gotten into me? It's a night like any other night this week - it's just a bit colder.
Colder was right - the temperature must have dropped a good ten or fifteen degrees in the last forty minutes alone.
Continuing to traipse across the turf, Mark felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up like soldiers preparing to go to war as yet another chill rocked his entire body.
What the hell - ?
Turning yet again, Mark no longer faced just the pitch blackness of night.
This time, standing only a few dozen yards away, was a masked figure, hunched over and wheezing, it's decaying body surprisingly muscular and imposing.
Clasped in the creature's hand was what appeared to be a machete.
Mark felt his heart stop beating for what seemed to be an eternity.
As the bag slipped from out of his grip, he instinctively took a handful of steps back, his body shaking from more than just the cold.
Jesus Christ - who is that?
Mark, as he was not a very curious person, decided not to wait around and find out.
Instead, despite his injury only an hour or so before, he broke out into a mad dash, feeling his way through the darkness, desperate to find the equipment shed before his stalker found him.
xxx
Jason Voorhees watched as his prey ran down the field, eventually becoming nothing but a bleak speck in the distance.
It made no difference - no mortal being could hide from Death forever.
They'd all be found, sooner or later.
And Jason didn't expect the avid football player to be such an intelligent hider.
xxx
Gina, flustered, stared down at the watch strapped to her pale wrist, and squinted to read the time in the parking lot's dim lighting -
9:56.
She hoped Mark would be back soon.
xxx
Yes - yes! I made it!
With a grunt of joy, Mark reached forward, grabbing the battered golden door knob and turning it with a twist of his wrist.
Almost immediately, the ancient door flew open, and Mark found himself standing within the football equipment shed.
Small in size, it was almost perfectly cubical, with two dusty windows on either wall, and any available space taken by boxes, crates, and sacks full of useless athletic paraphernalia unused since the '70s.
It was less than cozy, of course, but it would have to do, at least until the monsteroutside turned back and went away.
Panting heavily, Mark found himself barely able to breathe - he had never run so fast in his entire life.
Desperate for rest, he piled one sturdy-looking crate atop another and took a seat, directly below the window on the left-side wall.
Just as he felt himself about to doze off, shuffling, off-beat footsteps outside the shed stirred him awake.
More terrified than ever, he leapt off of the crates, and peered out of the window, just in time to see a figure draped in torn, blood-soaked clothing limping towards the shed.
A horrified yelp emitted from Mark's clenching throat as the teenager began throwing boxes against the old creaking door, frantic to keep the moaning creature outside.
Within a matter of moments, however, Mark realized that his efforts at saving himself were all in vain.
With the whack of a machete, the door crumbled and blew away, and Mark felt the cold wind of night force its way inside the shed, blasting him back against the far wall.
There, standing where the door should have been, was Jason Voorhees, his grotesque, twisted features hidden by Derek's hockey mask.
For many moments, Mark found himself unable to speak - the only sounds that penetrated his ears were the distant howling of the wind and Jason's hoarse wheezing.
It was clear that Mark would have stayed frozen in place if it had not been for Jason sidestepping the eradicated door and making his way farther into the shed.
Feeling around in the darkness for something to use as a weapon, Mark's hand struck what could only be an unopened paint can.
Grabbing the metal container by its base, Mark flung the can with his muscular arms, and watched as Jason was struck across the side of his face, disorienting him and knocking him off balance.
Using every precious second to his advantage, Mark first tried to escape the shed by brushing past his attacker; upon noting that Jason was still blocking the doorframe, Mark turned his attention to the two windows that were just big enough for him to squeeze himself through.
Just as he began to maneuver his way past the dust-coated boxes, Jason sprung to life, swinging his machete through the air, yet only striking haphazardly-stacked crates and sacks, sending shredded wood everywhere.
Jesus - ! I've got to get out of here...
Mark, though unable to see very much in the dimly-lit shed, made his way across the shack's floor, where he bumped into a work bench that sat below the right wall's window.
Clambering up on the bench, Mark bent backwards and shot out his left leg, which struck the window.
Instantaneously, the window exploded beneath the force of the kick, and shattered glass fell down atop Mark as he began to scramble out through the opening.
I'm gonna make it... Hell, I'm gonna make it - !
Mark could feel the crisp night air as his head, neck, shoulders, and upper torso popped out from the destroyed window.
I taught that son-of-a-bitch who's boss!
Jason, dazed and bemused, struggled to his feet, and discovered that he had dropped his machete after being attacked by the paint can.
Quickly realizing that his prey was escaping, he decided to forget the weapon for the time being, and instead feverishly hunted for a new one.
The pair of rusted gardening shears that lay propped up against the farthest wall would have to do.
Screeching inaudibly, Jason grabbed the hedge clippers, and dashed over to the window, just as Mark was about slip out into the night and run off.
The next few moments unraveled in what seemed to be slow motion.
Upon plunging the twin blades into Mark's backside, Jason took his time savoring the kill, and after a good fifteen seconds of listening to his victim's piercing screams of agony, he removed the shears and stabbed the teenager a second time, the clippers embedding themselves in Mark's flesh.
Mark, bright red blood now sprayed across his t-shirt and pants, blinked his eyes in astonishment as the realization that he was dying overwhelmed him.
He wanted to cry - and he did.
The pain was extraordinary.
As the life drained out of his battered, bloodied body, he felt himself slip from the window, crashing back down atop the work bench and lying there while his attacker searched for the lost machete.
Staring up at the cobweb-infested ceiling, Mark opened his mouth to speak, but his clenching throat could emit no words.
His left arm was broken from the fall, he knew, as it was currently pinned beneath the overturned bench, but he felt hardly anything.
Rather strangely, he was at peace...
In under a minute, the boy was dead.
Jason didn't bother taking time to reflect on the football player's murder - he just needed to uncover his machete.
As moonlight began to shine through the decimated window, giving the equipment shed a rather supernatural glow, Jason kicked aside a row of paint cans and located his trusty blade hidden in a tangle of spider webs.
At that moment, the sound of a person whistling somewhere in the distance caused Jason to snap to attention.
Peering out of the left wall's window just as Mark had done only minutes before, Jason spotted a man - a bald man - walking across the football field, with three large sacks being dragged behind him.
With the speed of a tiger, Jason grabbed Mark by his ankles, dragging him away from the window, and stashing the body away in a dusty corner.
After a few seconds of rummaging through old cardboard boxes, Jason found a frayed blue tarp that he wrapped around the corpse, giving it the appearance of a rolled-up rug.
When the gruesome chore was complete, Jason slipped into the shadows of the shed and stood waiting for his new prey...
xxx
Gina looked up from her recently-manicured nails, her eyes wide and her face pale, standing alone in the deserted parking lot.
Had she just heard a scream...?
xxx
Coach Harold Callaway braced himself against the cold as he approached the equipment shed, three heavy bags containing jerseys, helmets, chest guards, and shoulder pads in tow.
Whistling to pass the time, he stopped only when he nearly tripped over the sack Mark had dropped while being pursued by Jason.
Grunting, Coach Callaway bent down to retrieve the bag, which he then swung over his shoulder as if it were as light as a feather.
Damn kid...can't even trust him with a few helmets...
Now with four bags in his possession, the Coach struggled slightly the rest of the way to the shed, as he felt himself rapidly being turned into a human ice cube.
As Coach Callaway could see the dim lights of the shack shining out through the dust-coated windows ahead, he quickened his pace, eager to warm himself inside.
The sight of the door, literally torn off of its hinges and lying on the ground, made the stocky, muscular man stop dead in his tracks.
"What the hell - ?" he grunted, pursing his lips in disgust. "Is this a joke...?"
Allowing the sacks to fall from his hands and shoulder, he ran up to the shed, which appeared to be completely empty, aside from an old rolled-up tarp shoved into the farthest corner.
Though seemingly deserted, the entire shed was a scene of destruction - dripping paint cans were spread all across the ground, work benches and chairs lay broken and destroyed, and what could only be blood was seeping through the wooden floor.
Slightly nauseated, and too busy covering his mouth with his hands in horror, Coach Callaway did not notice the dark figure slipping out of the shadows directly behind him...
Until it was too late, of course.
Jason leapt out of hiding, and immediately he dashed forward, grabbing the coach by his shoulders and forcing him backwards.
Completely disoriented, Coach Callaway struggled against his attacker, grunting and cursing all the while, and eventually managed to shove Jason away with his bare hands.
Jason, taken aback, stumbled into the wall while the coach stared at his hands, which were now dripping with lake water.
"Ugh..." he mumbled, watching as the murky liquid dripped down from his fingers.
Dazed and confused, he forgot about his hands for a moment and instead searched for a trowel or something with which to defend himself, just as Jason clambered to his feet, wheezing and moaning angrily.
With a forceful shove, Jason sent the coach flying forward - directly into the shed's faulty circuit breaker.
Screaming, Coach Callaway shot out his wet hands in order to break his fall, which was probably the stupidest and most inane move he had ever made in his entire life.
The resulting explosion was certainly quite a sight.
Bright flashes of sparking yellow, dazzling blue, and blazing white shot through Coach Callaway's body as his agonized screams echoed throughout the shed.
Flames literally seemed to shoot out from the circuit breaker as its victim was slowly and excruciatingly electrocuted.
For a good minute-and-a-half or so, Coach Callaway stood screeching, his entire body being pierced by bursts of electrical energy and fire.
Following a final, long drawn out cry, the man fell backwards, crashing down atop the wooden floor with a thud, his flesh charred a sickening black and his bare scalp aflame.
Jason, content, sidestepped the smoking corpse as the electrical fire created by the destruction of the circuit breaker began to spread across the floor, slowly at first, as if it were a slithering snake, and then gaining momentum as the howling wind outside began to die down.
Dragging the bodies of both Mark and Coach Callaway out of the inferno, Jason watched as the equipment shack seemed to disintegrate, the fire engulfing the wood and instantly scorching it black.
As someone was bound to discover the scene of destruction sooner or later, Jason was quick to flee the football field, disappearing into the surrounding forest with his two latest victims in tow.
xxx
An infuriated Gina was just about to jump inside her car and drive off without Mark when she noticed the scarlet-yellow flames that were shooting up into the night sky.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, her eyes widening in terror.
Shakily rummaging through her snakeskin purse, she pulled out her cell phone, quickly dialing 9-1-1 and almost immediately being put on hold.
"Come on, come on..." she breathed, her nerves getting the better of her.
Before long, she was connected to the fire department.
Sirens blaring in the distance soon followed.