Tommy swept the beam of the flashlight down the basement staircase, listening to the storm howling outside and his own heavy breathing.

He hated going down into the basement. The smell, the sounds he heard while he was down there, the cobwebs, the rats you could hear scurrying in the wall... it terrified him. Tommy didn't like being scared even though he could sit in his room for hours and design the most realistic and terrifying masks.

It was just that his masks didn't scare him. They were just a manifestation of all of his real-life fears, except he was in control. Sure, his twelve year mind didn't really grasp it. But still, he could manipulate the mask how he wanted, and make it do exactly what he wanted, but he couldn't control what happened down in the cellar.

He couldn't control the cockroaches running under his feet, or the spiderwebs that brushed across his face. He couldn't control the shadows dancing around and he couldn't control it if something was lurking in the dark down there…waiting to jump out and eat him alive…watching his every move, smelling his fear…waiting to rip him apart limb by limb and devour him...A monster just like from those movies that he watched.

Tommy hated not being in control. When they were robbed back in the city, Tommy hadn't been in control. Someone had violated the sanctity of their tiny studio apartment and taken what was rightfully theirs, and it terrified him. Tommy hated that feeling-the feeling of real, raw terror.

All he had done when it had happened was hide in the bathroom closet and cry, and wait until someone came home. He hadn't even tried to stop the creep. He had no control in the situation; he was trapped in the horrifying plot and could not escape or change his destiny.

When he made his masks, he felt like he was in control again.

That's how they came out so detailed. It was amazing to be able to manipulate every single feature of the mask. The shading under the eyes, the wrinkles in the skin, the sickly yellow shades of rot on the fangs that protruded out from the gaping jaws, the white shimmer in the iris of its eye. He just did them for fun mostly, but sometimes he would catch himself dreaming and fantasizing before he went to sleep at night about possibly being on the set of a big Hollywood movie, like Godzilla or Raiders of the Lost Ark, working on the special effects. He wasn't ever really scared of the movies watched either. He was a huge fan of Indiana Jones, and Godzilla of course, but also Creature of the Black Lagoon, It Came from Beneath the Sea, and King Kong.

He remembered watching all of the old monster movies with Trish when they were little, much to the chagrin of their overly loving mother and distant father. The movies didn't scare him because in a sense, he understood them. He had volume after volume of film encyclopedias that would explain in detail how films worked, and how the special effects were set up to make it look so convincingly real.

What he couldn't understand was the terror in the real world. What humans do to one another everyday. That was the true horror.

It was a paralyzing fear that gripped him; it had made him feel like someone was squeezing his heart so tightly that it would burst. It was the fear that had overtaken him that day when the old apartment had been burglarized. He remembered the utter panic of hearing the hinges snap on the front door, and heavy footsteps coming down the hall.

He couldn't think straight. His mind had screamed at him to get out of the house, or to grab a baseball bat, but instead, his body had gone into full flight mode, and he found himself huddling down in the bathroom closet with the door locked. With that kind of fear, there was no reasoning. Reasoning wasn't even an option. He had just gone with his first primal instinct that came to him; to run. To hide. To bury himself down under blankets and never come out and hope that the horror outside would go away.

He could have scared the guy off, but fear overtook him. It made him question every time he laughed at a character in a monster movie making a stupid decision. When you were in a situation like that, you didn't think clearly.

He wasn't in control.

That's why he hated the basement. That's why he hated the outside world. It was too sporadic for him. He couldn't control it, like he could with his masks and with his monster movies. In Godzilla, he knew what would happen at the end. There were no surprises. But what was outside the cabin door of his family's home, there was no controlling it. Life sometimes just happened, and there wasn't a thing you could do to stop it.

That was why he stayed engrossed in his movies, and his video games, and his monster masks. It was a world of his own that he had created, and he could see everything coming. Life wasn't always that way.

And now, life was happening to him and he didn't like it at all. The lights were out. Trish was out looking for Mom and he was in the house all alone, he thought. He was staring precariously down the basement stairs, trying to steady the beam of the flashlight and trying to muster up his courage.

Tommy took a deep breath, and stepped on the first step, the wood sagging and squeaking under his feet.

The sour smell of mold reached his nostrils, and he grimaced at the sight of a rat moving through the beam of his flashlight, two beady little eyes glowing in the dark. He arched the flashlight around his head, illuminating the silvery sheen of cobwebs strung across the beams above him.

He reached the bottom of the staircase, and moved through the dark and cluttered cellar, trying not to notice the bugs and the spiders, trying to block out the sound of the rats squeaking in fright and seeking shelter.

He pushed open a small crawl space door, squeezed through and his flashlight beam came to rest on the fuse box. Every time the lights had gone out before during a storm, Trish and his mom always made him be the one to go down and fix the lights.

Tommy, do this, Tommy, kill this spider, Tommy, go fix the lights, Tommy…it was all they ever said, and it made sense to him. When his dad left, his mom had looked at him and told him with tearful eyes that he was the man of the house now, and it resonated with him. Of course, what did that mean? At first it had meant nothing, just another stray comment from his mother, but now he had started to realize it was sort of his responsibility.

Of course, his father had only been in a portion of his life and he never really taught him how to be a true man; he only taught him how to fix a car and ride a bike and other typical boy stuff, but never how to actually handle situations like a man…like the head of the household should do, and that scared him too. He hadn't been the man of the house when someone had broken in. He'd have to teach himself, but what did being the man of the house even mean? What would he have to do? It seemed like such an overwhelming responsibility to undertake, and a huge burden for him to have to be under.

Tommy didn't know what he would do in a really bad situation if one were to happen again, to be perfectly honest; they lived out in the country and nothing all that bad happened anyway.

What could he do? How could he take up so much responsibility, just like that? He was twelve; he had no idea how to make someone feel better when they were crying or what to say to calm people down, or what to do in these awful situations that life inevitably brought.

And now, he felt a tiny seed of raw terror in his gut as he proceeded towards the fuse box. Where was his mother? And where was Trish?

Tommy flipped the breaker switch and let out a sigh of relief, as he heard the lights flickering on throughout the house.

Then, a rustling sound came from a dark shadow of the room, and Tommy didn't even turn around to shine his flashlight in the direction. He scrambled back through the crawl space door, bolted up the staircase and slammed the basement door shut, fastening the lock.

He let out a sigh of relief, just as he heard the front door bang open and the storm rumbling outside come rushing into the cabin.

Tommy dashed into the foyer, as he met Trish, frantically running into the kitchen to meet him. Rob came in shortly behind her, wielding a machete. Both of them were soaked from the rain, and wide-eyed with fear. They slammed the cabin door shut and locked it.

"Tommy, thank God," she said, hugging him tightly. Tommy could see the panic in her eyes.

"Trish, what's going on?" Tommy asked fearfully.

"Tommy, is Mom back yet?" Trish asked.

"No, not yet," Tommy said.

Trish gave Rob a look, her eyes wide with worry, and she made a beeline for the telephone in the kitchen.

"I'm going to call for help," Trish said, hurriedly rotating the dial. There was no dial tone when she put the receiver to her ear and the color drained from her face.

"Rob, what is going on?" Tommy asked, fear starting to take over.

"The storm must have blown the phone lines down," Rob said. "I'm going to go next door."

Jason could be killing them one-by-one, he thought. He had to stop him.

What the trio didn't see was the hulking figure just outside the kitchen door, the broken phone box in his hand, ripped from the wall of the cabin like it was a toy.

Trish slammed the phone down in frustration.

"I'm going with you,"

"No," Rob said staunchly. "It isn't safe,"

Trish stepped closer, looking him in the eyes. "I'm going with you," she said more resolutely. She turned to Tommy and grabbed him by the shoulders. She didn't want to tell him anything and didn't want to scare him anymore, so she did her best to convey the seriousness of the situation with her eyes.

"Tommy, stay here and lock the doors, ok?"

"Hold the fort, Tommy," Rob said and they both ran for the door, as Tommy stood there flabbergasted and scared out of his mind. He judged from their manic behavior that this was real and it was happening, and he was galvanized into action, running frantically to make sure every door was locked.

Trish stopped suddenly before they went out the front door, and saw Gordon perched on the couch.

She motioned him to follow.

They had to get out of there, she thought. They had to somehow get everyone out of the rental house and into the car, but come to think of it, she didn't know where her keys were. She had been holding them when she had gone down the path looking for her mom, but that was the last time she had seen them.

God, they were all trapped there with that maniac my mother had been talking about, she thought. The reality of the situation was dawning on her slowly as they followed the narrow, muddy path that led to the rental house.

The rain came down like tiny bits of hail on the two of them and lightning cracked across the sky like long, incandescent skeletal fingers as they approached the now quiet vacation home. The lights were out and everything was still. There was no sign of life anymore. Trish began to feel a pang of dread in her gut as she huddled closely behind Rob.

They both climbed the porch stairs and stopped dead in their tracks.

There was a huge, gaping hole in the front door and shards of wood were lying all around the floor. Trish cowered behind Rob, feeling her heart begin to race.

"He's been here," Rob said, gripping his machete tighter.

Gordon all of a sudden began to bark and snarl, baring his teeth like he was possessed. He was looking straight at the house, his hair standing up on end.

"What if he still IS here?" Trish asked hysterically.

"Here, take this," Rob said, holding out his machete. Trish shook her head, intimidated by the huge, razor sharp blade. 'Take it,"

Trish reluctantly took the machete from his hand and held it out in front of her like it was a venomous snake, as Rob quietly pushed what was left of the front door open into the house.

An eerie, oppressive silence had fallen over the once rambunctious and rowdy vacation home. It was far too quiet, and it was dark except for a bright white light coming from the main room and a loud mechanical whirring.

Trish and Rob inched further into the house, seeing the still running video camera and projector screen set up in the living room. The projector screen was ripped right through the middle and stained with red...

Trish felt a chill run down her spine, and she and Rob exchanged looks. It was blood, she knew it. It was blood. This isn't happening, she thought.

Gordon started to whimper, growling menacingly.

Trish stroked him behind the ears, hushing him, trying to act like she wasn't scared shitless. She crept through the house behind Rob, gripping the handle of the machete so tightly her knuckles were turning white.

"I'm going to the basement to turn on the lights. Stay here with Gordon," Rob said.

"No!" Trish protested.

"Stay here with Gordon" he demanded firmly. Trish sighed with compliance and handed him the flashlight.

"Here," she said. He shone the light into a small alcove at the end of the hall and walked further inside, the beam coming to rest on the half-open basement door.

Trish could see the beads of sweat trickling down his forehead and his chest heaving. He was trying hard to mask his fear, but she could tell he was scared shitless too.

Rob whipped his bowie knife out of his pocket, held it out defensively, and tried to keep a steady hand on the wavering beam of light. He nudged open the door, and shone the flashlight down into the musty, dark interior of the basement. Trish watched in fearful anticipation as he started down the basement steps, eventually disappearing into the darkness.

She felt another chill across her bare arm as she realized she was now alone in the hallway. Where the hell was Gordon? He might be her only defense. She had no idea if she had the strength in her to be able to stab someone with the weapon that she glared precariously at. Still, she tightened her grip on the handle. Gordon was nowhere to be found. God,I know that killer is around here, she thought, her mind racing and fluttering with panicked thoughts. That maniac was here. She just knew something was horribly wrong. It was so quiet in the rental house-a deathly still silence that unnerved her.

And then, she heard a whimpering. It was Gordon, and he was scared to death. Trish hurried back into the living room towards the sound just in time to see Gordon go sprinting up the staircase to the second floor, whining the whole way, his tail tucked between his legs.

"Gordon!" Trish shouted in a strained whisper. 'Gordon!"

Then, there was the sound of breaking glass, and silence. Trish glanced at the basement stairs, and then back at the upstairs hallway where Gordon had just vanished. She held the machete out in front of her, ready to strike, and inched towards the stairs. Her heart was about to burst through her chest, and her hands were clammy and trembling. Every hair on her body was standing on its end, and she felt the lump in her throat growing to the size of the one in her gut, screwing tighter and tighter until it felt like someone was hitting her repeatedly in the stomach as hard as they possibly could.

It's all a misunderstanding, she kept telling herself. His body was stolen, Jason's body was stolen, and that's why it's missing. Bodies get stolen all the time. Jason is dead. This was all some joke. She kept picturing all the teenagers jumping out of their hiding spots, yelling Surprise and laughing at their hilarious joke, hoping that her fantasy would come true, but this felt all too real.

A voice in the back of her mind kept telling her Rob was right, and she was fighting desperately not to listen. She glanced at the crimson stained projector screen, trying to convince herself that it wasn't blood.

Trish precariously began to climb the staircase, listening to every creak of the floorboards and watching every fleeting shadow.

She reached the second floor hallway, and pushed open one of the bedroom doors to reveal an empty room.

"Gordon!" she yelled. "Gordon!"

She saw another door that stood wide open, and when she looked inside, she gasped at the broken glass littering the floor.

Gordon had broken through one of the windows in the bedroom.

Trish's blood ran cold. Something-or someone-spooked the shit out of him.

Trish instantaneously felt everything in her body telling her to run and get the hell out of that house. Get out...Run...He's here…Jason is here... her mind screamed at her. She started to move for the stairs when she froze.

From where she was standing, she could see straight into the open bathroom, and she saw the red on the floor. The crimson red staining the tile.

Trish didn't know why she didn't run. Something, some kind of primal animalistic curiosity, was drawing her towards the slightly ajar bathroom door. She made her way towards the bathroom, pushed open the door and her stomach sank into her feet at what she saw.

It was Sara, strung up from the bathroom ceiling light like a slab of meat, an axe protruding from her chest. Blood stained the white towel wrapped around her naked body, and dribbled down her leg, pooling below her dangling feet. Doug's nude, blood-soaked corpse was propped up in the closet, what was left of his face was twisted in a frozen, soundless scream, a carving knife impaled through his throat. Dark, coagulated blood pooled around him; the stench of reeking death was immeasurable and it almost sent Trish to her knees. The room was flooded and the floor was covered in several inches of water mixed with the red of blood that swirled down the drain under Sara's dangling corpse.

Trish finally let out a horrible piercing shriek that erupted from her throat, and she instinctively went careening down the staircase.

"Rob! Rob, he's here! Rob!" she screamed, panic-stricken and inconsolably hysterical, bolting down the stairs and through the main room, almost tripping on the projector cables. She ran into the hallway and down the basement stairs, where Rob met her coming the other way.

"Trish, Trish, what's the matter?!" Rob asked, frantically trying to calm her. She was incoherent at this point, a blubbery, sobbing mess.

"Rob, he's here, they're all dead, he's killed them all, I know it…" Trish stammered hysterically, petrified beyond reality.

Rob gave her one horrified look, and grabbed her hand, pulling her up the stairs.

"Come on, let's get the hell out of here," he said.

All of a sudden, there was the sound of splintering wood and the rickety basement staircase gave way, sending Rob's left foot slamming through and wedging down in the beams below the steps.

"Shit, give me a hand!" Rob exclaimed, trying in a desperate attempt to free his foot.

Trish yanked on his leg with all her strength, tears streaming down her face. His foot finally gave way, and they started back up the staircase, when Rob suddenly went back down on an impulse.

'Wait, my knife!" he said.

Trish tried to stop him, sobbing with fear. "Nooo!" she shrieked.

It was too late. Rob was running back down into the darkened basement.

"No! Nooo! Rob, let's just go! Rob!" Trish screamed.

She scrambled down the steps, just in time to see someone else was in the basement with them.

For a split second, Trish saw him. Illuminated by the moonlight filtering in through the basement window, she saw the huge man in the tattered worksuit and goalie mask lunge at Rob and heave him into a row of shelves, smashing it to bits. Rob cried out in pain, as Trish screamed bloody murder.

'Trish, run! Run Trish! Oh God!" Rob screamed.

Do something, Trish's mind was yelling at her. But her body wouldn't let her. She was frozen, her body racked with unimaginable horror.

All she could do was watch in helpless, paralyzing terror at the bottom of the stairs as Jason grabbed a gardening fork off of a shelf in a wild blur and began to hack at Rob mercilessly. Time seemed to slow down as Trish could see his monstrous arm slashing rapidly and violently, and all the blood and heard Rob's cries of agony.

She screamed and screamed over and over again until her throat was raw, trying to get Jason's attention, trying to make him stop, but he was savagely swinging at Rob again and again in an unstoppable rage.

"He's killing me, Trish! He's killing me! Run! Run!" Rob bellowed in pain.

Finally, Trish's instincts surged through her body and she spun around, scrambling up the staircase as fast as she could, and stopping at the top to look back down .

Rob's screams had stopped, and there was nothing but an unbearable silence. She began to hyperventilate, her mind racing...She couldn't just leave. She had to do something. She couldn't leave him down there to die.

She mustered up every ounce of strength and courage in her, and ran back down the basement steps, barely able to stifle the scream that was about to tear out of her throat. It came out in short, frenzied gasps of air and small, desperate sobs.

As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she froze. Trish could barely make out Rob's mangled body on the floor in the moonlight that filtered in through the basement window. She saw the bright red blood flowing from the gaping wound in his head, and let out another horrified sob.

"Rob…" she whimpered, tasting the salty tears streaming down her face. A wave of nausea had begun to hit her at the sight of Rob's mutilated body and she held back her instinct to gag.

Then, she felt the terror and panic kick in. That maniac was still down there and she realized it with such force that she slammed back up the staircase as fast as she could.

Just as she reached the top, a filthy hand reached through the hole where Rob's leg had broken through, and grabbed Trish by the ankle.

Trish shrieked, looked down and saw two demented eyes staring at her through the eyeholes of his mask.

Suddenly, the machete wasn't a poisonous snake anymore and she swung it as hard as she could, screaming bloody murder, satisfied at the sight of the rusty blade slashing into Jason's wrist and the bloody gashes opening in his disgusting grimy flesh.

Jason growled in pain and released his grip on her ankle, and Trish bolted up the stairs and slammed the basement door shut.

Get the fuck out of here. Get Tommy and get the fuck out of here. Trish's mind urged, and she ran through the house to the front door, yanking it open.

She cupped her hands to her mouth in horror and disgust at what she saw.

It was Tina, wet from the rain, sprawled on the doorstep. Her neck was twisted at such an unnatural angle, and her eyes were bugging out of her skull.

Trish recoiled with shock, and backed away into the living room, stumbling over the projector cables again, the panic of the situation beginning to overtake her.

She looked towards the basement door and heard him, thundering up the basement stairs, and with a look of sheer dread, her instincts snapped her back to reality.

Trish sprinted for the kitchen in a panic, threw open the back door, and screamed at the top of her lungs.

It was Jimmy, crucified to the doorframe, four huge spikes nailed through his hands and feet, a huge gash in the middle of his face. She brought her hands to her face and screamed, hyperventilating, and then looking frantically for a way out. She saw the kitchen window above the sink.

Trish didn't have time to unlock it and open it. Jason was coming through the living room, looking for her, smashing things in his path.

She snatched up a chair from the table, and hurled it at the glass, smashing it on impact. She dropped the chair, climbed up onto the counter, and threw the machete out onto the ground first. Then, she dove through the window, picked up the machete, and started running through the pouring rain towards the Jarvis house just as Jason grabbed at her over the sill.

Jason growled in anger as he watched her run screaming, but then felt the bubbling, seething rage that threatened to consume him subside as he heard her terrified screams.

Scream just like he screamed when no one could come to save him in the lake. Scream just like he screamed. Scream just like his mother had screamed. Feel the terror that he felt, feel the horror and helplessness. Feel the anguish that his mother felt about losing him, feel the anger and heartbreak. He had watched her see Rob being murdered, just like he watched his mother be decapitated that night on the shore of the lake.

She still had to die.

Hearing her horrified screaming eased the rage within him, but it was back in a matter of seconds.

Jason walked towards the back door and ripped Jimmy from the doorframe, the nails tearing through his hands, and his lifeless body was hurled several feet through the air like it was made of cardboard.

He headed straight for the Jarvis house with the insatiable lust to kill driving him forward.


Tommy heard the frantic hammering on the front door and the panicked screaming, and ran to open it. Trish scrambled inside, slamming the front door and locking it.

She was drenched in rain and hysterical, splattered with flecks of Rob's blood, still clutching the bloody machete in her trembling hand.

"Tommy, are the doors locked?"

"Yes," Tommy replied, his eyes wide.

"I need you to get me a hammer and nails, right now," Trish ordered firmly, setting the machete down by the door.

All of the color drained from Tommy's face when she saw just how terrified Trish was.

"Is he here?" Tommy asked.

"Yes!" she screamed frantically. Wait, how did he know? She thought. Then she saw the newspaper clippings lying on the kitchen table. Tommy must know all about him now. And now, they both knew he was real. They should have listened to all those crazy townspeople. They should have never come out to the country. Now, they were trapped like fish in a shark tank.

They didn't have any time to think, her mind screamed. He would be here any minute. The keys, she thought. No time. She didn't know where they were. They could be somewhere out in the storm, out on the path. No time to think. She ran into the living room and began to make her rounds, locking every window.

"Tommy, hurry!" she cried.

Tommy came running from the laundry room, scrambling into the front room with the hammer and nails.

Trish took a nail, and began driving it into the front door, securing it to the frame, and then started with another. No way she was letting this old door hold Jason by itself; Trish could picture him being able to break through it like paper. She tried to focus on securing the door but she kept seeing the blood, and the bodies, and Rob's lifeless form just lying there over and over in her mind. It was throbbing in her head.

This can't be happening, she thought, as she pounded in the last nail and backed away from the door, shaking with fear.

"Trish…." Tommy started to say, the inevitable reality of the situation beginning to hit him in one, overwhelming rush.

She didn't say anything; she didn't know how to console she had a horrible feeling this would probably all be in vain. Jason had killed that entire group of kids, and Rob...Trish knew they probably didn't stand a chance.

He was going to come for both of them and kill them like he'd kill the others. Trish didn't want to think that her own mother was dead, and that soon they might be dead, but she knew the horrible truth all too well.

Tommy didn't move. He was standing by the staircase, watching the front door with huge eyes, ravaged with the horror of what he was realizing.

They had to get out...they had to run to the main road...they had to get away...all of a sudden, they both leaped out of their skin as the huge picture window in the living room imploded inwards, and Rob's blood-soaked corpse came crashing down on the hardwood floor.

The gardening fork was embedded in his skull.

Trish screamed, bringing her hands up to her face instinctively as Tommy just stood, frozen in shock at the sight.

"Rob…" Trish said, her eyes wet with tears. She bent down and shook him slightly, a tiny sliver of hope in her that he was still alive.

He didn't budge.

Then, Trish heard another deafening crash, and she sprang to her feet to see another terrifying sight.

Tommy had backed into the other huge window in the room, and Jason was now reaching through the shattered glass, his arms wrapped around Tommy's tiny form and pulling him through the window.

"Trish! Trish, he's got me Trish! Let me go!" Tommy screamed at the top of his lungs.

Trish screamed a battle cry, snatched up the hammer from the floor, and ran to the window. She looked at Jason dead in his hate-filled eyes through the holes of that hockey mask, and she began to swing the hammer at his head, delivering solid blows but Jason didn't budge.

It barely fazed him. She was bashing him as hard as she could, but he didn't seem to feel a thing. She could smell the acrid body odor, and his stinking hot breath through the mask.

She saw his eyes again, and she caught the loathing. The hatred.

She didn't have time to think about it, because he was reeling back to drag Tommy's comparatively tiny body through the glass. In a last, frantic effort, Trish swung the other end of the hammer with all of her might at Jason's head, and the two claws of the hammer buried themselves in the side of Jason's neck right under his left ear.

Jason growled in pain, finally releasing his grip on Tommy and staggering back out into the night. Trish wrapped both of her arms around Tommy, and pulled him safely into the house. With two hands, Jason ripped the hammer out and began stalking towards the front door.

Trish saw him walking towards the door, and in a flash, she grabbed Tommy's hand and yanked him towards the staircase.

Just as they stopped at the bottom of the stairs, the front door exploded inwards and Jason came smashing through like a bull.

He had just walked right through it. Tommy's jaw dropped as he saw the deranged killer who was now in the living room with them. He was unstoppable.

They both watched in disbelief as Jason reared back and hurled the hammer at them. It whistled through the air and impaled itself in the doorframe right beside Trish's head.

Then, he advanced towards them, his hulking figure looming upon them, his crazed eyes boring into Trish's soul.

"Follow me up!" Tommy screamed, running up the staircase with Trish not far behind.

She followed Tommy frantically into his room.

They heard Jason thundering up the steps after them, and quickly closed the door, bolting it.

Trish frantically searched for a way to barricade the door, and then she grabbed Tommy's tall, wooden armoire that he used to shelve all of his masks and action figures, sliding it across the floor in front of the door.

"Tommy, help me," she said.

The two of them managed to heave the enormous dresser in front of the door and backed away from the door, crouching down and hugging each other tightly in the middle of the room, waiting to see what would happen.

Slowly, the doorknob began to turn, and then shake. Tommy held onto Trish tighter, as Trish cupped her hand on his mouth, in an attempt to silence the petrified screaming that was threatening to erupt from him. There was a pounding as Jason threw his shoulder against the door.

After a few more seconds of Jason shaking and banging on the door, it suddenly got quiet.

It was a maddening silence.

"God, what is he doing?" Trish wondered aloud, still holding the trembling Tommy tightly against her chest.

She expected something, anything to happen, but nothing did. Everything was quiet.

And then, out of nowhere, there was the jarring sound of splintering wood that made them leap out of their skin and an axe smashed through the door.

Tommy screamed in fright, and Trish tried to cover his mouth with her hands again, but it was no use. Jason knew exactly where they were.

Jason swung the axe again, and all Trish and Tommy could do was watch in horror as the barrier keeping them inside and their killer outside was being destroyed.

Seeing Jason start to reach his arm into the room, Trish knew she had to act fast.

They were trapped like caged animals. He was going to kill them in this room.

She had to knock the bastard out long enough for them to make a fucking run for it. It was their only chance of survival. It had to be something to incapacitate him. There was no going up against him with an axe. Trish scanned the room madly for a weapon. The knife replicas on Tommy's wall weren't sharp enough...there was a baseball bat in the corner but it was made of foam. Oh fuck, she thought. Then, she turned her head towards Tommy's desk and her eyes lit up madly.

Trish ran to the desk and lifted Tommy's computer monitor off the desk and heaved it into the air, carrying it across the room on her shoulder.

Jason was shoving the dresser out of the way, reaching his head and arm into the room. He never saw it coming. Trish slammed the monitor down on his head with all her strength, and watched the sparks fly. Jason's body convulsed wildly, as smoke began to fill the room. Trish ran back over to Tommy and shielded him from the sparks, putting up her own hands to deflect them from herself.

The monitor crashed to the floor and Jason staggered back into the hallway with a dazed groan, crashing to the floor like a fallen tree.

Then, it was silent again, and Trish and Tommy didn't dare move or make a sound, listening and waiting to see if he was really dead.

Jason didn't get up. Smoke still lingered in the air.

Trish stood to her feet, gestured for Tommy to stay, and inched towards the door, looking through the gaping hole in the bedroom door.

Jason was lying motionless, but Trish could see his chest rising and falling and his head still reeling from the blow... He was just unconscious.

They didn't have much time. She motioned for Tommy to come to the door, and when he came, she grabbed him by the shoulders and looked him dead in the eyes.

"Tommy, I'm going to get him out of the house, and when I do, I want you to run like hell, do you hear me? Run like hell," Trish said, clenching her teeth in a hushed whisper, careful not to wake the unconscious killer sprawled in the hallway just a foot away.

He had to make a run for it. It was their only hope. Tommy was faster than her, and if he could make it to the nearest house, he could call the police and send them here.

Tommy nodded in response, still shaking like a leaf.

Trish quietly opened what was left of the door, and stepped out into the hallway. She lifted her foot as quietly as she could and stepped over the hulking killer on the floor in front of her. She held her breath and stepped further over him, creeping around him to finally get to the other side, not daring to make any noise, exchanging tight glances with Tommy.

Just as she passed him and started to move for the staircase, Jason shot upright, picked up the dropped axe, and swung it at Trish.

"Trish!" Tommy cried.

The axe embedded itself in the wall, nicking Trish's right shoulder in the process, tearing through the blue cotton dress and ripping her flesh.

As Jason struggled to pry the axe from the wall, Trish shrieked and lurched forward down the hallway, grabbing hold of the banister for support as she looked incredulously at the blood beginning to flow from the gash on her arm.

Jason gave up on the axe, and started to head for Tommy who backed away in fear, shaking his head, pleading…

"No! Tommy!" Trish screamed. Chase ME you son of a bitch, she thought.

Jason turned to Trish, and then back to Tommy, and then back to Trish, as if he were deciding who to go after first.

"No, Trish!" Tommy yelled, but Trish kept urging him on.

"No!" Trish screamed. "Leave him alone!"

Jason complied.

He charged at Trish with full force, and Trish screamed, whirling around and running down the staircase, hearing Tommy urging her on above her.

Trish bolted for the front door, leaping through what was left of it, and ran out into the pouring rain. It hit her like needles. The wind whistled around her.

She spun around and screamed at the sight of Jason barreling out of the house towards her, angrier than ever.

That's right…chase me you fucker, Trish thought. She had to get him away from the house so Tommy could get out of there.

She ran as fast as she could down the muddy path, keeping as much distance as she could between them. Jason was hot on her trail.

Trish looked over her shoulder again to see Jason coming up on her horrifyingly fast, barreling across the yard like a pro quarterback.

She shrieked at the sight of the hockey mask right behind her, and ran faster, almost slipping in the mud, making a mad dash towards the only place she knew to go: back down the path towards the rental house.

She jumped over Tina's bloodied body lying on the porch, not even registering the sight, and scrambled into the house, not bothering to close the door. Jason was right behind her. She stopped at the foot of the stairs and turned around, seeing Jason standing there in the doorway, his huge form blocking out the light from the moon outside. His shoulders were heaving. He was fuming now, his eyes glaring at her with that insatiable lust to kill...full of blazing fury that threatened to explode out of him at any moment.

It happened so fast. The next thing Trish knew Jason was running at her again, and she screamed.

She bolted up the stairs, Jason just an arm's reach behind her, growling as she ran down the hallway, coming to the end and turning around to see the madman. at the top of the stairs, those demented unblinking eyes still staring at her. It was a standoff.

Trish stared back, hyperventilating and sobbing, pleading with him-she wanted to try to evoke any kind of sympathy that she could out of this maniac, but she knew it was no use. He was an unstoppable monster, and there was nothing she could do. He kept staring her down, his eyes devoid of any empathetic response or emotion...She was trapped at the end of the hallway like a caged animal awaiting its slaughter, shrinking back into the corner with fear.

Trish backed away, shaking her head...God, please just leave us alone...please don't hurt Tommy…" she thought.

Jason didn't flinch.

He charged at her.

Trish instinctively turned, looking for a place to run, and she saw the large picture window at the end of the hall.

It was her only shot.

With a scream and a quick split second to brace herself, she ran towards the window, made a flying leap and threw herself at the glass.

Fortunately, the glass smashed through on impact, and Trish went flying through the window and through the air, hitting the porch roof, smashing through the wooden balcony railing, and landing hard on her back in the mud.

Jason leaned through the shattered window and looked down at Trish lying on her back on the muddy ground, motionless.

Trish struggled to breathe for a moment, the wind knocked out of her, squinting through the rain falling down on her face. She could barely see him staring down at her from the window, and she held her breath tightly, hoping he would think she was dead. The second she saw him disappear into the rental house, Trish slowly started to pull herself to her feet as fast as she could and started running back towards the house.

She could feel the pain in her right leg that was shooting all the way up towards her thigh, but she ignored it, the adrenaline rush completely blocking all other sensations out.

She could see the blood on her arms from where the glass had cut her, but she didn't care; she had to get back to the house and try to get away.

She saw the car sitting under the tree in its usual spot. Maybe Tommy wasn't too far ahead and she could catch up with him in the car, that is, if he made it out of the house. It probably wouldn't even work, but she had to try.

The keys had to be hanging in the kitchen.

Trish clambered up the front porch steps of their log cabin, dragging her pained ankle behind her, and hobbled into the front room, staring down at what was left of the front door.

"Tommy?" she called into the quiet house.

She heard his voice call out from upstairs.

Goddamnit, Trish thought.

"Tommy, you were supposed to leave!" Trish screamed hysterically through tears. What the hell was he doing up there?

Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she saw him. Jason, coming through the front door behind her. She could hear his boots thudding softly across the floor, and she smelled him-that awful stench of sweat and filth, and heard the deep labored breathing…

He was in the house.

Trish froze, searching her surroundings for a weapon.

Rob's machete was leaning against the wall by the door.

She discreetly grabbed for the machete, and just as Jason reached out to grab her, Trish swung around, the machete blade slicing through the air and just missing his head, cutting into the doorframe.

Trish yanked the machete out of the wooden frame and backed into the dining room-Jason advancing menacingly towards her.

She swung the machete again and missed, smashing a picture frame on the wall. She swung again, and Jason jumped back again to avoid the blade.

"Stay away from me!" Trish screamed, swinging at him again.

He reached for her, arms outstretched. Trish swung and this time she made contact.

The blade sliced into his left hand, right between the knuckles of Jason's middle and ring finger. Jason growled in pain and yanked his arm back instinctively.

He held up his hand, staring psychotically at the blood spurting from the gaping wound that had almost split his hand in half.

Trish looked on in horror, shock, and relief that she had actually hit him, but that soon faded. The wound hardly fazed him.

He lunged at her again, and Trish screamed, looping around the dining room table and running into the living room

"Tommy, get the hell out of here!" Trish screamed up the staircase, and leaping back to avoid another grab from Jason.

"NO! She screamed. She swung the machete, and missed.

Jason kept coming, completely unafraid of the razor sharp blade slashing at him.

"You son-of-a-bitch, I'll give you something to remember us by," Trish said through clenched teeth, her fear quickly bubbling up into anger.

She reared back like a slugger, and swung the machete like a baseball bat. The blade lodged deep in Jason's chest. He didn't flinch.

Jason snarled with rage, and smashed a lamp with his fist, plunging the room into darkness. With a single swipe of his hand, he slammed Trish to the floor. She screamed as Jason lunged at her, climbing on top of her and pinning her to the floor.

Trish hysterically began to fight with everything in her. She kicked, screamed, clawed, but to no avail. He was huge, and he was too powerful. The stench of his body odor was making her gag. His hands were grabbing for her throat. He straddled her and she started punching him in his mask, hammering the tough plastic with all the strength she had left in her. It was no use. It wasn't affecting him.

He was going to kill her right there. Right there on her own living room floor, leave her bloodied, mangled body there for Tommy to see and have that image of his sister ingrained in his brain forever. God, you bastard, just please spare Tommy. Please don't hurt him, she thought, her life flashing through her eyes. Time seemed to slow down as she began to picture all the things he could do to her.

Would he do other things to her? Torture her? Rape her?

No, Trish thought in horror. She saw the look in his demented eyes and knew exactly what he was planning to do.

He took both of his hands and wrapped them around Trish's throat, clamping down and strangling the life out of her.

He was going to kill her plain and simple.

Trish couldn't scream, and she felt her body going weak from the loss of oxygen. She clawed at his hands, tried to pry them free from her neck, but it was hopeless.

And then, almost by godsend, a voice rang out, loud and clear.

"Jason! Jason!" the voice bellowed.

It was inhuman…it was filled with anger…but still held the youthfulness of a child. It was Tommy's voice, Trish realized, but something was different.

"Jason!" the voice continued, until finally Jason stopped strangling Trish and looked up at the staircase.

Trish glanced up as well and saw her brother standing there, his head almost completely shaved.

Tommy stared at Jason in the eyes through the holes in the hockey mask.

"Jason…remember me?" Tommy asked, walking closer to Jason, talking in a soothing, hypnotic voice.

God no Tommy…Tommy, what the hell are you doing? Get the hell out of here, Trish's mind screamed. Run, save yourself. She tried to signal to him with her eyes to run and get the fuck out. But Tommy's eyes were transfixed on Jason.

What was he doing?

She scrunched up her face in bewilderment. Then she realized what he was doing and she was in awe.

He looked like…He looked just like the artist's sketch in the newspaper…of Jason as a little boy. It was almost as if he recreated the sketch to a tee. He had put foundation on to make his face look deathly and pale, and made dark circles around his eyes. He had shaved his head, but not completely, leaving sparse patches of hair like in the photograph.

He had cut his jeans off at the knee like the shorts the little boy was wearing. It was almost like he was creating one of his masks or one of his action figures. He was young Jason Voorhees.

Trish tried to say something, but Tommy gave her a knowing look. She knew exactly what he was doing.

She saw Tommy's eyes flicker over towards the machete discarded on the rug, and Trish's mind clicked into place.

It was a distraction. And it was working.

Jason was either confused, or intrigued, and was just kneeling motionless, cocking his head to the side like some kind of confused and curious animal. Staring at Tommy. Staring at what looked like himself as a child. In a silent daze.

Trish, this was your chance, her mind screamed.

Jason rose to his feet, and stared at Tommy, almost in a trance. He outstretched his hand towards Tommy...reaching for something of the past...trying to save himself...

"Jason…Remember what you were, Jason? Don't you remember…?" Tommy said, drawing Jason closer and closer until they were an arm's reach apart.

It was working…my God, it was working, Trish thought excitedly. It was putting the bastard in some kind of trance. It was working.

Trish was incited on fire, quietly but quickly snatching the machete up from the floor, and creeping behind Jason, slowly bringing the machete back over her shoulder. She wasn't fast enough as he heard her quiet and furtive footsteps and spun around, snapping out of it and leering at her. Trish panicked as she saw the utter loathing in those eyes, and swung the machete at his head with all her might.

Her panicking had caused her to miss her mark, but the machete grazed Jason's mask, breaking the strap, knocking it off of his head and sending it flying.

What was under the mask made Trish recoil in pure, unadulterated repulsion and terror, and the machete fall from her hands onto the wooden floor.

He didn't even look human. His features were distorted and grotesque, his skin was leathery and wrinkled and had degraded to a sickly yellow-brown color. It was ten times more horrifying than any of Tommy's masks. Clotted blood and pus oozed from the gash on his forehead. This wasn't made of rubber, this was all too real. He was a monster. Trish cupped her hands to her mouth in sheer shock and disgust and fell backwards onto the floor, scuttling backwards and shaking her head, pleading as Jason advanced towards her. All she could do was watch helplessly. She had forgotten all about fighting. This was too terrifying for her to face.

His mouth opened, revealing a set of broken and rotting teeth-it was something out of a nightmare.

What happened next, Trish didn't see coming.

She heard Tommy's voice scream Jason's name with a fury that she didn't know Tommy had in him.

When Jason turned to face Tommy, Tommy swung the machete at the side of Jason's head like a pro batter.

This time, it didn't miss.

It buried deep into the side of Jason's skull, slicing through his deformed flesh all the way up to the hilt, and cutting through the side of his left eye. Blood squirted out and dribbled down Jason's cheek.

Tommy stared on in shock as Trish stood with her hands at her face, crying hysterically and hyperventilating.

They both watched in terror and hopeful anticipation as Jason fell to his knees and pitched forward, landing on the machete protruding from his eye, and burying the blade deeper into his skull. The grotesque abnormalities of his face were twitching and moving around, and his body began convulsing. A white foam formed at his mouth as the machete was driven even deeper through his head and out at the base of his skull, dark blood and brain matter beginning to pool around him.

Jason finally hit the floor, the machete going all the way through, and lay there, motionless.

Trish was inconsolable, and as she saw that he was finally dead, her body began to gradually stop trembling violently and her hyperventilating had started to slow down. She stared at Tommy in disbelief with bloodshot eyes. Tommy was frozen in astonishment, a blank, emotionless expression on his face, trying to process what had just happened.

It was over. It was all over. The initial shock of it slowly resolved into an overwhelming relief that washed over both of them.

Trish sprang to her feet and ran to Tommy, embracing him. Tommy began to cry into Trish's arms, turning from a killer into a scared little boy trembling all over with fright.

She wanted to say something, ask him what came over him, ask him if he was ok but she was barely able to speak. She just wanted to hold him and tell him everything would be alright. Jason was dead. He was dead and this nightmare was over. Then, without warning, Jason's hand came to life, grabbing Trish's ankle.

She let out a bone-chilling scream and yanked her foot away. What happened next was the ultimate shock.

She watched as Tommy picked up the machete and in a split second, his tiny body went into a frenzy. He lifted the machete into the air and brought it down on Jason's body.

Again, and again, and again, and again.

"Tommy!" Tommy!" Trish screamed, trying to snap him out of it, but he was in some sort of trance.

She didn't even recognize him.

His face was contorted in an almost inhuman way. He was screaming madly.

"Die! Die! Die! Die! Die!"

Trish had never seen anything like it before. She didn't want to believe it. God, Tommy he's dead...Tommy he's dead...she wanted to stop it but she couldn't...the room began to spin. She fell to her knees, her body finally giving in to exhaustion and sank down, down into oblivion...into nothingness.. into the unconscious...into visions of blood and death and shades of red and white...

Tommy kept hacking away at Jason, over and over, screaming...

"Die!"

"Die!"

"Die!"

"Die!"