"Scary man!"
"No, Kevvy. Daddy. Can you say daddy?"
"Scary man!"
"Hahahaha, shush, shush! You can't say that." Emily puts down her sewing, picking up Kevin and hugging him, rolling around the Turkish carpet while he giggles about the 'scary man'. Children entering the talking stage without understanding why some things shouldn't be said, oh my gosh. From two years worth of experience, it seems fairly unlikely that Jason will hurt his own offspring.
But.
Emily remembers the look in his eye on the day she gave birth to her daughter, remembers the exact placement of his fingers around the handle of his machete. There is a line in him that doesn't exist in most men, and any reserve of fondness he may possess is as shallow as a puddle, contingent on things she cannot understand. Best pray the burning sun doesn't come out.
From her cot the beautiful baby Emily's sewing a little dress for, gurgles happily, her teeny tiny hands opening and closing, her lips curving up in delight. Unlike her father and brother, she has dark hair and two dark eyes, not a speck or spot on her. A precious and pure little bundle of love, capable of stopping traffic in the form of her father, who tilts his head at her in a rare, unsarcastic manner. With her he was much quicker to touch and pick up, handling her the way he handles candles destined for his shrine, almost succeeding in imitating a normal parent for seconds at a time. He can wear clothes and do normal man things when he wants to, perhaps he can be a normal father too. That's what she thinks on her more hopeful days, but Emily supposes the unusually gentle treatment has got more to do with the baby's name than anything else.
As much as it feels like the casting of some sort of shitty spell, it was inevitable that she be named Pamela, and just as inevitable that Emily use every dodge in the book to avoid calling her that, at least in private. With Jason around only the long form is used, but when he's not, the child goes by 'Pom-Pom', a word that never fails to elicit shrieks of laughter from mother and children.
Replacing Kevin on his butt with his Teddy, which he immediately practices crushing bear hugs on, Emily picks up her daughter, cuddling her, before returning to her work, stitching an applique chicken on a bit of pink fabric given her by Jason when she expressed a desire to create a baby dress. She understands now how he became so proficient with everything he touches, partly it comes from living at a summer camp as a boy, but mostly it comes from necessity, combined with the cold ruthlessness of a heart forced to turn inwards. You either get good at finding food, or you die. You either learn to make the best of every item you come across, or you eventually go without. You either become dangerous, or the world will swallow you whole.
A clank in the distance is picked up by her now much more sensitive ears. Freezing, she waits, hand reaching toward the switch for the lights, no chain rattling, her eyes casting about aimlessly while all focus goes to her hearing. Her children hush. She swallows, finger pressing down. But before she plunges her cell into darkness, a little cow bell high up in the right hand corner of the ceiling, beyond the bars, tinkles. Letting out a long breath, Emily relaxes, rolling her neck. "Daddy's home." She hates to call him that, but there is no other word, and he and his relationship to the children must be described somehow, for their sake. This is how she lives now, hoping that flinging the right words at an F5 tornado can make it alter course.
Indeed, the immense shadow of the lord of the manor approaches, leaping into existence as fairy light throws itself at him. It stops just short of the corner. Too slowly for Emily or the children to notice, Jason slides around it, standing and watching the spectacle for five full minutes before he's discovered, the earthy tones of his clothing, hair, skin and even mask blending into the rock. This is a repeat lesson, and one of his worst, the silent reminder that he could be anywhere, at any time, and even when you expect him, he's not a good sight. Not a good omen.
Once Emily has almost leapt out of her skin and has calmed down the children from the fright that ricocheted around the cell upon sighting the prehistoric predator, Jason strides through the open door, a hand balled in a pocket, his eyes darting into every corner and crack in the wall before settling on his human property. An equilibrium has been reached, of sorts. There is an understanding. A treaty, one might say, a totally unspoken one. Emily may go from the cell to the 'living area' of the lair, including the kitchen and tunnel featuring the book stash, but not anywhere else, certainly not to Jason's original underground bedroom, where he keeps his weapons and most private possessions, and not up to the house. In exchange, she won't run. She won't run and he won't have to punish her. It's a Versailles type treaty for Jason, as he gains nothing except stress. Still, it has made her more liberal with the sparkly eyes, and he has noticed that normal men don't keep their women on leashes, unwise as that choice may be.
Since attempting to have a woman approve of him is the proposed reason for his unstoppable killing sprees, he advances one more step in that unattainable direction, pulling his hand out of his coat and thrusting it at Emily, unclenching his fist to drop a small sunflower on her head while she's greeting him. She catches it before it hits the ground, stabbing at him with a smile. His skin burns for no reason when she attacks him with that happy weapon, so he turns to stare at his children, studying the boy, who has undeniably emerged from his loins, and then studying the girl, who bears less resemblance to him. The girl has similar occult powers to her mother, compelling him to touch and carry her about. She'll probably grow to be small like her mother too, which will significantly cut down on the amount of energy he will have to expend in keeping her under control. He picks her up and turns with her in his arms, ignoring Emily's nakedly nervous expression, turning to study Kevin again. A shoe in need of polishing nudges the child, who grabs at it, holding tight, his mismatched eyes moving ever so slightly out of sync. The boy will likely become a, uh, 'problem', to put it mildly, like his father. Not a problem to Jason, naturally, but to fools.
Family time doesn't last more than a few moments before the patriarch skedaddles, not even stopping to sow more seed in his feminine field. Some little luxuries were acquired in that trip to town, but it has as a result made the recluse even more jumpy, more paranoid, more aggressive, liable to lash out suddenly at the slightest inconvenience, so much so that Emily experiences no mixed feelings when he leaves so quickly. He occasionally reattaches the manacles, but overall he has returned to treating her fairly decently, if refraining from torture and beatings can be called 'decent'. However, he remains sexually voracious and violent, even sadistic, and will still not take no for an answer, no matter how many times Emily says the word, seeming to only enjoy the act if or because he's doing wrong. Suspecting this, Emily ceases telling him to stop, and ceases expressing hurt as far as she can, in the hope that he'll lose interest like he has before in other things she finds abhorrent, but this time the technique doesn't work. There are some things that cannot be changed, not for love and not for money, and you can't separate serial pervert from serial killer.
Upstairs, crouching in a bush in his own yard, Jason broods to the sound of frogs serenading each other. The lilac of evening darkens to the blue of night, and the fireflies come out, a sight even a murderer can dimly appreciate. His birthday is coming up. Events always occur on his birthday. Most years the boogaloo is entirely one sided, with some lucky hits on him now and then…but not always. Very occasionally he is the hunted and not the hunter. It takes the organism whose neck he is attached to, a very long time to work up the courage and irritation necessary to attempt to pinch him off the blood supply, but it has been known to happen, and when it does the air grows quiet, and still, the trees stare. Even out here there can be too much of a good thing, and too much quiet can drive you as mad as too much noise. The air is quiet, there haven't been any intruders for weeks. Someone is doing their job for once.
And then there's this. A hand darts into a pocket, pulling out an A4 piece of paper, folded twice. Once uncreased a very familiar face smiles up at Jason through the dusk. Missing since almost three of his birthdays ago. Last seen at Crystal Lake, with infant. Suspicious man sighted, so-and-so number plates. These things go up all the time, and were it not for the air Jason wouldn't be concerned. He'd simply increase his defences, perform more patrols, sleep less and watch more. The worrying thing is that it's not just him that might see that it's obvious why a girl going missing at Crystal Lake three years ago, would pop up at Crystal Lake in a state of maternal disrepair, yet still remain unfound and unseen. People know what happens here, and they tolerate it. After all, it is outsiders volunteering themselves for sacrifice to the Minotaur, not locals…but it could be locals at any moment.
Dropping the poster, he lifts a mason jar with his other hand, smoothly capturing a few bright bugs within it. He makes no promises to anyone ever, except his mother, but if he did make promises, he would make no promises to Emily that nothing final will happen to any exceptionally stupid members of her family or friends that might decide to step into his territory. He's not the in-law tolerating type.
A baby's screams decapitate a very rare, only partially nightmarish dream, launching Jason into a world of glowing yellow orbs. A black shape interrupts his bleary view of the chest of drawers opposite him and the jar he stealth placed on top of it, bare feet tripping across the carpet in their haste to reach the baby. All the noises mother's use to soothe a child, fill the dark, but little Pamela refuses to be soothed, shrieking like the world is ending. The sound disintegrates the already severely strained emotional control of her parents, launching Emily into sobs as she presses the infant tighter and tighter to her chest. Woken by the noise, Kevin joins in. It is too much. With an inferno of a headache raging through a skull already horribly prone to migraines, Jason throws himself out of bed, wrenching a wail from Emily when he storms past, a pale Komodo dragon, the air he displaces buffeting her and making her stumble.
Exiled to the living area, he snatches a secondary set of clothing and weapons from his private bedroom, gorges on something red and juicy for breakfast, and goes outside into the chill, the sun still very far away from rising.
The problem with a large territory and no communication with the outside world is that it's impossible to fortify or prepare well enough to feel secure. You can't ever feel secure in the wilds, even if you're at the top of the food chain. It's possible to bring down a bear if you have either a good sized gun, or there's many of you and you don't play the gentleman. Relentless contempt tends to make it difficult to predict what others might do, but luckily for Jason, most people are less intelligent than he is, and he inspires so much fear in them that they lose the ability to think clearly, allowing him to waltz around shooting a bunch of dazed fish in a barrel. Still, cowardly hyena can kill a noble lion if they get it together and gang up on him.
While he's standing in the arms of a tree, arcs of solar flame erupt over the mist shrouded horizon, bringing one more day of tedious survival with them. Exhaustion necessitates that he climb down and curl up in the dew splattered bracken like a giant black and yellow centipede, napping, his breathing fluttering a loose thread of his coat.
The girl baby has some kind of common childhood issue, so says Emily. She's not screaming solely to enrage her father. Again, so says Emily. Jason, who contributes nothing to the raising of his illicit children except bad food and bad shelter, glowers at her, generating words in her mind. They aren't kind words. Apart from asking her name, he has never uttered anything at or to her that could be construed as kind, gentle, or even polite. His silent scowl declares that his sleep best not be interrupted again. Unavoidably aware that he's under some sort of immense pressure that won't be made known to her, Emily gulps and blinks rapidly. Having glimpsed a calendar in town, she has begun to keep a rough estimate of time. It's June, the Month of Gore.
Dreams are shattered for the fifth night in a row by wails, and before Emily can get up, a body thrashes in its sleep and short nails rake her side. The shock causes her to elbow her bed partner in the face, which turns him into a scalded cat of immense size. Everything becomes violent chaos, even after Jason runs towards the door, but misses in the dark and crashes into the bars, deforming them, before righting himself and disappearing down the tunnels, the sound of wanton destruction drifting back on the stagnant air.
Later, and elsewhere in the forest, near to the border with the fields, a trapdoor throws itself open, a man shape launching itself out of the ground on all fours before standing to its true height. But not for long, it drops the door softly, covering it with detritus, then hides behind a tree trunk, a hand gripping its hard curves as gently as a lover might. Around the man, puffs of earthy fragrance rise from surprisingly shallow footprints. The distant sound of farm vehicles and labourers' voices reach him, or seem to. A plane flies by silently overhead, leaving a streak of white behind it. An airborne snail. Ripe for cracking. For once Jason wishes he had his potato sack on, it offers pretend protection for his bulbous head. His skull is insanely thick, but theoretically it could be smashed. Fields of corn shiver, but the sunflowers are worse. They stare, out stare him, even. It's one thing for trees to be taller than he is, but flowers? Thirty feet is too tall for a flower. How do these idiots tolerate it? Threats and invaders could be lurking between those thick stems and under those heavy leaves. He's tempted to set fire to the fields, but setting fires is anathema to the true forest dweller. May as well set fire to himself.
Emily doesn't want him to return while he's in this twitchy, furious mood, but since she's free to walk around the lair, it's guaranteed that he will, and suddenly. Trust can never come to full term between captive and captor. Never ever. It's always either premature, or it eventually miscarries. Trust is unlikely to come to full term between Jason and anyone except the dead, and even his mother has deceived him once or twice. Still, he begrudgingly acknowledges that that may have, perhaps, potentially, possibly, been due to his own fault.
He returns, appearing at the junction of 'will he?' and 'won't he?' coming upon Emily in the living area while she's sounding out words for Kevin, Pamela lying in her lap. The girl baby is the first to discern her father's presence, cooing, smiling, and kicking her fat little legs, her chicken dress the cutest outfit you ever did see. By means of an arm sweep, he indicates something to Emily, but what he's saying is new and complicated so she doesn't have words for it, looking at him with the dreaded 'I don't understand' expression. He sweeps an arm around again, pointing in the direction of her cell. Thinking he wants her to return there, she gets up and makes the long journey, but once she's arrived and placed the children down, Jason sweeps his arm around again. "Do you want me to clean?" she asks, looking around for an errant pile of soil to sweep.
No! Grunts join the gesturing, Jason flinging a gym bag on the bed and pointing at the chest of drawers, then at the bag, over and over again. Emily gets it. Pack. He could've said so, it's one word, but making life difficult for everyone around him is one of his major side-hustles. Still, she supposes she should be grateful, as you know shit is serious when Jason deigns to speak.
A highly unusual, pieced together, not entirely (un)willing family slowly and carefully trek through the forest, taking the deepest, most covered route when they can't rely on tunnels, Jason calling halt after halt so that he can slither off and scout. It has come to Emily's attention that while he might not be in any real danger, he certainly believes he is, a fact that makes her heart simultaneously fizzy, and simultaneously wobbly. These dual emotions are exhausting, each one calling the other a traitor, trying to convince the ruling intelligence to side with them and put to death their rival. Obviously there's no debate, Emily retains the correct understanding of her situation, and a correct opinion of the man in question, but knowledge doesn't stop various bonding hormones from treating Jason as if he's a good man she chose for herself, and knowledge doesn't rewind time.
Nothing beyond a highly optimistic coyote gets in the way of the human migration, which ends in the mountains, within a fold of rock and trees, in an underground bunker where a particularly naughty cult once had their digs. It's not a place for the insomniac or the easily scared. The new hole in the ground is much less comfy and homely than the former hole in the ground, too out of the way for Jason to bother with it except in situations like these. He keeps an emergency stash here, and not much else. Before reaching it he performs another long bout of watching, climbing a tree like the bears who wish they were as tough as him. A flat disc of water shines blue and white in the hot summer sun, and distant bursts of glare indicate vehicles travelling along grey rivers of asphalt. Wild, not that wild at all. He lives here like cancer lives in the stomach. Surrounded on all sides. Not difficult to discover his presence, and very difficult to ignore. One has to pour a lot of concrete on that conscience, people, and keep pouring. His own conscience being in a state of enforced hibernation for years at a time makes it impossible for him to gauge when those of other people might wake up. Mostly, any negative consequences of the moral type come to him while he's asleep, or at unpredictable moments while he's working, and then usually because something reminds him of himself.
Landing on his feet on the soft ground, he shoos Emily and children into the dingy, dank, dusty hole, filled with the shattered remains of what might have once been chairs and beds. Laying a sleeping bag and an insulated mat on a spot of concrete he clears with a few well placed kicks, Jason places the gym bags and a lantern down and points, pointing again once Emily has sat down, thus putting the word 'stay' into her mind. He leaves, and doesn't return for three days.
Re-emergence comes just as Emily is running out of food, water, kerosene and air, and when she begins to believe he's dead or has abandoned them. She's been thinking of what to do should either of those events occur, intending to try and open the steel bunker doors, which sit like a reinforced trap door over a steel ladder. It's extremely vile down here, the sense of evil even more palpable than in Jason's home, possibly because of the hard, cold materials used in the bunker's construction, and because it's absolutely lightless and has only one way out, unlike in the lair. Dark stains have become part of the concrete floors and walls and ceiling, dark stains that she has become adept at categorizing. The cult was a bad one, and it ended badly.
Placing her babies in gym bags as makeshift playpens and cots, and twisting the lantern to try and get more light, she wobbles over to the ladder, climbing it and lifting a hand, flattening it over the bumpy metal. It feels like it weighs a million tonnes, and it was definitely designed for male users, like most things. Jason lifts it like it's made of paper, but comparing oneself to him is beyond moronic. Can it be locked? She didn't hear him do anything to it once he closed it, but he's very sneaky. Weak and weakened further by so many things, she knows that it won't do to waste one's first and greatest burst of strength on a half-hearted attempt. Acquiring a better perch and finding her balance, she skitters her hands down towards the bottom of the thing, discovering a handle she saw Jason use but which didn't click in her mind at the time. Pushing up with all her might, she laughs when it turns out that the old thing was loosened by his aggressive haste, opening easily, dropping a thin covering of pine needles and soil to the ground, much less weight to it than she feared.
Soft evening light and flower filled evening air rushes in, delighting all three humans to an extent that cannot be quantified. Having unavoidably picked up some things from three years living with the best of the best, Emily keeps her head low and looks around before considering stepping out. The trees up here are pine and whatnot, standing straight, proud, and tall, the underbrush much more open than lower down in Jason's territory, the air crisp and spicy with the glorious scent of sap, surely one of the most wonderful smells on earth. Birds sing lullabies to the sun, and nothing moves, but still Emily does not climb out of her hole. An itchiness weighs down the top of her head, like a heavy hand is attempting to push her back down the ladder. With heart racing, she continues to search the unfriendly trees, not sure what colour to look for, beyond dirty off-white.
It takes a full five minutes, and despite expecting it, Emily still yelps and reflexively closes the trap door, missing a step on the way down and falling off the ladder, landing on her hip. Silent, staring trees, his less malevolent little brothers and sisters. There he was, lurking amongst their skinny boughs, glaring down at her, the black holes in his mask expanding to consume the world. The bar raises for terror, jerking all the while she shambles over to the spluttering lantern and her grizzling babies. He's alive, hasn't abandoned them. Jason looked angry, but he always does, always is.