Friday the 13th is property of Paramount Pictures and of New Line Cinema.


Chapter 1: Overture

His fingertips always shook with a contemptible sting afterwards. Such an aggressive sweltering ache that burned any lingering sympathy and regrets, he could sense it every time, afterwards, when he had finished. But his reward was numbness. Numbness and silence. And while the days weren't perfectly halcyon, they served the duty of gaining him enough tranquil hours in order to build a shameful preparation for the next time an intruder crossed the hellish boundaries of his territory. Property or not, he saw their presence as harassment, as a lingering coax to perform whatever technique he preferred to nullify their existence with. To forever avenge his poor, sweet mother's soul. And with it, a constant crimson never failed to taint the milky flesh on his palms and fists, sticky with the leftovers of human flesh. They would never learn.

The natural deciduous flora, tepid waters, and casual weather often romanticized the location of Crystal Lake. Teenage sweethearts, sex addicts, privacy seekers, stoners, they had a tendency to overlook the warnings from the locals; it was their ignorance that ensured their end, and it was always unpleasant. Very unpleasant. No exceptions. The phantasmal rumors and treacherous legends weren't enough to veer tourists from bad decisions, even ones that allowed them to coincide with the deceased. The environment may seem beautiful, but its inhabitants were not as forgiving as the sun on a rainy day.

This time it was a boy and a girl. It almost always was. They would come into the forest, his forest, in the middle of the night, and begin to attack each other with their bodies. They moaned like coyotes on a fresh summer night and sweated and grunted and pinned each other to the ground. And every time he would sit in the shadows, watching, sometimes sitting still with his fingers running sentimentally across the chipped metal of his blade, other times pacing, eyeing the lovers, ignoring the involuntary heat that blistered his groin. Sometimes he would moan. Just like them.

When they finished, they were weak. They would gasp for air like a carp in a fisherman's net. Exhausted and unsuspecting, he would march in their direction. There were times when they would notice and scream. He hated it when they screamed. It made his ears ache, and only fed the hungry-for-death rage cooking in his gut. Tonight was one of those nights. They had seen him before he could pierce their bodies as swiftly as he normally would. That's when the screaming started. Damn that awful noise, like a hungry babe in the middle of the night wanting to suckle on its mother's teat, crying with no end.

The man had tried to land a punch on his face. Mistake number one. The man was the first to go, with a lick of articulated steel crashing in his rib cage exiting through his spinal cord. His shouts were silenced soon after.

Mistake number two: the girl ran. As much as he hated when they wakened their vocal chords to let out a breathy gasps of help, he loved it when they ran. They would panic and cry and call for help. The trees and their tired lungs would help to muffle their screams. And when they tripped – that was the best part – because now they were even worse off. The girl found her death through a hole in her head, the entrails of grey matter and blood staining the soil. He had looked over her thin body. Thin like she was starved. There was something mother used to say about eating.

"You gotta eat meat, boy. Lots of meat. To grow big and strong - So you can protect your mother."

This girl obviously hadn't eaten meat, or anything else for that matter. She must not have wanted to protect her mother like him. Foolish.

But he didn't protect his mother, she was dead. A prowling wave a consciousness washed over him, itching at the back of his head. Was he in the same league as this girl, whom he so easily murdered? Was he no better than her? No, why was he thinking these thoughts at all? There was no point to them. He was superior, superior to them all. These people that came into his land, they would do nothing but perform their acts of desire: sweating atop each other, drinking the fluid that made one act foolishly, breathing the smoke that would make one laugh like a maniac and relieve any stress. He was not one of them, he was greater. They would act like raving lunatics, but he would strategize. They would laugh at one another and smile, but he would never smile. They would run wildly, but he would stalk. They would die, but he would not. No matter how hard they tried to get rid of them.

He shook off his thoughts. More foolishness. He grabbed the girl's body with his meaty hands and dragged her against the ground, returning to their campsite to retrieve the body of the man, and perhaps search for any supplies they may have brought with them.

Getting rid of the bodies was easy. Often, he would throw them in the lake, but not with a bit of work done to their insides. It wasn't strange for a corpse to float on the water, it was natural. To keep the body on the lake floor, he would create an incision from the base of their sternum down to their waist, pull the strings of organs and other unwanted objects taking up space in the body's cavity out, and replace them with rocks, sand, and dirt. It was always best to make it so the body was three times heavier than it normally was, but he wasn't too picky with this ratio. After he was done with that, he'd sew them back up at a musty shack located at the southern end of the lake. He wasn't a surgeon, though, and he would often find himself slipping with the needle and cutting his fingertips more than he would like to. Other times he would just use a stapler if he had one. It was amazing how many useless knick-knacks and intricate equipment he would find in his victim's cars, tents, and camp sites. Most of the time, he would throw what he had found in a closet. He didn't find much use in what he gathered. But every now and then he would find a useful device and use it in his conniving executions. The thread and needle were only a small piece in the multifarious enigma that shrouded his daily life. Blood and sweat was really all it was. Blood and sweat and a few attempts at atoned thoughts.

He had just finished sewing up the chest cavity of the man, and was ready to throw his naked body into the chilly night waters of the lake. He looked down at the nude body in his arms, peaceful in the eyes of death, despite the lingering trails of dry scarlet running down his side.

It seemed like much of the human population lived like this dead man in his arms. Scorned, yet still oblivious to life.

The funeral only lasted a few seconds. He walked out as far as he could go until the water was up to his collar. He let go of the body and watched it sink to the bottom, hitting the sand with a silent thump.

He walked back to the shore with not even a trickle of emotion in his sheltered eyes. And why would there be? It wasn't the first time he had disposed of a body, and certainly not the last.

After the sinking of the girl's bony carcass, the night was just beginning to age. With the moon hanging on a thread shining a crisp peach-golden light, the silence of the waters hummed with a natural uncertainty. Jason Voorhees had killed again, and the earth knew it. Its moans could be heard when the wind nuzzled the summer leaves.

Tonight had been successful, a breath of fresh air. It had been months since a new pair of wanderers had found themselves betraying the line between life and death his forest brought. Perhaps people were beginning to realize the dangers of entering the boundary of Crystal Lake. But if they had, shouldn't he be happy? Should he not finally be at peace at the thought that the burial grounds of his mother's sweat and blood had finally become a privacy in which people would not infringe? He would've thought so, yet he couldn't help but think, after so many years, that the drinking in of every slaying, every massacre, was like his life force, his pleasure, his redemption. Mother would be proud of him, but would she still be if his hands were no longer coated with this burgundy? The idea disturbed him.

Once again, he shook his head of any contemplation he had previously reflected upon and returned to his lifestyle, beginning with the cherry stains on his shirt. He tried his best to keep clean; mother always liked it when he was clean. She would smile and pat him on the head, tell him how beautiful he looked; even though he knew she was lying. That's how he learned that sometimes, the truth wasn't always a respectable option.

He took off the brown hunting jacket that he had stolen from the dead body of an old hunter he had killed years ago. It was raining that day, and the man had been searching for deer to kill, most likely for game. Jason hated hunting for sport, he thought it was barbaric. That hunter had deserved the brutal mutilation of his jugular veins. It had also been cold that night, and Jason thought it best to rob the man of his coat. Since then, it had become tattered with rips, grass stains, dry blood, and stitch marks.

After throwing his jacket on the ground, Jason looked down at the beaten, muddled, white-turned-tan shirt that covered his chest. It was full of holes, and had become more of a rag than a shirt. He would have to steal a new one the next time he came across a man of his size. Until then, this would have to do. The shirt was placed by his jacket.

Jason took a second to inspect his body. Almost every inch of his bare skin was lined with old battle scars, scratch marks, deep gash wounds that were shoddily stitched up by his own hands and a coat of mud that almost acted like a whole new layer of skin. His arms and chest were built from his life in the forest, but his gut still hung slightly. His rib cage could be seen pressing against his flesh, most likely from the lack of nutrients he was able to recover from the earth.

After the complete removal of his black pants and large auburn boots, both just as worn out his upper coverings, he walked out into the lake, clothes in hands, and began to scrub at any blood-licked cloth he could see. The water around him began to turn a sickly cinnamon-red.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Tall, skinny, curly brown hair, a line of stubble around his chin, muscular arms yet incredibly skinny thighs, sunken cheeks, that's how most people would describe Nathaniel Shore. He was difficult to reason with, easy going, and most of the time, narcissistic and crude. His breath often smelt like chewing tobacco, along with his shirts, which were clue number two that he was addicted to the brown paste, as there were speckles of failed tries at washing out the russet leftovers of a bad habit on the material of his clothes. Yet even though he chewed frequently, his teeth, somehow, were always pearly white; it was an attribute that made him seem more handsome than he really was.

His brother Rex, on the other hand, did not endorse in his brother's addiction, but instead tended to let his mind drift into his own fantastical world. Like his brother, his hair was auburn and untidy, but the frame of his body was thicker, and his cheekbones were higher. In reality, the brothers really only had three things in common: their hair, their striking green eyes, and their lust for murder.

A mother and her son – they had picked them up while crossing some nearby roads. It wasn't hard to get a driver's attention on a 30 mph drive, strictly one that was so far from any nearby city. Simply wave your arms and shout. That's what Rex had done, and in an instant the first car the drove by, a woman in her early thirties driving and a young boy most likely around seven years of age sitting shotgun, stopped their car to see if these strangers sitting on the side of the road needed any help.

They had no idea their camping trip was going to be cut short.

Now the two, the woman and the boy, sat against the trunk of a thick tree, their bodies tied to it with a thick rope, duct tape slapped over their mouths, and dry tears coating their cheeks.

"Ya know, this be the first time we got a woman tied to one of them there trees," Nathan slurred, stalking toward the victims and hunching over so his and the woman's face were parallel to each other. "You she be honored," he flashed his toothy grin at her. She didn't return it.

Nathan thought back to when he first decided that she was pretty, the woman he had tied up. When she stepped out of the car, a Buick Park Avenue, silver, rundown, rusty, she was wearing a black tank top, a pair of loose-hanging jeans, and a pair of sandals – the kind with two velcro straps. She had light brown hair with traces of blonde highlights. She was most likely a blonde at early age, and a few of those locks survived through age. Her lips were forever pursed, and when she smiled, her eyes grew wrinkly and thin. Her body was of an average weight and height with a mild, pear-like body shape. She had hazel eyes, too. Nathan liked that in a woman.

"Yer very pretty," his tongue slithered across his upper lip, wiping some of the tobacco residue from his mouth in the space below his nose. "You should tell me yer name."

"You idiot, she can't talk. She has that tape over her mouth," Rex must've started to listen to his brother's ramblings from the other side of the campfire, where he was toying playfully with a brown hunting rifle. It was expensive looking, and he most likely stole it.

Nathan looked back at his brother and spat some of the tobacco from his mouth onto the ground, making a throaty gargling sound as he did. "Then why don't we let 'er talk, then, eh?" Nathan smiled and licked his upper lip again. Rex shrugged.

"Do what you wish, but don't you think about killing that bitch and her pup, they're useless if you do." The woman's eyes, which were at first incredibly strained, seemed to relax from that statement. They weren't planning on killing them. Then what were they planning on doing? Her relaxation fled in a matter of seconds, just in time for Nathan to turn back around and grab a fold of tape from the corner of her cheek.

"This may sting a bit, pretty lady," he giggled, his big eyes widening.

When he ripped the tape, the woman began to scream. Not just out of pain, but for the hopes that maybe someone, something, could hear her. She screamed for her son, for her safety, for desperation. But only one problem came with this – there was no noise coming out from her lips. Silence. What might've looked like screaming was just breathless gasping.

"What's the matter? Yer scared, aren't ya?" Nathan squeaked and tore at his collar a bit. "What's yer name?"

No answer.

"I said, what's your name?"

No answer.

"What's your damn name!" He shouted and slapped his bony hand across the woman's cheek, leaving a fresh, red imprint of his fingers on his face. A stream of tears escaped her eyes. "Are ye dumb? Can't you speak?"

Still no answer.

"How about the boy, then? Does he speak?" The woman's eyes grew big, her head shaking back and forth, and her lips voicing the word "no" over and over again. But still, no words came out. "I'll bet he does," Nathan smiled sadistically and stood up to go to the other side of the tree where the boy was tied. Oh, he would make the boy talk all right, even if it meant he had to persuade the little bastard a bit. Maybe he would tear the skin off his fingers in a leisurely motion, or pull his teeth out with a pair of pliers or-

Nathan's twisted fantasies stopped when he got to the other side of the tree. His mouth fell open in disbelief.

There was nobody there. The ropes that once tied the young child to the bark of the oak was bare with nobody to hold.

"Rex," his voice shook with an uncontrollable apprehension, "we have a problem!"


End of Chapter 1