“Krista! We have to get out of here! NOW! Sean’s dead, too!” Kevin yelled.

“Oh my god!” was all Krista could muster in a reply.

“Come on, let’s go,” Kevin demanded, picking her up on her feet and practically dragging her out of the cabin.

Krista didn’t want to leave her sister, but she knew that Nikki wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon, so she went along with Kevin.

Then Krista saw someone wearing Kevin’s Boston U. jacket, but it wasn’t Kevin.

It was a girl, about her height, with long, brownish-blond hair.

As she approached her, the girl had her back turned toward her, so she couldn’t quite make out who it was.

With the rain beating in her face, Krista’s vision blurred, and she soon lost sight of Kevin.

“Kevin? Kevin!” she yelled, but the darkness seemed to swallow up her voice.

Just then, she bumped into the girl, and Krista screamed as she hit the ground.

The girl wasn’t a girl at all.

She was wearing a weird hockey mask.

Just then, the girl pulled out a knife and raised it high above her head, when…


“Goldwater, wake up!” Crowley yelled, pounding on the window of the car.

Krista immediately sprang up in a cold sweat and looked around from the backseat of the car.

“What?!!” she replied, startled.

“5 a.m.,” Crowley answered. “Time to move out.”

Great, now Krista really felt like she lost it.

There was no rain.

No girl.

No mask.


But there was a huge sigh of relief as she got out of her makeshift bed (the backseat) and prepared for the next day with the FBI.

The damn FBI only reserved three rooms at the hotel, and left her to fend for herself.

With a yawn, Krista got out and stretched, as Radisson and Crowley got in the other car and started to drive away.

“Come on, Goldwater,” Kunkle yelled, “Get in, we have to get going. They want to race.”

“What the hell?” Krista answered, as she got in the passenger’s seat with Kunkle and they sped off down the road, hoping to catch up to Crowley and Radisson, who were about a quarter-mile ahead.


Meanwhile, deep in the woods at Camp Crystal Lake…

A red Ford Taurus sped into the center of the horseshoe of cabins.

Screeching to a halt on the dirt road, out came 32-year-old Allen Christy, the camp’s owner.

The brilliant orange sun just began to rise over the nearby mountain, as Christy slammed the car door and started to look around at the mysterious haze that set in over the entire campground.

“Dammit, where the hell are they?” Christy said to himself, as he kicked around some dirt. “I am taking a huge risk bringing them here for training, and they don’t even show up on time.”

Just then, his cell phone rang.

“Yeah?” Christy said, answering the phone.

“Mr. Christy,” the distressed voice on the other line replied.

“Yes?” Christy replied. “What is it?”

“It’s Jade...We have problems,” she replied.

“What KIND of problems?” Christy asked, fearing the worst.

“Car trouble, our muffler just fell off,” Jade answered, “But Marcus and Ricky are fixing it, right guys?”

“Yeah, we’re right on top of it!” Marcus replied, peeking out from under the car.

From the looks of it, neither one had a clue what they were doing.

They had grease and oil all over them and didn’t even have the car on a jack.

To make matters worse, smoke shot out from the engine like a steam engine, which meant that that car probably wasn’t going anywhere.

“Where are you?” Christy asked.

“About 20 miles, right at the turn off of the main road,” Jade replied.

“Alright, well get it fixed and get out here,” Christy ordered. “It is supposed to rain like hell. You’ve got two hours. If you’re not here by then, I am coming out there to get you and this whole thing is called off.”

“Thank you, Mr. Christy,” Jade replied. “We’ll try to be there as soon as we can.”

“I am really taking a chance here, you know that?” Christy asked. “This whole town is condemned. If anyone found out we were here, we’d be drawn and quartered. We should not be down here.”

“I know, but…” Jade started to say, before Christy cut her off.

“NO BUTS!” Christy yelled. “I picked you three out of the pack because you were showing the most promise of becoming camp counselors. All you need is more experience, which is why I brought you out here, for the training.”

“We appreciate that, Mr. Christy, we really do,” Ricky, the other counselor, added.

“Well, you better appreciate it, because you have no idea what we are risking out here,” Christy concluded. “I have a weird feeling about this place. We have to make this training go as fast and smooth as possible. I want to get preparations started, so I will talk to you later. Bye!”

Christy then hung up his cell phone and dialed another number, clearly annoyed about the whole situation.

Kicking some dust around to alleviate his anger, he figured he would at least let Camp York know that they arrived safely.

“Hello?” was the reply on the other end.

“Hello, Pete? It’s Allen,” Christy asked.

“Yeah, hey Al, what’s up?” asked Pete Holt, the head supervisor at Camp York, the camp three hours away at the Wessex County Line.

Holt was the younger brother of Paul Holt, who ran Camp Packanack on the other side of Camp Crystal Lake in 1984. Ever since Paul disappeared, the 41-year-old Pete made it his life work to train counselors in his brother’s image, perhaps as a dedication to the brother he lost.

Christy moved there in 1999 when he was forced to shut down Camp Crystal Lake.

“I am here at Camp Crystal Lake,” Christy stated.

“Excellent,” Pete replied. “How was the drive?”

“It was great, smooth sailing,” Christy answered. “Now I am just waiting for the others to arrive. They had car trouble, but they have it under control and we should be all set.”

“Good, I’m glad you called, everything ok then?” Pete asked.

“Actually, no,” Christy replied.

“What is it?” Pete asked.

“Maybe I went too far this time Pete,” Christy answered.

“What do you mean too far?” Pete asked.

“By bringing them here,” Christy replied. “Who am I trying to kid, Pete? This is NOT Camp Crystal Lake. It never really was. This is Camp Blood.”

“And every now and then,” Christy continued, “Some stupid hick gets drunk, puts on a hockey mask, and murders counselors, claiming that the Jason Voorhees legend is true. It totally ruins everything me and my family worked so hard for over the years.”

“That town is fucked,” Pete replied, “Nothing has ever been the same since Jason drowned and Mrs. Voorhees went on her rampage. Hey, wait a minute, no one even knows you are there, right?”

“Yeah,” Christy replied, “Since the townspeople don’t know we’re out here, there’s no way for someone to masquerade as that fucking bastard Jason again and try to prove that he still lives.”

“Yeah,” Pete replied, as they both laughed.

“Well, hey, I have to get back to training, so keep me posted, ok?” Pete asked.

“Will do,” Christy answered.

“Bye,” Pete concluded.

“Later,” Christy finished, going into Cabin Five, the center cabin, to prepare for the others.

But what he didn’t know is that about 50 yards away from him, behind a tree…

Hid that “fucking bastard,” Jason Voorhees.

He heard every word that Christy said about him on the phone.

Breathing heavily through his mask, he had a taste for blood.

And now, thanks to Allen Christy, an even greater passion for revenge.

Proceed To Chapter 7
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