Friday, August 13th, 1985

Alice Hardy was a survivor; it was something she repeated to herself daily. Her therapist had suggested it as a way to cope. Then again, they also recommended that she leave Crystal Lake—and she wasn’t exactly following that advice, now was she? Ever since that night five years ago, she’d suffered from endless nightmares and flashbacks. She would close her eyes and hear that voice, see that disturbed face. Sometimes it was hard to separate the Pamela Voorhees she once knew from the one who walked into the main cabin that night. The way Pamela's head had tumbled through the air before crashing onto the rocky shore made Alice shudder every time she thought about it.

So why did she stay? She had tried moving. Alice went back home to California, but the nightmares only got worse. Even surrounded by friends and family, she found no peace. She thought that maybe, just maybe, if she faced it head-on, she’d be able to start walking down the road to recovery. So one night, without telling a single person, she packed up and flew back to the East Coast. She rented a small apartment just off the main road, a converted garage attached to a decent-sized house. It had its own upstairs loft and separate entrance. It was cheap and close to the lake, so it was perfect.

Being here helped some. The nightmares had become less frequent, which was a blessing. Being around the nice townsfolk brought her back to a simpler time, even if only somewhat. She thought that maybe, in a few more months, she’d be ready to return home, more ready to continue surviving. The phone rang suddenly, and she sighed. There was only one person it could be, the same person it always was: her mother.

She snatched the phone from its base, perhaps more aggressively than intended, knocking it to the floor. “Shit! Hang on, Mom!” she shouted. Alice grabbed the phone by its cord, setting it back on the table before pressing the receiver to her ear. “Hey, sorry. I knocked everything over. What? How did I know? No one else calls me,” she said flatly.

She began pacing, curling the cord around her finger as her mother once again launched into her usual spiel: When are you coming home? Why are you still out there? The familiar questions looped on and on. Alice responded with her usual “Yes” and “Uh-huh,” but something inside her snapped tonight. Maybe it was the solitude, or maybe she was still salty over knocking the phone over, but she exploded. “Y’know, I just wish you’d stop hounding me over this! How many times do I need to say it? This is something I just feel I have to do, and you constantly asking when I’ll be home is not helping, like, at all!”

Her mother went silent after the outburst, and for a moment, Alice felt guilty. The sound of a creaking door pulled her out of her thoughts. She spun toward the kitchen, eyes scanning for anything out of place, but she couldn’t see anything. By this time, her mother had resumed talking, but Alice had missed nearly everything. “Listen, Mom, I’ll call you back.” She hung up and cautiously walked toward the kitchen.

The kitchen, generous as a description, was just a stove, a countertop, and a small fridge partially separated from the rest of her bedroom. It was essentially her main entry hallway, repurposed. The door was slightly ajar. Alice opened it wider, peering into the dark. Soft winds greeted her, but the walkway outside was empty. She closed the door softly and stood there, staring at it for several moments. She must have forgotten to close it all the way. She wanted to believe that so very much, but deep down, she couldn’t.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Personal safety was important to her—crucial, in fact. Every night, she had a ritual of checking the windows and doors to ensure everything was secure. She’d never forget to fully close the door. Alice bolted out of her apartment and ran down to the main house. She pounded on the door furiously. No answer. She knocked again, harder this time. Suddenly, the door swung open, and there stood Mr. Miller, her landlord, an older man in his sixties with graying hair and hardened features. He looked annoyed, but when he realized it was her, his expression softened.

“Alice, what the hell? Everything alright?” he demanded.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Miller, but...” She glanced behind her, biting her lip. “Would you mind checking my apartment for me?”

He furrowed his brow. “What? Why? What’s wrong?”

“My door was open. I’m… I’m a little freaked out,” she admitted.

Mr. Miller sighed. He knew what she’d been through, and while he could sympathize, he had to admit it was getting old. Still, Alice was a nice girl, and she always paid her rent on time. He figured he could indulge her now and then. He reached behind the door to grab his hat and stepped out onto the porch. “Alright, let’s go take a look.”

“After you,” Alice said, stepping aside. He smirked. They walked to her door together, with him in the lead. The door was still slightly open. Mr. Miller pushed it open further with his boot, sticking his head in to look around. Satisfied by what he saw—or didn’t see—he stepped inside. He went to the closet, threw it open, and stared at the empty space. He glanced around once more, making a big show of it, then shrugged his shoulders. “Looks fine to me,” he called back.

Alice entered with a timid posture, hating how small she felt. “Did you look under the bed?”

Mr. Miller made a face but quickly turned to her with a pleasant expression. “Of course,” he lied. He hated lying, but… really? Look under the bed? That wasn’t happening. Alice sighed heavily, feeling incredibly silly.

“Thank you, Mr. Miller. I really appreciate it.”

He nodded and walked past her. “Don’t mention it,” he said gruffly.

Alice followed him to the door, making sure to lock it shut after he left. She leaned back against it, exhaling slowly. Mrs. Voorhees was dead. What was she so afraid of? What kept her up at night? Maybe some tea would help her settle down.

Alice moved to the kitchen, puffing her cheeks out as she took each step. The kettle sat on the stove, the dull light reflecting off its exterior. She turned on the hot water, waiting for steam before filling the kettle halfway. Once it was on the stove, she turned up the heat and walked away.

She stared out the window for a long moment. The grunts, the screams, the struggle between her and Mrs. Voorhees were still so fresh in her mind. Every quiet moment eventually gave way to those memories. Alice shut her eyes, attempting to block them out, but images flooded back: Pamela’s wild eyes, her snarling face, her fury. The sheer horror when Pamela realized what was happening to her.

The head, floating in the distance.

The kettle whistled, jolting Alice back to the present. She strolled back to the kitchen, removing the kettle from the stove. She grabbed her favorite mug from the shelf. It read: "All I got was this mug." That always made her smile. Pouring hot water into it, she grabbed a tin marked “TEA” and sifted through for an Earl Grey bag. She opened the fridge.

A head.

Her head.

It lay on the middle shelf, mouth hanging slack, flesh rotting, skull partially exposed.

Mrs. Voorhees.

But how? Why? Alice didn’t even have time to think—she couldn’t move, couldn’t scream. She didn’t feel the large hand wrap around her throat or the ice pick pierce into her brain.