“Can I ask you a question on the record?”
“That depends on what you're asking.” Ed Wilson eyed me suspiciously, and I found it irritating.
“What's the problem, man?” I asked, trying to keep my tone neutral.
“Ugh.” He shook his head and slowly blinked, as if searching for patience. “Nothing, sorry. Listen—this Voorhees shit pisses me off like nothing else. It’s old.”
“Yeah, man, we get that,” Adam said, trying to diffuse the tension.
Ed shook it off. “Alright, ask your question.”
“Was the yacht sinking in '89 really never followed up on?”
Ed closed his eyes again, as though counting backward from ten. “They just never found any bodies, and it stopped being a sexy story barely two weeks later, that’s all.”
“Did you forget I asked this to be on the record?”
He shrugged. “I don’t give a shit. I'm retiring at the end of the month. Thank god.”
“Getting out of dodge, eh?” Adam asked.
“As far away as I fucking can.”
“So no one knows why it sank?”
“Lady, no one really cared. We’re some podunk town in the shadow of the city; our claim to fame is a spree killing.”
I stared at him, exasperated. Retirement couldn't come soon enough—what a miserable prick. I tapped my finger on the desk and told him, “Alright, thanks for your help.” I turned toward the door.
“Have a good one, man,” Adam said as he passed Ed, which was met with nothing more than a grunt and the resumption of typing.
Outside, I pulled my jacket closer against a strong gust that blew through town, momentarily dropping the temperature. It had gotten dark while we were inside, and now the street looked like something out of an apocalyptic movie—a single streetlight glowing feebly, the others flickering uselessly. I looked up and down the street, hoping to spot the van, but no luck. I checked my phone. It was only 8:25—not technically late yet. Still, the town was so quiet I figured I'd hear the van long before I saw it.
“Maybe they got lost?” Adam suggested.
“Sure, they went down the wrong block in a one-block town,” I said dryly.
“Sounds like something Jeremy would do, let’s be honest.”
And, as if to prove me wrong, I heard the familiar roar of our van. Seconds later, headlights illuminated the street as the van pulled up beside us. Jeremy was behind the wheel, sporting a grin I knew all too well. He actually had gotten lost—unbelievable. Levi climbed out of the passenger side so I could hop in. He joined Adam in the back.
“So, how was the grave?” I asked as I sat down.
“Pretty fucking cool, gotta be honest,” Jeremy replied.
“Megan got tired of tagging along?” I asked, buckling my seatbelt.
“Yeah, pretty sure Levi was creeping her out,” Jeremy said with a grin.
I spun around in mock exasperation, my eyes wide as I looked at Levi. “My god, sir, do we need to have another talk with HR?”
“Hardee-har-har,” Levi said, flipping me off. I turned back to Jeremy, grinning.
“Think you can get us to the diner on time, or should I Google Map it?” I teased, feeling bratty.
“Believe it or not, I passed it three times, so I think I know where it is now.”
“100 percent?”
Jeremy shrugged, rocking his head from side to side. “Eh, let’s say 85.”
“Good enough for me.” I relaxed in my seat. “Oh, do you think we could extend this trip a bit?”
He pulled out of the lot, shrugging. “Probably. Why?”
“Well, sir, let me tell you about what we found in there.”
Jeremy raised an eyebrow slightly. “Oh? Do tell.”
“Tell him about the book we bought,” Adam called from the back. I shot him a look.
“You bought a book?” Jeremy asked, suspicious.
“Don't worry, it wasn’t expensive,” I reassured him.
“It doesn’t even have a cover,” Adam added.
Jeremy grunted. “So?”
So, I told him everything—the sinking, the lack of answers, the book, just to see him laugh. I left out Adam and I's little theory—mostly because I wasn't sure I believed it myself. Jeremy was quiet for a moment when I finished.
Finally, he said, “You should get Johnny on the phone.”
Johnny was our producer in New York. “Yeah?”
“Yes, put him on speaker. Let me do the talking.”
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Tracy Jarvis
“God fucking damn it,” Tracy Jarvis muttered through gritted teeth. It was her third burn of the night, fifth that week. She hated cooking—kitchen duty in general—but Jose had called out, and she was all they had. When they first offered her training in the kitchen, she'd jumped at the opportunity, thinking it might mean a raise. It didn't.
“You're using too much oil,” Joe called from the tiny room he insisted was an office.
“Kindly eat my ass,” she shot back. At this point, getting fired would be a blessing, not that he would—she was the only one who stuck it out year after year. Most people moved on eventually—either to the city or to a slightly less shitty small town somewhere else.
“Order's up!” she called, placing a hot plate on the counter. Sally waddled up, the other “lifer” at the diner.
“Thanks, hon.”
Tracy scrubbed the grill, the dinner rush having petered out. Only one customer remained, and she doubted anyone else would come in—she’d eat her hairnet if they did.
“Those people still coming?” Joe asked.
“I assume so,” she replied, sighing.
“You don’t think they’ll want food?”
“Fuck no, who’d willingly eat here?” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “No offense, Jimmy.”
Jimmy sat in his usual booth, waving without missing a bite.
“I’m almost offended,” Joe said.
She grunted in response. The grill was stubborn tonight. Joe broke the silence, “I’m surprised you agreed to meet them.”
“I wasn't going to, but they offered money.”
“How much?”
“Three grand.”
Joe whistled. “Is that even ethical?”
“Not my problem,” she said, shrugging. She gave up on scrubbing, lighting a cigarette. “I think they want me to take them to see Dad.”
“Do you even know where he is?”
“Yeah, he still tries to keep in touch.” She paused, taking a contemplative drag, exhaling slowly. “Anyway, that money's going in the 'getting the fuck out of here' fund.” She stabbed out the cigarette.
“Oh? What's it up to?”
“Three K.”
“Before or after today?”
“After. You pay me like shit, remember?”
Tracy had lived in Crystal Lake her entire life, mostly because of her father. Even after she got fed up with him, she couldn't leave him or the town behind. Growing up as the daughter of the town's supposed “loon” had worn her down. At first, she defended him fiercely—until she was beaten down enough to start believing the whispers herself. Then, shame and self-loathing took over.
She'd always struggled with her relationship with her father. He'd been a good dad—strictly by definition. He provided for her, made sure she went to school, never treated her poorly. But his obsession—the one that consumed his life—dragged her down too. As much as he tried to protect her from it, he couldn't. The obsession poured out of him, saturating their lives with Jason Voorhees' presence.
In her early years, everyone saw her father as a traumatized boy who had witnessed his mother’s death and saved his sister. Sympathy turned to eye rolls and dismissiveness as he grew older, and by proxy, she was treated the same way. It took a toll. Her father tried to get her to understand, but she closed herself off.
It wasn’t until she was older—through therapy—that she understood what was happening. Her feelings were valid, but she also understood her father’s trauma. Even so, she carried the guilt. It hardened her exterior, leaving her crusty and defensive. Maybe it was too late to reconnect. Maybe it wasn’t. But now, the idea of facing it all terrified her.
She scrubbed harder, angry at herself. The thought of reconnecting left her questioning everything. Her therapist said it wasn’t too late, but the easy road had always been her go-to. The money wasn’t the only reason she agreed to meet these reporters. Part of her hoped this could help her move forward. Maybe she'd finally let her dad know that she understood—and that she was sorry.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Silence filled the diner, broken only by the scratching of her brush on the grill, the shuffling of papers, and the clatter of cutlery. Tracy focused on the work, letting her mind quiet. She rolled up her sleeves, determined to finish, humming the theme from “Space Jam” as she did so.
She laughed inwardly—what a ridiculous thing to be humming.
“I hate you sometimes,” Tracy muttered to no one in particular, but really to her own reflection in the polished metal of the sink.
“I love you too, kid,” Joe called back from his office.
She winced, smirking at the unintended acknowledgment. She hated when her own negative self-talk was vocalized, and Joe's reply only made it worse. She returned to scrubbing the grill, leaning into the task, trying to push out the sudden flood of anxiety.
She couldn't believe she was actually going to do this meeting. She'd watched their show on YouTube, mostly out of curiosity. They seemed genuinely invested in their cases, and their approach wasn’t condescending, at least in the final cuts. Still, she couldn't help but feel a surge of nerves, her chest tightening at the thought of meeting strangers—strangers interested in her dad.
She imagined their questions, wondering if she’d even be able to answer. She knew the broad strokes of her father’s past, but she'd never asked for the gritty details. The thought of knowing haunted her, and she was grateful that he hadn’t forced it on her. Still, she felt a pang of guilt—maybe he had wanted to share but knew she couldn’t handle it. The guilt swirled with resentment, a toxic mix she couldn’t fully escape.
She scrubbed the grill harder, trying to work through her thoughts. She rolled her eyes, catching her own reflection in the stainless steel above the sink—why am I like this? The crust on the grill had given way, and she allowed herself a small smile at her progress. She wasn't usually one for manual labor, but moments like these—when she had something tangible to work on—brought a semblance of peace.
She was mid-scrub when her phone buzzed in her apron pocket. She debated whether to check it—taking off the gloves was a pain—but she relented, peeling them off and pulling out her phone. We got lost. Be there in 15? it read. She glanced at the clock—8:55 PM. Time had flown. She typed back: Make it 20, still got some cleaning to do.
She slipped the gloves back on, grimacing as they clung tightly to her hands. Tracy grabbed the brush and resumed her position at the grill. She was calmer now, maybe even hopeful that the meeting wouldn't be a complete disaster. Jeremy seemed like a good guy from their texts—there was chemistry there, and she chuckled at herself. She wasn't delusional, just... lonely. That's all it is, she reminded herself.
----------------------------------------
Jeremy, Kelsey, Levi, and Adam
When we pulled up to the diner, it looked like a ghost town. The lights were dim, and only two people were still inside—a middle-aged man and a younger woman, who looked like she’d had a long shift. I watched them through the window—she was talking to him animatedly, and he seemed utterly unfazed. It was almost funny.
They stepped outside together, and I saw her hold the door open while he ran back inside—must have forgotten something. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but her body language screamed impatience. Finally, as he locked up, she waved him off half-heartedly, her focus shifting to her phone.
Jeremy flashed the high beams, catching her attention.
“That’s not sketch at all,” I said with a grin.
She noticed and walked towards us, her face lit by the headlights. Jeremy rolled down the window, smiling. “Tracy, right?”
“That’s me. You must be Jeremy,” she said, holding out her hand for a quick shake. “Why don’t you guys follow me? There’s a bar nearby where we can sit. Hardly anyone’s there, so we should be able to talk.”
“Can we film in there?” Jeremy asked.
“Probably not. Besides, you can't film me right after a shift—I look like shit.”
“Well, we don’t have to film yet. This can just be a prelim interview, right?” He shot a glance at me, like he needed backup.
“Uh, right.” I nodded.
“Cool. Follow me,” she said, slapping the side of the van awkwardly before walking to her beat-up Monte Carlo. The car looked like it had seen better days—the paint was chipped and faded, and a trash bag covered the rear window. It took a few tries for her to get it started, the engine groaning reluctantly to life.
“Jeez, and I thought your car was a piece of shit, Jer,” I teased.
“It’s a classic.” He laughed, but his Thunderbird was no classic—it was just old.
I let the comment hang in the air, watching as Tracy’s car sputtered to life. We followed her onto a narrow road, surrounded by dark woods on either side. The headlights were the only light, and the forest pressed in like a suffocating presence. Jeremy cracked the window, mumbling about being too hot. I thought he was nuts—it was freezing.
“Okay, so we got an extra day. What else should we add to the agenda?” Jeremy asked, breaking the silence.
“I think we should sit down with Sheriff Perkins some more,” I replied. “And I think we should go to the lake...” I trailed off, noticing Jeremy’s disbelieving glance.
“The sheriff specifically told us it's off limits this time of year,” he said, his voice tinged with irritation.
“Don't be such a baby,” I shot back. “How would he know we were there?”
“I dunno, maybe the mystery machine we’re driving?”
“C'mon, we'd get some great footage. What’s the harm?” Levi chimed in.
Jeremy sighed before finally relenting. “Yeah, alright.”
“Got any suggestions of your own, fearless leader?” I asked, nudging his shoulder.
“Our anonymous source—the guy who claims he found Jason?” Jeremy said, his tone sharpening. “I think I can convince him to meet with us.”
“You really think so?” I asked, intrigued.
“I've been emailing back and forth with him. It’s actually my turn to reply.”
“Can I see?” I asked, genuinely curious.
He handed me his phone, not taking his eyes off the road. I swiped up and unlocked it—I knew his code, just like he knew mine. We’d been friends long enough for that kind of trust. I opened the email app and found the latest message from “X.”
----------------------------------------
Email from Mr. X
Mr. Harris,
I understand that you have reservations about airing footage of a shadowy figure speaking against the established narrative, but I value my safety and privacy more than ratings or clicks or whatever you care about. I’ve lived in Crystal Lake a long time, and I’d like to live out my remaining years without becoming a target for harassment from my former employers. They’re crooks and liars. I hope you enjoy your time at Crystal Lake.
X.
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I pursed my lips, thinking it over. It felt like he wanted to meet but needed convincing. I glanced at Jeremy. “Can I reply?”
“What are you going to say?”
“Do you trust me?” I teased, starting to type.
“Just tell me before you hit send,” he replied, shaking his head.
I typed for a bit, then deleted the whole thing. Sometimes, simple was better:
----------------------------------------
Reply to Mr. X
X,
I'd hate for this trip to be without a proper meeting. Personally, I'd love to hear more about these liars in the PD—maybe they need to be exposed? Would you be adverse to coffee?
Jeremy Harris
----------------------------------------
I read the message aloud as I noticed a sign of civilization up ahead—a dimly lit bar called "Earl's" came into view. Beneath the name hung a sign that read: Get beer here, as cold as your ex's heart. I chuckled at that one.
“Well?” I asked Jeremy. “Should I send it?”
“You think that’ll work?” he asked, parking beside Tracy’s car.
“Well, yeah, obviously.” I smiled. “What would you have said?”
“Probably something long-winded.” He turned off the van. “Okay, go ahead. Fuck it.”
I laughed, hitting send as we climbed out of the van. Adam stretched, his tall frame unfolding awkwardly. Adam always made us look like kids—he was easily 6’6”, towering over the rest of us. Even Jeremy and Levi, who were about six feet, looked small next to him. And me—at 5’3”—I was practically a dwarf.
The parking lot was dimly lit by a single streetlight. Tracy walked ahead of us, and I took a moment to take in the building. It was grungy, the green paint peeling. Beer advertisements and old show flyers covered the walls. I noticed a poster for a show scheduled in 1999—no wonder the place felt stuck in time.
We survived the rickety steps and entered the bar, which looked as depressing as expected—four mismatched tables with no chairs, a cluttered bar top, and a grizzled mountain of a man behind the bar, glaring at us.
“Friends of yours, Trace?” he asked, voice gravelly.
She glanced back at us and shrugged. “More or less.”
“This place is bitchin',” Adam said, walking past me. He was very punk rock, so it wasn’t surprising that he loved this place. The inside had an impressive collection of movie posters and booze, even if everything else was grimy.
Tracy grabbed a few chairs, and the rest of us followed, settling in at a corner table. I made my way to the bar, scanning the shelves for something quick. I went with a Long Island Iced Tea—basic, sure, but reliable.
“What do you guys want?” I asked. “On me.”
“PBR!” Adam shouted.
“Same,” Levi added.
“A Pepsi,” Jeremy said, and we all groaned.
“I’m driving, assholes,” he said, grinning.
The bartender already had the drinks ready when I turned back. He was efficient, I’d give him that. I noticed his wide frame and bushy beard—this man looked like he could crush me if I pissed him off. His thick, dark facial hair made his bald head stand out all the more.
“Are you Earl?” I asked with a small smile.
He eyed me for a moment before replying, “Nah. Just seemed like a good name for a bar.”
I raised my glass slightly. “I can respect that.” I picked up the drinks and carried them over, placing each one in front of its rightful owner. I turned to Tracy, suddenly feeling guilty. “Hey, I’m sorry I didn’t ask. Want anything?”
The bartender cut in, “I know what she wants.” He placed a large bomber in front of her. Arrogant Bastard Ale. “She makes me keep it in stock, only for her,” he added with a wink.
“Alrighty,” I said, unsure how to respond. Tracy smiled, and we finally settled into our seats.
“Hey, I’m sorry I’m a rude bitch,” I said to her, reaching out my hand. “I’m Kelsey.”
She shook my hand, smirking. “No worries. I’m bad at that shit too.” She turned to Adam. “Let me guess... You’re Adam, the sound guy, and you’re Levi, the camera dude?”
Both nodded.
“So do you guys really have to film me?” she asked.
“Well,” I began, considering my answer. “I mean, we don’t have to, but we’d like to.”
“Ideally,” Jeremy added, “we’d like to have both you and your father on camera together.”
She made a face, then took a long swig of her beer—six gulps, to be exact. I had to stop myself from counting. She burped loudly. “Ah—sorry. Good luck with that, I guess,” she said, shrugging.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I should’ve mentioned it earlier, but I haven’t spoken to my dad in, like, six months. Fingers crossed he’s not pissed,” she said, her voice casual, but her eyes betrayed her. I could relate. It was awkward when family stuff came up—I hadn’t spoken to my parents in months either, but for no reason other than my own laziness.
“You do know where he is, though?” Jeremy asked.
“Oh yeah, we can head over tomorrow, whenever you want,” she replied, her voice steady but betraying a bit of hesitation.
After more small talk and a few drinks, I decided to steer us into a more focused conversation. “Alright, let’s go through this prelim interview,” I said, glancing at Jeremy, who looked amused at my phrasing.
“Okay, but explain this ‘prelim’ thing to me,” Tracy said, confused.
“It’s basically a way to get an idea of what we’ll ask you on camera—and to make sure you’re comfortable with us,” I replied.
“Ah,” she said, nodding slightly. “Basically like what we’re doing now?”
“Exactly,” I replied with a laugh.
I started with some basics. “Alright, have you lived in town your whole life?”
“Unfortunately.”
“And how old are you?”
“Twenty-five. This feels less casual, for the record,” she added, smirking again.
“Hah, fair enough,” I said, smiling.
“Let me ask you guys a question,” she said, leaning forward.
“Shoot,” I said.
“Why this case? Most people stopped caring about it when I was fifteen.”
“There’s a lot to it, I guess. The case is just—complex.” I tried to find the right words.
“Bullshit answer,” she said flatly, but not unkindly.
“Okay, okay. Honestly?” I paused, scratching my cheek. “I think I just like getting spooked. The creepier, the better. There’s just something about this case that sticks with me.” I shrugged. Jeremy shook his head, smiling.
Tracy leaned back, taking a long sip. “So, what’s the creepiest part of the case to you?”
I thought for a moment. Pamela Voorhees beheaded, the children sleeping through it, the survivor murdered—all of it was chilling. But there was one thing that stood out. “The police sketch,” I said finally.
Tracy nodded, understanding. “The one based on my dad's description?”
“Yeah. It’s what drew me in—the eyes.”
She smiled faintly. “The darkness in the eyes, yeah. I get that.” She polished off her beer, smacking her lips. “Alright, you guys pass.”
“Pass, huh?” I laughed.
“Yeah, shit. If I wasn't comfortable, tomorrow wouldn’t be happening,” she said with a grin.
“Alright, last round’s on me. Or, well, on my tab,” she added with a wink. “Y’all want the same?”
Levi and I passed, but Adam and Jeremy accepted. I watched as she walked to the bar and made small talk with the bartender, her body language relaxed now. I turned to Jeremy, smirking.
“We totally passed.”
“Seems like a nice person,” Adam added.
“That’s because I’m totally nice,” Tracy said as she returned with their drinks. She handed Jeremy his soda. “Alright, I think we’re good for tomorrow?”
“Yeah, what time do you want us to come by?” Jeremy asked.
She paused, thinking. “Normally, I don’t get up before noon, but I guess this is special.”
“Noon works,” I replied, mentally planning our morning. We could try for more research, maybe even contact the sheriff again.
“Awesome. Do you guys have my address?” she asked. Jeremy and I both shook our heads.
“No worries. Let me enter it in Google Maps,” she said, reaching for Jeremy’s phone. She zoomed in on the area, placing a pin somewhere west of here. Handing it back, she added with a grin, “If I typed it in, Google would probably have you drive straight into Crystal Lake.”