Higgins Haven

Saturday, August 14th, 1985

Christine Higgins had gathered five of her friends for a weekend trip at her parents' lodge, nestled deep within Crystal Lake. It wasn't far from the site of the original Camp Blood massacre—a few miles, maybe less. The lodge had been a forbidden place for her family over the past five years, and it took a lot of convincing for her parents to let her plan this trip, let alone take it. She only wanted to be there with her closest friends—Andy and his girlfriend Debbie, Shelly (her best friend since junior high), and Chuck and Chili, her fellow theater nerds. The land had earned the nickname "Higgins Haven" decades ago because it was a popular vacation spot for her family and their friends. To Chris, the fact that it had sat unused for almost five years was a crime, one she was determined to rectify.

The weekend was supposed to be quiet. Renovations were happening at the old campsite, and Chris figured there wouldn't be a better time than now to reclaim her family's haven. Eventually, her parents relented, and the trip was on. Chris was extra excited because Debbie had found out she was pregnant and was planning to tell Andy during the trip. They were all only seventeen, and while the thought of motherhood terrified Debbie, Chris couldn't help but feel happy for her friend. She had gushed about it earlier that day, and it filled Chris with a strange mix of joy and fear—how would this change their future?

Andy had a lanky frame, but Chris had always thought his face was gorgeous. His well-defined chin and short mop of brown hair made him stand out, even in a crowd. He was easygoing, laid-back—the kind of person it was impossible not to like. Debbie was the prom queen type: studious, in a ton of clubs, and everyone’s best friend. Chris and Debbie had grown up together and had only gotten closer with time. They had planned to be roommates in college, but with Debbie’s pregnancy, everything seemed uncertain now. Chris was trying not to think too much about it, but it was hard.

Chuck was the oldest of the group, at nineteen. He'd been expelled from school in his senior year, two years ago. That's when he met Chili, a sophomore back then. They'd been inseparable since. Chili—real name Charlene—had earned her nickname because she craved Wendy’s chili whenever she got high with Chuck, which was often. They were the laid-back, slightly chaotic element of their group, but Chris loved them for it.

Originally, they were supposed to be a group of six. Debbie had arranged a date of sorts for Shelly—a friend named Vera, who she was sure everyone would like. But when they arrived to pick her up, Vera's mother scolded them for even going back to "that forsaken place" and forbade her daughter from joining them. So that was that. Shelly was visibly disappointed, but he used his self-deprecating humor to mask it, as always. "She would’ve found me ugly anyway," he'd said, a wry smile on his face. That was Shelly in a nutshell—always using humor to deflect. His real name was Sheldon, and he was a chubby guy with a wild Jew-fro that seemed to go in fifty different directions. Chris had known him since junior high, and it had always been like this. He'd approached both Chris and Debbie as kids, probably with a crush, and over the years, it manifested in awkward, sometimes problematic ways. There was even a small fight one summer between junior high and high school, but things eventually got patched up. Whether Shelly still had feelings for Chris remained a mystery, but if he did, he hid it well behind his jokes. Andy, for his part, found Shelly hilarious and encouraged him, much to everyone else's annoyance.

Chris now stood staring at Shelly’s lifeless body. His throat was slit from ear to ear, blood tangled in his curls from what must have been arterial spray. Tears threatened to spill, her chest tightening as she struggled to comprehend the scene before her. How could everything have gone so wrong?

The day had started perfectly, minor spat with Vera’s mom aside. The sun was shining, the wind was calm, and nature was singing its familiar tune. Chris loved it here and was thrilled to experience this place again, after all these years. She was barely twelve the last time she'd been here. The last time she'd seen him—Rick Sheridan. Rick was older, someone she’d had a crush on back then. Seeing him now, it all came rushing back—those butterflies, the nervous energy. When she was planning the trip, she called him, hoping he'd be interested in hanging out. He was, and Chris was over the moon.

She had hugged him excitedly when they first saw each other, genuinely happy. But the red flags soon started to appear, blinking like warning signs she wished she could ignore. Rick kept talking about sex, wanting to get physical almost immediately. It made her uncomfortable, but she didn’t know how to say it, at least not directly. She feared his reaction, so she danced around the topic, trying to deflect. When he tried to insinuate that he'd passed up another date to be here with her, she felt her irritation grow. Was he manipulating her on purpose, or did he just not realize what he was doing?

Then there was Shelly's prank. He had jumped out of the lake wearing a battered hockey mask and grabbed Rick’s leg as it dangled off the dock. It scared her too, but she almost enjoyed watching Rick lose his cool. This was just Shelly—pranks and jokes were his thing. The fact that he'd brought along a prop kit from the school theater department meant she should have expected it. But Rick didn’t find it amusing; he wanted to leave, and when Chris tried to get him to stay, he became adamant about getting away from there. So she went with him, and that led to the breaking point.

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Rick tried to get physical again, and this time, Chris had enough. She rebuffed him, letting everything she’d held back pour out in a torrent of frustration and anger. She got out of the car, deciding she’d rather walk back alone. Rick could rot for all she cared. The silence of the woods was unnerving, though, and when Rick eventually pulled up beside her in his VW Bug, apologizing and asking her to get in, she did. It was better to be with the devil she knew, and being out there alone had spooked her more than she wanted to admit. Rick was subdued during the drive back, and Chris could tell her words had made an impact. Maybe there was hope for him after all.

They approached the lodge—a rustic, two-story building made of stained brown wood. The lights were blazing inside, but when they walked in, it was dead silent. Burnt popcorn was still sizzling on the stove, black smoke curling into the air. It smelled awful, and Chris gagged as she grabbed the pot and threw it outside. Rick threw open the door and used it to fan out the smoke.

“This isn’t like them,” Chris said, her voice filled with unease.

“Well, they’re your friends,” Rick muttered, and Chris shot him a glare through the thinning smoke. He shifted awkwardly, then mumbled something about checking the barn. She waved him off, her focus elsewhere as she made her way to the lodge's main foyer.

Chris glanced up at the spiral staircase, which sat at the center of the home, curving elegantly up to the second floor. She called out to her friends, but the only response was the distant crackling of the fireplace. The flickering light cast long, eerie shadows across the room, and Chris felt a shiver run down her spine. “It’s not funny, you guys!” she shouted, her voice trembling. She took a step up the stairs, then another, her hand gripping the banister tightly as she ascended. She could hear something faint in the distance—an irregular sound, a rhythmic drip echoing softly.

She strained to identify the noise. Drip, drip, drip. It was water, hitting tile in bursts. The bathroom. Panic prickled in her chest, and Chris hurried down the hall toward the bathroom door. The hiss of the shower was unmistakable now, running full blast. She cautiously pushed the door open, and steam billowed out, filling the hallway. She waved it away, squinting as she approached the shower.

The glass door was closed, fogged up to the point that she couldn't see inside. “Hey... can you hear me?” she called out, her voice shaking. Silence. She felt a gnawing dread—what if no one was in there? What if she was alone?

With a shaky breath, she flung the shower door open, and more steam poured out. Emerging from the haze was Shelly, his eyes wide, mouth slack. His neck was slit, blood still pumping out, staining the water red. He twitched, as if trying to reach out for help, but it was clear there was nothing left. Chris screamed, stumbling backward, slipping on the wet floor. She landed hard, the air knocked out of her. Shelly’s lifeless eyes stared back at her, and she felt paralyzed, unable to look away despite every instinct screaming at her to run.

A loud crash from downstairs broke her trance. Chris scrambled to her feet, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Rick!” she screamed, knowing it was useless. She stumbled to the staircase, crashing into the banister hard enough to make her gasp for air. She looked down, her heart dropping. Rick was lying there, surrounded by shattered glass. Had he jumped through a window? The thought flickered, but before she could make sense of it, she heard heavy footsteps—slow, deliberate, approaching the house.

She watched, frozen, as the figure stepped through the broken window. Glass crunched under heavy boots. It stood over Rick’s body, staring down at him. Chris couldn't breathe. The figure turned its head slowly, scanning the room before it looked up, its eyes locking on her. It wore Shelly's hockey mask, the dark holes in the mask giving the impression of empty, soulless eyes.

The figure huffed, then started moving toward the stairs. Chris snapped out of her stupor, stumbling backward, her eyes darting around desperately for a place to hide. Four doors. The bathroom, the bedroom, a closet, another bedroom. The stomping was growing louder. She made a split-second decision, running to the bathroom and slamming the door loudly before quietly slipping into the closet. She closed the door as gently as she could, holding her breath as she crouched down, pressing her eye to the keyhole.

The figure appeared at the end of the hallway, turning its head slowly as if deciding which direction to go. Chris clenched her jaw, trembling, her heart pounding in her ears. It walked toward the bathroom, and Chris bit down on her fingers, trying to keep quiet. She heard glass shattering, the sound making her flinch. Was it angry? She couldn’t tell, and she didn’t want to know.

Slowly, Chris returned to the keyhole. The figure stepped out of the bathroom and began walking toward the staircase. Relief washed over her, and she exhaled, her body sinking back into the darkness of the closet. But as she turned her head, her breath caught in her throat. Debbie's lifeless eyes stared back at her, and Chris screamed.

She covered her mouth, realizing her mistake, and frantically returned to the keyhole. The figure was already charging, axe in hand. “No!” she screamed as the door cracked from the force of the impact. It began pounding against the door, and without thinking, Chris flung it open, catching the figure off balance. They both fell to the ground, the axe sliding across the floor.

Chris scrambled to get up, but the figure grabbed her ankle, its grip like a vice. She cried out, pain shooting up her leg as it squeezed. Her eyes darted around the floor, desperate. The axe—she could see it, just out of reach. She stretched out, her fingers brushing the handle. She pulled it closer, grabbing it with both hands. With a primal scream, she swung the axe into the figure’s chest.

The figure froze, its grip loosening just enough for Chris to pull away. She stumbled to her feet, testing her weight on her ankle—it was sore, but not broken. She limped down the spiral staircase, each step deliberate, her vision blurring with tears. She reached the main doorway, staring out into the night. In the distance, she heard sirens. Were they coming here? Would they be too late?

Then she heard it again—the stomping, but faster now. She turned just as the figure lunged, the axe coming down in a brutal arc.