I was huddled over my notepad, jotting down ideas inspired by the interview. Levi was gushing to Megan about her coffee-making skills, while Adam tinkered with his sound equipment.
“I’d say that went well,” Jeremy said, leaning close to me and half-whispering.
“I agree. She’ll come off well,” I replied.
“I talked to Tracy—she said her shift ends around 9, which is…” Jeremy checked his phone. “...four hours from now. What should we do in the meantime?”
“I’d really like to look up that boat accident Megan mentioned—maybe find some primary sources.”
“What about the other one?”
“Tina Shepard? Yeah, I recognized that one. It’s well documented. Not much more to it than Megan said: came up here, never came back. Nothing was found after weeks of searching. Definitely signs of foul play.”
“I think this place is starting to freak me out.”
“Oh, only starting, huh?”
“Yeah, just a little.” He smirked. “Okay, while you do that, I’ll take the guys to shoot some B-roll.”
“All right.”
“Meet at the diner at 8:30?”
“How about you pick me up at 8:30? I’m not walking there.”
“Yeah, ha, all right.” He stood up, glancing toward the kitchen. “Ooo, I’ve got an idea—hey, Megan?”
“Yes?” She walked in with a big smile, sipping another cup of coffee.
“Does Mrs. Voorhees have a grave we can film?”
“It’s unmarked.”
“Damn.” Jeremy made a face.
“But I know where it is,” she said, still smiling.
“No way!” Levi popped in, sipping his own cup. “You know where Pamela is buried?”
“Of course, what Crystal Lake townie doesn’t? I can take you.”
Jeremy clasped his hands and looked at me, half bowing. “Well, that settles it—let’s go check out that grave.”
“Drop me off at the newspaper?” I asked.
I helped Adam pack up the van, and Jeremy, Adam, and I got inside. Megan decided to drive her own car, and Levi asked if she minded if he rode with her. She didn’t.
She told us the ride into town would be about 30 minutes. I stared out at the trees flying by as we drove, trying to imagine what it would feel like to run through those woods with someone breathing down your neck. You wouldn’t dare look back, not even for a second—it’d only bring them closer. I shuddered.
“You all right?” Jeremy asked, chewing on a pen cap.
“Hm? Yeah.” I snatched it from him, making a disgusted face. Was he ten? “Just lost in thought about this case.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, like...what would it be like to grow up in a place like this? Can you imagine?”
“I can, actually.”
“Me too,” Adam chimed in.
“I grew up in a place just like this,” Jeremy offered.
“I’m sure, but that’s not what I mean. This place has had so much horrible stuff happen. I can’t imagine growing up under that kind of constant storm cloud.”
“I mean, I’m sure it’s like that anywhere guys like Bundy or Dahmer lived, right?” Adam said.
“Oh, I’m sure,” I replied. “Honestly, I’d leave here and never come back.”
“Eh, it’s probably not that easy for people around here,” Jeremy said, shrugging.
“No, of course not. Still…” I trailed off, looking out the window again. I tried to put myself in Tommy’s shoes—a ten-year-old forced to attack the man trying to kill his family, only to have that man get away. No justice. I’d probably see him everywhere too.
That’s the messed-up thing about true crime. I’m a passive observer of someone else’s worst nightmare, devouring every detail and somehow getting something out of it. These crimes leave ghosts behind, and we’re just a bunch of amateur psychics holding a séance because we love spooky things. I wanted to scream, but instead, I just sighed internally.
I’d had this conversation with myself too many times, like I was trying to convince myself I wasn’t a terrible person. The setting sun cast long shadows across the trees, playing tricks on my eyes. I imagined faceless people running for their lives from a specter that wasn’t really there.
This case in a nutshell, I guess.
We finally rolled into the town proper. A single hilly main street stretched the definition of “town.” On the left stood the courthouse/post office, with closed and abandoned storefronts next to it. It broke my heart a little. Some shops were still open—bait and tackle, pawn shop, gun store, used clothing. I wondered how any of them made any money at all.
Megan’s car slowed in front of us as we pulled up to a small two-story building—the Crystal Lake Gazette. “All right, see you here at 8:30?”
“Yuppers.” Jeremy gave a half-hearted salute, and I just rolled my eyes.
“Hey, mind if I tag along?” Adam asked me.
“Sure, more eyes, the merrier.”
“Sweet.” His long, gangly legs unfurled as he climbed out between us.
“I hate driving alone,” Jeremy grunted before driving off. I pushed open the double doors, stepping into the “newsroom.” It was smaller than I expected, with just three desks surrounded by filing cabinets. Two desks were empty; at the last one sat a pudgy, poorly dressed man. He had half a sandwich in his mouth and a finger on the keyboard as he looked up at us.
“Uh, can I help you?”
“Yes, hi!” Adam and I waved. “My name is Kelsey Sampson. I’m working on a piece about Crystal Lake.” I held out my hand, startling him as he stood awkwardly to shake it.
“Ed Wilson. What sort of piece?”
“Camp Blood and the ’85 massacre.”
“Of course, why am I not surprised?” He turned back toward his desk, and I followed. “So what can I do for you?”
“Well, I was hoping to get access to your archives. There’s a specific incident I wanted to look up.”
“We’re actually in the process of digitizing our records. It’s been a long process,” he said apologetically. “We have papers from the 1800s here—most of it is still on microfiche.”
If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
“Would you let me take a look? Are they on-site?”
“What incident?”
I sighed inwardly. “I was told about a senior class boat trip that sank in the late ’80s. I wanted to confirm it happened.”
“Oh, it happened—1989. They’re upstairs. Come on, I’ll show you.”
He led us to a door painted like the wall—it was almost invisible. A set of wooden stairs lay behind it, and we followed Ed as he slowly climbed. “I assume you’re doing something on all the stuff that’s happened in this town,” he offered.
“Something like that.”
“And Jason Voorhees, too,” Adam chimed in, making me want to pinch him. Instead, I shot him a look. Ed paused, glancing back at us. He chuckled.
“Figures.”
“Figures?” I asked.
“Lady, the legend of Jason Voorhees is the only thing that keeps this town afloat,” he scoffed. “I’m surprised you’re not wearing T-shirts about it.” We reached the top—it was pitch dark and smelled musty. Ed flipped a switch, and blinding light filled the room. More filing cabinets, a lone desktop in the back corner, and a microfiche reader were all there.
“You ever use one before?” he asked. I nodded, placing my bag on the floor. “Everything’s categorized by year, then by month. ’80s are in that back corner. I’ve got a deadline.” With a small wave, he was gone.
Time to get to work.
July 28, 1989
PARTY BOAT SINKS, NO SURVIVORS
By Staff
Crystal Lake—The town that tragedy can’t seem to forget got another dose this past week as a boat carrying the majority of the senior class of 1989 sank off the west side of the lake. The last communication from the ship prompted search and rescue teams to make their way to the vessel, only to find it more than halfway submerged.
“I’m not sure what caused them to wait to call for mayday. We’re still investigating,” Sheriff Garris told reporters during last night’s press conference. The 115-foot yacht was rented by students of the class of ’89 earlier this year as a “last hurrah” before entering the next phase of their lives. As of press time, divers are still scouring the lake floor in search of bodies but have come up empty-handed so far. “It’s very murky down there; it could take as long as a week to find them—if we ever do at all,” one diver was quoted as saying.
“I don’t understand how this could have happened,” said Charles Wickham, 59, guardian to one of the students believed to have been on the ship.
This tragedy marks the highest death toll at Crystal Lake since the infamous massacre in 1985, which claimed 22 lives. Citizens may be wondering if the town is under some sort of curse. With a new decade approaching, we can only hope for a brighter future for Crystal Lake.
----------------------------------------
August 8, 1989
GRIEVING PARENTS ACCUSE CLPD OF COVERUP
By Staff
Crystal Lake—A group of parents of the class of ’89 held a press conference earlier today, criticizing the Crystal Lake Police Department’s lack of urgency and updates. A party yacht sank to the lake bed eight days ago, and no bodies have been recovered.
“This is ridiculous,” said Charles Wickham, 59. “Every attempt at getting updates has been met with stonewalling.”
When asked if he was suggesting the CLPD was covering something up, Wickham responded, “If they are, I can’t imagine why. But they’re obviously hiding something; it shouldn’t be taking this long to find our children’s remains.”
We reached out to Sheriff Garris for a comment, but we did not hear back by press time.
----------------------------------------
“Wait, that’s it?” I said aloud, scrolling through articles from the following months. Nothing. I went back through them again, slower this time, to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. I hadn’t.
“Hmm.” The next article that mentioned the incident was a year later, just speaking about the anniversary. So the boat sank, no one knew why, no bodies were found, and there had been zero follow-up? Even Charles Wickham and the other parents were barely mentioned afterward, aside from expressing how much they missed their children.
It was unbelievable, but there it was. More than 80 kids drowned, and the story ended up buried. I wondered if any of the parents were still alive. Charles Wickham was probably long gone, but maybe someone else still lived in town. According to the articles, the parents had suggested a cover-up—but why? What would there be to cover up?
Just when I thought I had a handle on this story, it grew even more weeds.
“Hey, check this out.” I walked over to Adam, who was at the computer browsing through digitized records.
“What’s up?”
“I found this interview,” he said, pointing at the screen, half-laughing. “This guy wrote a book—‘The Voorhees Curse’—and he sounds like a total nut job. Adam Marcus.”
“The what—? How have I never heard of this guy before?”
“It’s super out of print. I checked Amazon, and some jerk was selling a used copy for 80 bucks. And it doesn’t even have a cover!”
“We should buy it.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, we can charge it to the company. Business expense.”
“Sweet.” He excitedly brought up the Amazon page again.
“I’m guessing this was his only interview?”
“Probably.”
“Move over, let me read this.”
----------------------------------------
August 13, 1993
Snippet of an interview we conducted with writer Adam Marcus, author of ‘The Voorhees Curse: What They Don’t Want You to Know’. Note: The opinions presented here represent those of Mr. Marcus and not our publication or parent company. Full interview will appear in this Sunday’s paper.
CLG: You understand the backlash, surely?
AM: Yes, I do. People are often terrified to confront the truth.
CLG: You claim in your book that Pamela Voorhees worshipped the devil, yet you offer no evidence.
AM: Yes, I did. It’s right there in the book. It’s not my fault you may have missed it. It’s well documented that the 1980s were a time of devil worship. Liberals call it “Satanic Panic” now—oh, there was a panic all right, because it was a real threat. That’s why she murdered those people. She sacrificed them to the Dark Lord for one reason.
CLG: Which is?
AM: To bring back Jason.
CLG: That’s ridiculous.
AM: What’s ridiculous is your closed mind. Pamela, driven by grief over Jason’s accidental drowning, turned to Satan as a means of bringing him back. The dark book—I have scanned pages in my book—states, “the bodies of eight thou must obliterate,” and so she did.
CLG: What you’re doing is disrespectful to those affected by the tragedy.
AM: No, I believe I’m trying to help them.
CLG: Please explain.
AM: The resurrection worked. Jason lived. Or should I say, lives? Tommy Jarvis was the first to point it out—he warned us all.
CLG: He has spoken out against you.
AM: Yes, it’s a shame. We disagree fundamentally: he thinks Jason is just a man; I know he isn’t. Jason still stalks those woods—his mother placed a death curse on this town, and he’s just doing what she wanted. The ’85 massacre, the Shepard family, the Class of ’89 boat sinking—they’re all connected.
CLG: Okay, but what do you think Jason is, then?
AM: He’s a hell baby.
CLG: A what?
AM: A Hell Baby. They wear human skin like you and I would wear a suit. That’s why he’s survived out there.
CLG: And not because he’s a demon?
AM: He’s not just some demon, okay? They use bodies as vessels to carry out their work. Once one shell decays, they hop into another. And another. And another.
CLG: So Pamela Voorhees turned to Satan after her son drowned, and that required her to kill eight people?
AM: Correct.
CLG: And Jason was resurrected as a hell baby?
AM: Yes.
CLG: After each death, does he hop bodies?
AM: Not immediately. He probably didn’t need a new body until Mr. Jarvis put him down. Ever since then, he’s likely been periodically switching bodies. Who knows what he looks like now? He could be walking among us as we speak.
CLG: What made you so interested in this case?
AM: I was ten in 1985, same age as Tommy Jarvis. When the news broke, I always put myself in his shoes—it could’ve been me. I grew up here, so it very well could have been me. I devoured every piece of information I could. I got to meet Tommy Jarvis in college, and I remember the day I told him I believed him.
CLG: What was his reaction?
AM: Relief, I’d say. He’d always felt like an outcast, that kid with the dead eyes in the papers. I told him I was working on a book, one that might get people to believe him.
CLG: When did that change?
AM: I showed him a rough draft. He got very unprofessional—called me names, a hack. I appreciate that he didn’t stoop so low in public, though. Except now I just put it out there, I suppose. Can you cut that part out?
CLG: Do you really want us to?
AM: I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore, does it?
----------------------------------------
“Jesus,” I muttered, cringing inwardly. This guy must have gotten roasted once the interview was fully published. “I’ll give him one thing.”
“What’s that?” Adam asked.
“I kind of want to read the book now.” I snorted, trying to stifle a laugh. “It’s probably insane.”
Adam nodded toward the microfiche reader. “What about you? Find anything good over there?”
I furrowed my brow, letting out a sigh. “Just more questions. The sinking happened, they reported on it, but there was no real follow-up. I don’t even know if they recovered the bodies.”
“Man, that’s wild.”
“Tell me about it. I almost wish I could afford a dive team. I’d go down there tonight.” I played with the thought for a moment before shaking it off. There was no way that’d get approved.
“Some of the parents started talking about a cover-up, but I can’t imagine what they’d be covering up.”
“Maybe they found the bodies, but they were all cut up?” Adam said so nonchalantly that it didn’t even register at first—but the idea was delicious. My brain started to nibble at it.
“Like...maybe they were murdered?”
“Yeah, maybe. I guess.”
Jesus Christ. Could this actually be happening, or were we just letting all this spooky stuff get to us? Were we suffering from confirmation bias—finding a mystery just because we were looking for one?
“Cover-up still doesn’t make sense,” I finally said. “It implies they know there’s a mass murderer hiding in their woods, and they’re fine with it.”
“Well, maybe they are.”
“Compelling argument.”
“People are shitty. I wouldn’t put it past anyone.”
I glanced at my phone—it was getting close to 8:30. “Shoot. We may need to extend this trip.”
“Bitchin’.”