Friday, August 13th, 1985
When Ginny Field and Paul Holt first started working on reopening the summer camp, they had good intentions. After everything that had happened five years ago, they thought that turning a site of tragedy into a place of hope would benefit the town. They went through all the proper channels—Sheriff Garris was surprisingly supportive—and hired a staff of four locals who believed in the project as much as they did.
Sandra, one of the locals, had narrowly avoided becoming another tally for Mrs. Voorhees five years ago; she was hired to work at the camp, but a staph infection kept her sidelined that summer. Ever since, she often shared the story with anyone who would listen, mockingly referring to herself as "the luckiest lady alive."
Mark, a former local sports star, was still adjusting to life after the car accident that had left him paralyzed. Despite the challenges, Mark loved kids, and Paul believed his story would be an inspiration to the incoming group. Ted, an old townie known for his sarcastic demeanor and terrible jokes, brought an irreverent energy to the camp that made the long days bearable. Ginny had once told Paul that Ted looked like a "ginger Abraham Lincoln," a comment that made them both laugh on one of the many exhausting summer evenings.
Terry, fresh out of high school, had been forced into the job by her wealthy parents who insisted it would "build character." To Terry, though, the idea of "building character" seemed unnecessary when you could just buy it. She hated being stuck in town and made no secret of it, though she forced a smile each day just to make it through. She only needed to last a few more weeks before she’d be free.
They spent the majority of the summer remodeling the campgrounds, but the dark cloud that hung over Crystal Lake since 1980 remained. Paul even tried to lighten the mood one night by telling a campfire story he'd heard about Pamela Voorhees and her son—how Jason had returned from the dead to see his mother beheaded. Ginny found it corny, as did the rest, but they appreciated the effort.
As the summer wore on and the bulk of the work was finished, Ginny and Paul decided to take a break. They went to a local bar, wanting to give their employees some respite from the demanding schedule. Paul, with his tall, athletic frame and blonde hair that seemed to dance with every movement, was always the center of attention. He had majored in sports medicine but had a passion for the outdoors, so his enthusiasm for the camp made perfect sense. Ginny, meanwhile, had studied child psychology and looked forward to the day they would welcome real campers instead of dealing with endless construction work.
They had been engaged for the last five years, but with most of their savings sunk into the camp, marriage seemed a distant possibility. Ginny wished Paul would understand that she would be happy with a small wedding—it was him she wanted, not the extravagance. Paul, however, refused to compromise, wanting her to have the wedding she'd once dreamed about. To her, dreams were just that: dreams. After a few drinks, they headed back to Crystal Lake, their mood lightened by laughter and the warmth of each other's company. They noticed a cavalcade of police cars, lights flashing, speeding past them in the opposite direction. Concerned but unsure, they continued on.
The campgrounds were completely dark when they returned—an unsettling silence had settled over the area. They hadn’t expected a party, but the quiet was almost unnatural. Paul parked the car, and they headed toward the main lodge. They had repurposed the old main cabin, turning it into a two-story lodge meant to be a shared space for campers and counselors alike.
Paul flicked the light switch by the door. Nothing.
"What the hell is going on?" Paul muttered, his frustration evident. "Sandra? Ted? Mark?"
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“Terry?” Ginny joined in, her voice tinged with growing panic. She hurried to the phone mounted on the wall by the stairs, lifting the receiver to her ear. Silence. “Paul? The line’s dead.”
“Jesus Christ, can anything go right?” Paul growled.
“What about the one in your office? Isn’t it on a different grid?”
“Yeah, come on.” Paul took Ginny by the hand, leading her around the main stairs to a room just behind them. The room had been converted into an office, with two old wooden desks—one for each of them—and a few filing cabinets. Papers were strewn across Paul’s desk, while Ginny’s remained mostly organized. Now, however, the room was completely dark, the only light coming from the moon filtering in through the center window. Paul fumbled around, searching for the phone. Ginny pressed her back against the wall, fear prickling her skin—she hated the dark, a remnant of a cruel childhood prank that left her alone in a basement, convinced her parents no longer wanted her. It seemed silly now, but fear had a way of lingering.
A movement caught Ginny’s eye—a shadow in the far corner of the room, shifting slightly, as if materializing from the darkness itself. She squinted, her breath catching. “…Paul?” she whispered.
A large figure moved toward Paul from the shadows, the mass of it almost blending into the darkness. Ginny’s heart jumped into her throat, and she screamed, “PAUL, THERE’S SOMEONE IN THIS FUCKING ROOM!”
It was too late. The Mass lunged at Paul, and the two tumbled to the floor in a blur of shadows. Ginny’s heart pounded, the noise deafening in her ears. She tried to make sense of the struggle—the sounds of grunts, the sharp clattering of objects being knocked over—but she couldn’t see clearly. The darkness was closing in, the shadows swallowing the room. The Mass was huge, and there was something over its face, a mask maybe, but it was impossible to tell in the chaos.
Then the terrible, unmistakable sound of flesh being pierced cut through the room. Paul let out a strangled gasp, blood bubbling from his lips. “Ginny... run!” he managed, his voice barely a rasp.
Ginny turned and fled, her body reacting before her mind could process what was happening. She flung the door open and burst into the cold, moonlit night, her vision blurring with tears.
Behind her, The Mass showed no mercy. It stabbed Paul five more times, each thrust echoing in the small, dark office. With a final brutal toss, it hurled Paul’s lifeless body through the center window, the glass shattering in a spray of glinting shards. Without hesitation, The Mass turned and stomped after Ginny, its heavy footfalls reverberating with deliberate, relentless intent.
The night became a game of survival. For hours, Ginny stayed hidden beneath a rickety bed in one of the unfinished cabins, her entire body trembling as she listened to the sounds of destruction—doors being torn off hinges, furniture splintering, The Mass’s guttural grunts as it hunted her. She pressed her hands to her mouth, stifling sobs, praying she would go unnoticed.
Suddenly, the cabin door crashed open. Ginny’s breath caught, her fingers digging into the floorboards beneath her. Heavy footsteps echoed across the room, and she squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could disappear. A chill swept over her, and she realized, horrified, that she was wet. She had lost control in her fear, tears streaming silently down her face as she grit her teeth, praying it would not notice.
CHUNK.
The tines of a pitchfork pierced through the floorboards, splintering the wood just inches from her face. Ginny screamed, a primal, desperate sound, and scrambled out from under the bed. She knocked it over, catching The Mass off guard, and lunged for the door, her body moving on instinct alone.
She fled into the night, her legs burning, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Behind her, The Mass recovered and began to follow, but then paused, its attention drawn to something in the distance—lights flickering through the trees. It turned, abandoning its pursuit of Ginny, and moved purposefully toward the new target.
Ginny stumbled through the woods until she found a lone patrol car. She pounded on the window, her voice frantic as she relayed her story—her escape, Paul’s death, the monster that had chased her. The officer listened, though his expression remained doubtful. As Ginny spoke, the events sounded almost absurd, even to her. But she knew the truth, and it would haunt her for the rest of her life.
In the aftermath, Ginny would become a recluse—not in the conventional sense, but in her own quiet way. She continued living, pushing through each day like everyone else, but she refused to speak to reporters or grant interviews. She was a survivor, and that knowledge was enough to carry her through the darkest moments. To dwell on it, to revel in her survival, would only make it worse. For Ginny, it was that simple.