Sunday, August 15th, 1985

Tommy Jarvis was a twelve-year-old who loved what most kids of his age loved: video games and horror movies. But horror movies were his greatest love. Every weekend, his mother Tracy would take him into town to rent whatever was new on the shelf. Lucky for Tommy, nearly every movie was new to him. He even had a mail-order special effects kit that was his pride and joy; if he wasn't in front of his Nintendo, he was probably in his room working on a latex mask. His mother even let him subscribe to Fangoria. Once, he'd written in to profess his admiration for Tom Savini and included a picture of himself wearing his latest homemade mask. To his amazement, Savini had replied with a personalized letter urging Tommy to keep working on his craft. That letter now hung framed above Tommy's computer—a badge of honor.

Tommy lived lakeside with his mother and sister, Trish. His parents had divorced six years ago when his father got a promotion that required him to move across the country. Mrs. Jarvis wasn’t keen on uprooting the family, and so, the marriage fractured beyond repair. Despite the split, Tommy still loved visiting his dad, especially in California—Hollywood. His favorite memories were of visiting the Hollywood sign and the Walk of Fame. Last year, the best moment was getting to tour the Paramount studio lot. Unfortunately, this year, a work conference got in the way, and his dad had to postpone the visit until Christmas—or possibly next year.

After the murders at Camp Crystal Lake five years ago, Mrs. Jarvis had briefly considered leaving town, but this was her family home, passed down for generations. It was too hard to leave. And besides, her decision to stay wasn't just about the house—it was her way of trying to maintain some sense of stability for her kids after the divorce.

The summer rental next door was a popular spot, typically occupied all year long. The owner must've been making a fortune, as the Jarvis family often joked. A group of vacationers had arrived earlier that morning, still whooping and hollering as they unloaded their car. Tommy watched from the window when Gordon, the family golden retriever, bolted outside, forcing Tommy to chase after him. His mother smirked, calling after his sister, "Trish, go help him out! And introduce yourselves while you're at it."

Trish, dressed in comfortable jean shorts and a tank top, followed after Tommy. Gordon bounded across the space between the houses, tail wagging, while one of the girls from the group screamed excitedly. "Oh my god, I love dogs!" she squealed, petting Gordon, who was more than happy to oblige. Tommy arrived a moment later, panting and calling for Gordon, followed shortly by Trish.

"His name is Gordon," Trish said with a smile.

"Well, hello Gordon! I'm Sam," the girl replied. Sam had straight black hair and wore blue short shorts and a crop top. She wiped her hands and offered one to Trish, who shook it warmly.

"I'm Trish, and that’s my brother, Tommy," she said, nodding toward him. Tommy gave a shy wave, his curiosity mingling with his usual awkwardness around strangers. He petted Gordon’s ears. "Making friends, huh, buddy?"

Sam turned to her group, motioning for them to join. "These are my friends: Jim, Teddy, Doug, Paul, and Sara." They all waved or nodded. Jim was tall and lanky, with a mop of dirty blonde hair. Teddy was shorter, with curly black hair. Paul wore a dark red cap, his muscular build making him look almost imposing. Doug had a leaner frame, with medium-length black hair that swept over his eyes. Sara was a quiet redhead, her gaze staying mostly averted.

"How long are you renting the house for?" Trish asked.

"For the week," Sam replied. "We wanted one last fun time together before heading off to college."

"Oh, that’s awesome! I’m headed to college soon too—just a week away. I can’t wait." Trish laughed, and Sam smiled back.

"Where are you going?"

"NYU."

"Really? Me too!"

Trish's eyes lit up. "Well, maybe we’ll see each other there."

"Yeah, maybe."

After exchanging a few more pleasantries, Trish turned to leave. "If you need anything, just knock. Someone’s always home—me, my mom, or this guy." She gestured toward Tommy, who blushed slightly.

"I’m not little," Tommy blurted, trying to sound tough, especially in front of Sam. The group chuckled, and goodbyes were exchanged. Jim and Teddy made sure to invite Trish to the party they were planning that night, which she politely acknowledged but had no intention of attending. She wasn’t much of a partier—she never drank and preferred the quiet. She enjoyed the peace of Crystal Lake, even if the solitude could feel daunting at times.

Later that night, a storm rolled in. Lightning cracked across the sky, unleashing a torrential downpour. The rain fell so heavily that stepping outside felt like pushing through curtains of water. Mrs. Jarvis returned from her evening jog, soaked from head to toe, her gray jogging suit clinging to her. Tommy was stirring a pot in the kitchen while Trish chopped vegetables. Their mother walked over, giving Tommy a kiss on the cheek and taking in the aroma of the stew.

"Mmm, smells lovely, kiddo. What’s for dinner?"

"Beef stew," Trish replied.

"Wonderful." Mrs. Jarvis clapped her hands together. "Can I help?"

Trish considered, knife resting against her chin. "Well, let’s see—veggies are covered… Ah! Could you help season the meat?"

Mrs. Jarvis smiled. "Of course. Need a hand, Tommy?"

"Yeah!" Tommy beamed, following his mom over to the spice rack. They picked out seasonings together, but just as Mrs. Jarvis handed the last jar to Tommy, the entire house went dark. Tommy jumped, the spices slipping from his hands and clattering across the floor like shell casings.

"Storm knocked out the power, I guess," Trish said, putting down her knife.

Mrs. Jarvis sighed. "I bet those kids next door wouldn’t know how to restart their generator. I’ll get ours going first and then check on them."

"I’ll come with you, Mom," Trish offered.

"Me too!" Tommy added eagerly.

Trish shook her head. "No way, Tommy. Who knows what those kids are up to over there?"

"Uh, yeah, that’s the point!" Tommy protested.

Mrs. Jarvis knelt in front of Tommy, giving him a reassuring smile. "Stay here and be ready to restart the burners once the power is back, okay, kiddo?"

Trish handed her mother a flashlight and a yellow slicker, slipping into her own blue one. They both braced themselves as they stepped into the heavy rain. The sound of raindrops hitting their slickers was deafening. Their flashlights barely cut through the storm, casting wavering beams across their path.

"Let’s check on the neighbors first!" Mrs. Jarvis shouted to Trish. They approached the rental house—an imposing three-story Victorian that looked even more menacing in the dark. No lights were on, and as they reached the door, they realized it was wide open.

Mrs. Jarvis pushed it farther open, calling out, "Hello? It’s the Jarvises from next door!"

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There was no reply. The house was dark except for the glow of a projector, beaming useless light against a blank wall in the living room.

"Did you see their car?" Mrs. Jarvis asked.

Trish shook her head. "I couldn’t tell."

They moved through the house, room by room, but it seemed empty. Standing at the base of the stairs, Mrs. Jarvis shined her flashlight up the steps.

"Maybe they went into town," she said finally.

"You don’t want to check upstairs?"

Mrs. Jarvis hesitated. "You go ahead. I’ll get the generator. Meet me down there when you’re done."

Trish nodded, making her way upstairs. Lightning flashed, briefly lighting up the hallway, revealing four doors. She decided to try the first door on her right, knocking before entering. Empty. She crossed to the room opposite—also empty. She felt silly creeping around a dark house looking for people she barely knew, but she figured she’d come this far—she may as well finish.

She approached the third door and knocked. When there was no answer, she opened it and swept her light across the room. Her beam paused on a lump, and her heart skipped a beat. She shined the light back and gasped. Her flashlight clattered to the floor, its beam landing on Jim’s bloody face. He lay crumpled in the corner, a butcher knife embedded in his skull. Blood still dripped from the handle, pooling beneath him. Trish screamed, her voice echoing through the empty house, and she ran—half-blind in her panic—down the stairs, yelling for her mother.

Mrs. Jarvis looked up, alarmed, as Trish stumbled into the basement. "Trish, what’s wrong?!"

Trish could hardly speak, her voice cracking with terror. "He’s…he’s dead. One of the boys… upstairs… there’s so much blood." She clutched at her mother, panic rising in her chest. "We have to get out of here. Please, Mom."

Mrs. Jarvis pulled her daughter into a tight hug. "Okay, baby. It’s alright." She tried to comfort Trish, but as she turned to retrieve her flashlight, a massive figure loomed in the darkness. It grabbed Mrs. Jarvis by the shoulders, slamming her into the generator. Sparks erupted as electricity coursed through her body. Trish screamed, "MOM!" as her mother’s convulsing form was thrown to the floor. The figure—huge, relentless—stood over Mrs. Jarvis, plunging a long blade into her over and over.

Trish only caught a glimpse, but it was enough to shatter her. She ran, her screams echoing through the empty house. She burst through the front door into the downpour, her legs almost giving way beneath her.

"Tommy! Tommy!" she screamed, stumbling inside her own home, her hands fumbling to lock the door behind her. Tommy was already there, eyes wide with fear.

"Trish, what—?"

"Get me a hammer and nails! Now!"

"But—"

"NOW!"

Tommy ran off, returning with a hammer and a metal toolbox. Trish grabbed the hammer and worked furiously, nailing the door shut, then moved to the back door, repeating the process. She turned, panting, tears mixing with the rainwater dripping from her hair. She found Tommy standing in the living room, trembling, eyes wide and searching her face for answers.

"Trish…? What’s going on?"

Trish’s heart broke for her brother. How could she tell him what had happened to their mother? She composed herself, trying to push her fear aside. "We need to call the police," she finally said.

"But… the power…?"

Right. The generator. It was outside—and she couldn't go back out there. Not after what she’d seen. But they had no other option. "We’ll figure it out." She hugged Tommy tightly, but the moment was shattered when the front window exploded inward. Glass rained down around them, glinting in the faint light. Trish shielded Tommy, her heart pounding in her ears.

A shadow filled the shattered window—it was him. The massive figure from the basement. The bloody hockey mask glinted in the moonlight, and Trish could see the tattered work clothes, soaked from the rain, clinging to its enormous frame. It just stood there, watching them, until it suddenly charged.

"Tommy! Upstairs! Go!" she screamed, shoving him toward the stairs. She followed him, barely looking back as the mass burst through the shattered window, glass crunching beneath its heavy boots. They ran into Tommy's room, and Trish slammed the door behind them.

"Get in the corner, Tommy," she ordered, trying to catch her breath. Tommy crouched next to his bed, terrified. Trish gripped the hammer tightly, her knuckles turning white. She stood beside the door, ready to strike.

The doorknob rattled. Then came a loud thud. And another. Each strike echoed in the small room, vibrating through the walls. Trish steadied herself, sweat mixing with the rainwater dripping down her neck.

Suddenly, the door splintered, and a massive hand punched through it, followed by the rest of the hulking figure. Trish didn’t hesitate—she swung the hammer, striking the side of its head. The hammer collided with one of the leather straps of the mask, and it let out a low grunt, stumbling to the side and crashing into Tommy's bed.

"Tommy, go!" Trish yelled. Tommy scrambled out of the room, throwing one last terrified look over his shoulder at the creature now sprawled out in the middle of his bedroom. Trish's heart raced as she followed him, knowing this might be their only chance.

They bounded down the stairs, but before they could make it out, the sound of footsteps echoed from above. The figure had recovered and was following them. They dove out the shattered front window into the rain-soaked yard. Tommy handed the ham radio he had grabbed from his room to Trish.

The rain was relentless, but Trish didn’t care. They had to escape. They sprinted through the woods, with Tommy struggling to keep up. She could hear the heavy thudding of footsteps behind them—getting closer. Tommy fell behind, and Trish stopped, lowering herself. "Get on my back, Tommy!" she urged. He climbed on, wrapping his arms tightly around her neck.

Despite the exhaustion threatening to take over, she ran. Her legs screamed for rest, but adrenaline kept her going. Then, through the darkness, a structure came into view. She sighed in relief, slowing as they approached it. She let Tommy down, and they approached the rundown one-story house. It was covered in vines, boards nailed haphazardly across the only window. Trish pushed the door open, the creak of the hinges lost in the heavy rain.

Inside, it was dusty and dark—a kitchen-living room combo with another door leading somewhere else. "Is this where it lives?" Tommy whispered.

Trish shook her head. "I don’t know. But we’re safer here for now." Tommy got down on one knee and powered on the radio. The static filled the small room before Tommy managed to tune it, speaking desperately into the receiver.

"Mayday! Mayday! We need help!"

A voice responded, crackling through the static. "This is Crystal Lake dispatch, what is your emergency?"

Relief flooded through Trish. She grabbed the receiver from Tommy, her voice shaking. "Please help us! Someone is after us—our mother is dead. We’re at the Jarvis house. It’s still out there, chasing us!"

Tommy wandered into the next room, flashlight in hand. It was a bedroom—bed and frame overturned, the nightstand broken. He looked around, but something caught his eye. "Trish… Oh my god, Trish!" he called out.

"Hold on, Tommy!" Trish shouted back, still pleading with the dispatcher. She hung up the radio, hoping they understood the severity, and rushed into the bedroom.

Tommy was standing, staring at an old wooden crate. Trish followed his gaze, and she gasped. On top of the crate was a severed head, and beneath it, a decomposing body with an ice pick buried in the skull. Despite everything she'd seen that night, this was almost too much to bear.

Before she could process the macabre sight, a loud crash echoed from the other room. Trish turned, her stomach dropping. It was there—standing in the doorway, the door barely hanging on by one hinge. It stalked forward, and she backed into the room, eyes searching frantically for a weapon. She found the ice pick lodged in the corpse's skull, yanked it out, and held it tightly.

"Tommy, get behind me," she whispered, her voice quivering.

The figure stood in the doorway, its clothes stained with blood, the machete limp in its hand. Lightning flashed again, briefly illuminating the room. Its dark eyes seemed to stare straight through her. Trish gritted her teeth, readying herself.

"You son of a bitch…" she hissed. "I’ll give you something to remember us by."

It stepped toward her, and she lunged, plunging the ice pick through its hand. The figure grunted, the machete clattering to the floor. Anger boiled in its eyes, and it charged, knocking Trish to the ground. She screamed, her fists pounding uselessly against its chest. Its hands, rough and cracked, closed around her throat, squeezing the air from her lungs.

Tommy watched, paralyzed by fear. His sister's desperate gaze met his, willing him to act. He looked to the machete lying on the ground. He had to help her—he had to survive. He grabbed the machete, his small hands struggling to hold it. He raised it over his head, hesitated, fear washing over him—but then he shut his eyes, screaming, and brought it down with all his strength.

The blade cut deep into the figure's head, splitting the mask. Blood poured out, and it screamed, the horrible noise piercing the silence of the room. It staggered backward, leaving a thick trail of blood as it fell outside the door.

Tommy dropped the machete, running to Trish, wrapping his arms around her. She pulled him close, and for a moment, they held each other, as if that would erase the nightmare. Tears came, and they cried together, their sobs drowned by the rain. The horror of the night sank in, the realization that they were now alone in the world.

A distant siren echoed through the storm. Trish looked at Tommy, brushing away his tears. She took his hand, and they started walking. The trek was long, their feet dragging with exhaustion. But they had each other, and that was something.

Halfway back to their house, the police found them. They were taken back to town, where the chaos had already begun. Reporters shouted questions, cameras flashed, and police held the mob back. Tommy and Trish kept their heads down, their eyes hollow as they were ushered inside.

Hours of questioning followed, filling in the gaps about the horror at Crystal Lake. The death toll was staggering—so much carnage in a single weekend. And then came the final, chilling revelation from the officers who returned from the woods:

They never found its body.