It was 8 AM, and I felt lousy. Twenty-year-old me would find this hard to believe, but here I was seven years later, nursing a hangover from a single Long Island Iced Tea. I was thankful for the spare pair of aviators Adam had brought with him; they shielded me from the harsh morning sun that sought maniacally to make my headache worse. Jeremy and Levi were inside the local grocery store, Gerdmans, grabbing some last-minute supplies like bottles of water and the most important supply a person could need: Excedrin. A small part of me wanted to see just how rundown this place was, but ultimately, the jackhammer pounding in my head won out.

Adam sat in the back, fiddling with his sound equipment. He held one side of a headphone up to his ear and rewound the tape, playing it back again. I glanced down at him and grunted. He looked up at me curiously.

“I’m listening to the sound Jeremy took at the cemetery,” he said after a moment. He pressed stop on the device and put the equipment down.

“Anything interesting?” I asked, half disinterested.

He shook his head. “I think Levi had the mic positioned too close to him.”

“Hm?”

“I don’t know, I swear I can hear heavy breathing.”

“Why was he recording sound anyway?”

“I asked him to,” he shrugged. “Just in case Megan had anything else to add or something.”

“Can I listen?” I asked, stretching out my hand. It was better than just sitting here in silence. He nodded and handed me the headphones. I placed them gingerly on my ears, careful not to knock my glasses off. I heard the click from the play button being pressed. I could hear Jeremy, sounding distant in the background: “…must’ve been crazy growing up here…” Next were footsteps stepping on what I imagined were leaves, presumably Levi’s. Then, ever so faint, I could hear it: muffled breathing. It could have been Levi, but it was too faint. Truth be told, I had no idea if it was actually breathing or not; it could have been my mind tricking me into hearing it because Adam suggested it. Kind of like how people hear what they want with ghost EVPs—if you tell someone to expect breathing, that's all they hear.

I shrugged and handed the headphones back. “I mean, I can see why you think it’s breathing.”

“But you don’t think it is?”

“It could be anything. I wouldn’t put too much stock in it.” Despite that, goosebumps crawled up my arm. The pounding in my head surged as Adam had turned the volume way up on the recording, and I suddenly hated my life and everyone in it. I turned back in my seat to sulk privately. The van door slid open, and Levi silently loaded in a carton of water bottles. Jeremy approached my window, and with a smile, handed me the meds and a bottle of water.

“My hero,” I said with a grimace. I tore open the box like a hungry dog, popped two pills into my mouth, and chugged the water. Sweet relief, find me soon. Jeremy slid into the driver’s seat, face still buried in his phone.

“Has he written back?” I asked.

He put his phone on the dash. “Nope. Probably scared him off.”

I gasped and pointed at myself in mock disbelief. He started the car and smiled. “Luckily, we aren’t going very far.”

Last night, after the bar, I had asked Sheriff Perkins if he’d be willing to sit down and follow up with us. He seemed hesitant, but eventually agreed to meet us this morning. I wasn’t entirely sure what I wanted to ask him; I just wanted to see if we could get a read on him after what we learned.

It was a beautiful morning. A day like this helped me understand the appeal of a place like Crystal Lake, murderous history or not. The main street seemed open and inviting, even with most businesses closed. A far cry from last night, when I expected a monster to slink out of every shadow. Crystal Lake during the day was too banal to be horrifying. Maybe that was part of its mystique.

The sheriff’s office was at the end of the road—a small, single-story building, very nondescript. The seal for the town of Crystal Lake adorned the outer wall, standing out against the dull brown of the building. It was purely functional, no form. Two cruisers were parked outside, adjacent to each other, and we parked a spot away, off in the corner. After we piled out, I helped grab the camera equipment. We weren't sure if they’d let us film the interview, so we needed to be prepared either way.

“Check-check,” Levi said into his shirt, staring at Adam, who was still back in the van. Adam tapped his headphones and offered a thumbs-up.

“How’s the feed?” Levi turned to Jeremy, who was again glued to his phone.

“Looks good,” he replied, holding up his phone for us to see. I held the door open for them and handed off the camera bag to Levi. Once inside, my eyes were immediately drawn to the most-wanted poster on the wall to my right. It was a top ten from the FBI for the past year, though it needed updating—two of the faces were definitely captured recently. I remembered following one of the arrests vividly. A single officer was stationed behind the counter, paying us no mind—or, if she had, I didn’t notice. She was writing in a logbook, bored.

“Hi,” I managed casually. She looked up at me with bored eyes—blue—and tucked her blonde hair under her black cap. Her nametag read "Williams."

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Yes, how can I help you?” She placed the pen down. I was surprised at how polite her tone was, considering the glare she seemed to wear with relish.

“Yes, hi—uh, again.” Christ. “We have a meeting with Sheriff Perkins?” She cocked an eyebrow at me, pursing her lips, when a voice boomed from behind her.

“Kelsey Sampson?”

I tried to peer over her broad shoulder without success. “Sheriff Perkins?” I asked over the human wall. The tall and lanky sheriff glided out from behind the counter, beaming at us like the proudest dad in the world. He was bald, mid-40s, but clearly fit. His red beard was distinctive and vibrant. He walked over and shook my hand heartily.

“Ah, we meet again,” he said.

“Well, we appreciate you coming to us that first time,” Jeremy said, shaking his hand. “You remember Adam and Levi?”

The sheriff eyed them for a moment before nodding. “Yes, yes, of course. Come into my office.” He gestured for us to follow.

“Do you mind if we set up the camera in there?” I asked. He paused and scrunched his face.

“It’s pretty cramped in there as is…” He gazed around the office; there were six desks, all empty. Some were dusty and vacant, while others seemed to be used by patrol officers. “Here, let’s use one of the interview rooms.” He led us past his office, toward a sign marked CELLS, and into a room labeled Interrogation.

It looked like every police interrogation room from a movie. The walls were drab green, complemented by a plain white table and two nondescript chairs—probably designed to be uncomfortable on purpose. Levi shuffled into a corner, removing the camera and tripod from the bag. The sheriff grabbed the chair closest to the door and sat down. I moved to the other but stopped at what I assumed was a two-way mirror. I felt I looked okay—all things considered. TV-presentable, at least. I sat down and reached for my notepad. Adam mic’d up the sheriff, I jotted notes, Levi set up the camera.

“How are you liking our town?” the sheriff asked.

I smiled, keeping my head down, tapping my pen on the pad. “Oh, it’s been lovely. Everyone has been so nice.”

“That’s what we pride ourselves on here. Our kindness to others.” This guy.

I smirked before saying, “I don’t think Ed Wilson got the memo.”

He grimaced. “That curmudgeon? Ed Wilson hasn’t met a beautiful day he doesn’t hate,” he chuckled.

“Funny, I had the same thought.” We both laughed. Humor was key for interviews—it built rapport. I glanced up at Levi, who nodded, indicating he was ready to roll. Adam gave the same nod.

“Alright, I’m with Sheriff Robert Perkins of Crystal Lake here in Cunningham County. How are you doing today, Sheriff?”

“It’s a beautiful day in town, so I’m having a wonderful day.”

“That’s great. So, as you know, we’re trying to shine a light on the two killing sprees committed here in Crystal Lake back in the 80s.”

“Yes, terrible tragedies all.”

“While here, we’ve learned that this town hasn’t been a stranger to other terrible tragedies since then.”

He stiffened slightly, almost imperceptibly. “All towns have their trying times, sadly.”

“The Shephard family disappears in ‘87, a yacht filled with the senior class sinks in ‘89. Since then, more people have gone missing in this area than in other areas within the same timeframe—”

“Now hang on a second. What do any of those have to do with the two sprees?”

“They’re connected in that bad stuff keeps happening to Crystal Lake.”

“Bad stuff happens everywhere. I feel like you’re trying to exploit the good people of my town.”

“Why was the sinking never followed up on?”

“Of course it was followed up on. We never found any bodies.”

“Why wasn’t it reported on?”

He raised his hands defensively. “I can’t say why the media does or doesn’t follow something.”

“No official report or cause for the accident?”

“It was a different time.” I stared at him, fuming. I didn’t believe a word—he was shifty, subtly evasive, and it drove me mad that I couldn’t figure out why.

I thought it through: either there’s some kind of super murderer out there, and the police are complicit or covering it up (Option A); or a series of bad things happened here, and the police were both indifferent and incompetent (Option B). Option B sounded less ridiculous when phrased like that. But still, his behavior screamed Option A—and that’s what got under my skin.

He raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You’re not trying to bring in that whole Jason Voorhees thing into your little program, are you?”

I looked past his left shoulder, buying time to gather my thoughts. Levi kept his gaze on the viewfinder, poker-faced. Finally, I said, “Well, we did receive an anonymous tip about it. We’d have to at least mention it.”

He chuckled. “Is it the one about finding him ashore on the other side of the lake?” I was stunned and tried not to show it. “Let me save you the trouble: your anonymous source? It’s Dan Hollister. He’s been peddling that story for decades. No one’s ever bought it—until now, I guess,” he added, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“I appreciate you telling us that. We’ve been looking to either corroborate or refute his story, so knowing his name helps.” I clasped my hands on the table. “I’d think you of all people would appreciate that, being a cop and all.”

He sniffed dismissively. “Right. Anything else I can answer for you?”

“No, I think we’re done here.” I looked at Jeremy, who nodded. Sheriff Perkins stood up and looked at us.

“You planning on going up to the lake?”

Deadpan, I said, “If we have time; we might not.”

“Good. I’d advise against it.”

“Why, Sheriff? Something you don’t want us to find?”

He exhaled slowly, putting on his hat, shaking his head. “Nope. It’s just dangerous out there for people who don’t know the area.” He headed for the door. As it closed behind him, he added, “You take care now.”

Silence. Adam finally spoke: “Okay, that guy gave you shifty vibes too, right?”

“Totally shifty,” Levi agreed, nodding.

“Okay, admittedly, he was a little sketch.” Jeremy piped in, holding up his hands. “But like, what are we saying he covered up here? Honestly, it just sounds like he doesn’t give a shit, which is arguably worse.”

Another pause. Levi and Adam started packing up. Jeremy sidled up to me, leaning close. “Whatcha thinking?”

“Maybe I’m just staring into space.”

“Nah, I know that look. Spill it.”

I leaned in. “Has the guy responded to the email?”

Jeremy paused to check. “No.”

“Write to him, ask if he’s Dan Hollister.”

“I like it.” Jeremy got to work crafting the email. Moments passed as I scribbled in my notepad—a habit from college to help me think. I wrote in big letters, Could we prove Jason was found? and circled it several times. Jeremy’s phone chimed.

“Bingo.” He leaned over to show me the screen.

When can you meet?

“Well,” I said, “Perkins was right about that, at least.”

“Yeah.” A beat. “What do you want to do?”

“Fucking meet him, of course.” I raised an eyebrow. “This whole second set of massacres and the stuff with Tommy Jarvis—it's not entirely separate from this. Like, okay, maybe I didn’t buy that the man behind the second massacre was actually Jason Voorhees…”

“Right.”

“…but now I can’t shake the feeling that Jason was actually found during the Long Night at Camp Blood. Not one bit.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to think so too. It’d change the whole narrative.”

“Exactly. And if that motherfucker’s covering anything up? It’s that.”