JC Chance sat at Catherine Latimer's desk - it still felt, after all these years, strange to think of it as "his", but the late boss of the Carnacki Institute had had that effect -, contemplating the future.

Luckily, his eyes, left forever burning with the fires of the Outside by a being from beyond, could not actually peer past the veil of time...he thought. The present was enough of a hassle to deal with, but the past, as expected in the ghost business, was often more of a headache.

As the leader of the UK's only official paranormal organisation he'd wipe his behind with, and saviour of the world, JC had come to think of freelancing as a thing of the past. But it seemed no one in the States was going to ask for help with the problem they weren't solving, so he might well have to make the first step.

'Hmmmm,' JC stretched out the word as he stretched in his chair, a rockstar's mane of dark hair spilling down the seat's back. 'Hey, Kim? Is it co-saviour if there were a lot of people involved, or is for being part of a duo?'

'I'm not sure, sweetie,' his girlfriend replied. Having possessed the corpse of Natasha Chang, one of JC's more hated enemies (but really, what kind of end could someone expect working for a glorified terrorist group named after Crowley? A dignified one?), the ghost now worked as his secretary. Some people mistook her for Chang, which JC allowed. It kept them on their toes.

Kim, alongside JC's dearly departed teammates, Happy and Melody, had pooled their powers together and reached out to every ghost they could, to stop the eldritch menace to the world known only as the Flesh Undying, a fugitive Outsider who'd fallen into their reality through a crack in the multiverse. She was as concerned with the terminology as her boyfriend - not at all - but knew he tended to ramble in-between thinking out loud. She found it funny, sometimes.

Kim sat up from her desk and opened the door to JC's office a crack, poking her head in. "So, have you decided?" He talked more the closer he was to making a choice.

'Not quite,' he answered, managing to keep his eyes above her chin. It was a rare event, especially considering she was wearing another of her bodysuits, and she could always tell where he was looking, glowing eyes and dark sunglasses or not. Woman's intuition, or something. Placing his hands on the desk, JC stood up, head bowed, not looking at anything. His voice was mischievous when he spoke again. 'That is, I'm not sure how I'll leave. The usual channels would be safer, if slower, but it's not like anyone's in a hurry on the other side of the pond.'

Kim leaned against the door, opening it wider and cocking a hip as she did so. 'And what unusual channels were you thinking about?' She scrunched her nose up. 'Those Nightside contacts of yours?'

'Might not be in there at the moment,' said defensively. 'I do wish you wouldn't say it like that. It's not like I'm a Nightsider myself, you know.'

'You could fool me, on some days.' Kim looked aside, crossing her arms as she frowned lightly. Then, she glanced at JC with one eye. 'It will probably be a good idea to return in a way that can't be tracked.'

'Why, my dear,' he drawled. 'Listening to you, some poor chap might be forgiven for thinking I have a habit of pissing the authorities off and escaping in clandestine ways.'

'Knowing you, the Americans are going to be way more incensed about how you finish this monster off than the thing itself.'

JC laughed, shaking his head before looking up, meeting her eyes with a serious expression. 'Alright. Kim, I want you to contact the relevant persons - the POTUS, whoever's in charge of handling supernatural crime there...I think the CIA has an occult division, right?'

'To my utter lack of surprise,' Kim said in an oddly offended voice. When JC arched an eyebrow in question, she pouted. 'The only thing I've learned talking to their liaison is that most of my conspiracy theories are wrong.'

That was why he preferred to deal with conspiracy facts. 'Spreading lies to hide secrets is just another way of hiding in plain sight.' JC held up a hand. 'You won't be surprised to learn most of the false urban legends are the result of Drood meddling.'

'Knew it,' Kim said with a sort of bitter satisfaction. Returning her attention to JC, she crossed her arms. 'So. The people I'm going to contact...'

JC frowned lightly. 'I don't know if the Americans' paranormal troubleshooters are understaffed,' that wasn't the kind of thing you admitted in the business, 'but I doubt it. Most likely, they're going to let this bloke keep rampaging until he becomes a bigger problem. Or would, if I don't step in.'

Kim dipped her chin slightly. 'What's his deal, then?'

JC took his sunglasses off to wipe away imaginary dust. 'I suppose it'd only be fair to give you something to think about while I'm away...try not to worry about me, though.'

'What?' The ghost's voice held a note of amusement. 'Are you implying I'm not coming with you?'

'I'm stating it, actually.' JC put his shades back on, his burning gaze becoming serious. 'Listen to me, Kim: I don't know if ghosts can be possessed, as such, but I do know they can be overcome. I don't need this murderous bodysnatcher using your ectoplasm to get his grubby mitts on new skin suits more efficiently, alright?'

She looked like she wanted to say something scathing, but stopped, closing her eyes, before breathing out through her nose. 'Alright. But if he possesses people, it would make sense to have me beside you. In case we need to pool our power-'

Seeing he was already shaking his head, Kim frowned. 'You know your power is erratic at the best of times. What if you can't banish him yourself? Or - is he incorporeal? If you have a body to destroy, do you think you can do it alone?'

'I won't be alone,' JC promised, recalling the throng of ghosts he'd summoned in the Nightside, during the Droods' attempt to raze it. God, that had been ridiculous... 'And the cadaver itself won't be a problem.'

Certainly, the reports on this mass murderer suggested he'd be dangerous. Superhumanly strong, able to resurrect (regenerate? They were so unclear on that...), vicious and posessed of a certain low cunning.

What concerned JC the most was something he'd only learned from summoning and dismissing the ghosts of several psychics and future seers (and even then, it'd been like pulling teeth), something the killer caused after each apparent death.

According to the departed seers, some people who had managed to put the son of a bitch down had become just as twisted fairly shortly after. They believed he could pass his evil along, somehow, though they couldn't see the method.

JC's gut, and something behind his Outsider's eyes, told him short-ranged body hopping was involved. Not because the bastard's killers turned into monsters themselves, but because people living farther away didn't. Why not go to a place where he wasn't known and resume killing quietly, if he could take over anyone anywhere? So there must have been a limitation.

Of course, there was the risk of being subverted, but he believed that, between his power and the equipment available in the Institute's armoury, he could resist. Kim, however, would likely be in more danger.

He focused on that. The risk of his ghost being turned into an unliving weapon. It didn't make him as angry as the thought of her being taken over.

JC Chance had had many lovers, over the years, but not loves. He wasn't ready to, once again, come back home to find it empty.

The Insitute's headquarters already felt hollow, without his teammates.

* * *

JC sprawled in the plane's chair, hands behind his head, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. His white suit, designed to withstand forces that would otherwise tear him apart, felt uncomfortably thin and frail, but he'd managed to stop running his hands over it, thankfully.

Luckily, it hadn't taken too long, so he'd called upon the ghostly couple hovering in front of him fairly early into the flight. Now, he could only hope the reports about this Jason Voorhees seemingly preferring to target people having sex were close to the truth, or he'd have to use himself as bait.

Both of them were as sane as could be expected from ghosts. That they'd understood his call and agreed to help was a good sign in of itself, but he still had to be careful. They couldn't remember their names, for example, and, even if they didn't mind that, and referred to them as relics of days thankfully past, it meant they weren't just intangible humans. Fortunately, JC was passable at making up names on the spot, even if he had to resort to stereotypes.

From what he'd gotten - ghosts tended to either ramble or screech when they got emotional, which was most of the time, so he'd asked them to be brief -, they'd been a couple during "the troubled times between Ireland and Britain".

That had really narrowed it down.

In any case, that pointed to them being able to go against the grain, which could be useful, depending on what he'd have to ask of them.

JC looked up from his steepled hands, taking in the ghosts once more. The consistency of their forms hadn't changed much, which made him relax slightly.

Fanny was a comely little thing, her body the pale, bluish white typical for ghosts. He couldn't tell what her eyes or hair had looked like in life, but she was stable enough that he could barely see through her. Reassuring. He'd need someone solid at his side.

Patrick was transparent, though not wispy, and his red hair and green eyes were bright. He also sported a bristly goatee that made JC want to shave him and question his girlfriend's sanity.

After a bout of making out that threatened to escalate into something else, JC succeeded in getting their attention, clearing his throat so much it was probably spotless by now. Apparently, in the afterlife, they didn't or couldn't share their love like this, and were limited to a melding of their thoughts.

'I am honoured to have rekindled your romance,' JC said flatly, before crossing his legs. 'But we really must put a plan together, children. Now, if you'll listen to daddy...' They both scowled, making JC bite back a smirk. That always made Happy and Melody frowny too.

They were in something of a hurry, though. This private jet - well, it technically belonged to the Carnacki Institute as a whole, but no one expected anyone but the director to travel in it; agents had faster, subtler alternatives at their disposal when they needed to work overseas, or off-world - was far faster than most planes one could buy a ticket for, so they were bound to arrive in the States in a jiffy. So.

'Please, do remember you are not going to be in any danger,' JC emphasised halfway through the explanation. 'As far as we know, this Voorhees cannot so much as touch the likes of you.' He left out the fact that hanging around the guy's corpse might trigger whatever possession or telepathic effect he employed to control people. The ghosts wouldn't need to fight, not that they could. Powerlessness did not always indicate sanity in ghosts, but it was as good a sign as any. Stronger spirits tended to be somewhat unhinged, if only because they were powerful enough that reality changed to suit their minds, rather than the other way around.

Patrick sucked air through his teeth, a cold spot forming around JC, who gave him an exasperated look. The dead Irishman glanced away from the Ghost Finder's eyes, concealed as they were. 'I don't know, mate,' he muttered. 'I don't know if we can. I mean, knowing he'll be looking...?'

'You certainly didn't seem put off by my presence when you were preparing to jump each other's bones earlier,' JC pointed out, amused despite himself.

Fanny chuckled at that, at which her boyfriend elbowed her. 'Yes, but...you're you, right? Not a psycho nonce. And, to be fair, we weren't exactly paying attention to you, and...'

'I get it,' JC promised, really not needing any clarification. 'But you don't have to shag in front of him or anything of the sort. Giving him a show isn't necessary: he's not a peeping tom.' JC was somewhat sure Voorhees preferred to ambush people, and it just so happened many let their guards down while screwing. On the other hand, they might not have been coincidences at all. Maybe the chap just hated sex. 'You juts have to look distracted and vulnerable.'

'And you'll be lurking in the background, waiting to get the drop on him, right?' Fanny asked, lacing her fingers under her chin.

JC shrugged. 'Maybe not. The moment he chops at you two and cuts thin air? I expect he'll need a moment to gather his wits. I should be able to drop him while he's surprised.' He could hang back, but that'd require getting farther from the killer and his would-be victims than he'd like. He was only as fast as a human in a pinch, his power notwithstanding. And, really, sometimes it seemed like his eyes showed him fewer things than they didn't.

In any case, by the time he crossed the gap between him and Voorhees, it was likely the thug would regain his bearings, and then he'd just have a fight on his hands after wasting the element of surprise. No. It would be better if...

'How about this?' JC raised both hands. 'We can pretend to be a trio of dumbass tourists. You'll be the horny couple looking for some hanky panky, and I'll be the rich douchebag who's paying for the trip. Just hanging around you two.'

He sniggered at their expressions. 'Children, children, remember: he's not going to know about our covers. It's not like we're going to share diaries, hmm? I'm just explaining how I think we can fool him.'

'All right,' Patrick grunted, wrapping an arm around his girlfriend's waist. 'Vulnerable...so we're getting handsy, wide open-'

'If you like,' JC said slyly.

Patrick grumbled something rude. 'And the guy comes in to shank us, yeah? But it's pointless. He can't hit shit, so at this point, he freezes up, we haul ass...' The ghost trailed off, a silent question in his eyes.

JC nodded reassuringly. 'Yes, I will no longer need your help after that.' They would no longer work as a distraction of any type. Voorhees would know they were basically projected images, for all he could do to them. 'I'll take care of him.'

'Just - don't say we ditched your behind cuz the going got tough or nothing, you hear?'

JC laughed, his gaze glowing brighter for several seconds. 'Don't worry, I wasn't expecting support anyway.' Kim had informed the POTUS and relevant CIA and Drood agents that the director of the Carnacki Institute would like to offer his assistance with America's strange slasher problem. However, since he hadn't requested their help, thus ensuring a favour the Institute could call in later, he'd be working alone. This was a gesture of goodwill, and a way to keep his allies close and his enemies closer.

JC wasn't sure who was who, and that made his skin tingle, his heart beating faster as a feverish smile quirked his lips. He'd always appreciated he job's tendency to put him in hellish situations. There wasn't any feeling quite like running headlong into danger, armed with only his wits and whatever weapons he could get his hands on.

The ghosts caught his expression and looked away. JC told himself it must have been his eyes.

* * *

He was walking in silence.

That was not new. It had become a habit long, long years ago, a habit nearly as old as this way of life-if one could call it that. The silence helped. When he walked the grounds, looking for those who needed death, silenced shrouded him, matching the quiet inside...

He had been alone, for a while.

There was no problem with that. Since his undeath, boredom had become as foreign to Jason as tiredness, not that he had felt much of either in life. When there was no one around to kill, he faded into the forest, into legend until he needed to spill blood once more.

His mother's voice became a whisper during the waits, but he never went to long without hearing her. Sometimes, it happened even before he laid eyes on his next victims, as if she were there, guiding him, helping him.

Jason didn't see or hear the plane as it landed, too quietly for a machine its size and faster than most. But it was only a matter of time until his mother resumed speaking, and he found his way to it, guided both by long-honed senses and the need to kill.

* * *

JC tried to look as insouciant as possible as he draped himself over the nicest chair in the cabin. Crystal Lake had seen better days, but even abandoned, it was still a pretty place. Someone more outdoorsy than him might've been ecstatic, but he could barely wait for the trap to spring.

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

The camp was unpopular enough - the results of many not so fake horror stories - that there hadn't been traffic to block, and a phone call from Kim had ensured the whole debacle would just look like a trio of rich bozos arriving by plane to use the camp for some private party. A few greased palms could go far when the folks who dealt with maintaining the place had mostly given up on attracting people.

JC ran his hands over his suit jacket, feeling the contours of every weapon he'd placed in its inner pockets. He hadn't been sure what to expect, but given how no government spook or thug in a golden gimp suit had shown up to kick Voorhees' ass, he must've been small fry, relatively speaking.

Well. Almost everyone was, to the Droods, but he wasn't about to go cap in hand to them, especially after that Nightside bullshit. Besides, something told him this was up his alley. Salt and silver, lead and holy water, fire and gasoline...he had a few tricks to try without having to fall back on his eye's power.

He still remembered the night he'd been empowered by the Outside, brought back to life, as vividly as if the rush of power had ended only moments ago. He could practically feel monstrous flesh bursting under his fists, while twisted bodies and train doors alike melted under his glare. He...hadn't really been able to call upon that again.

Oh, sure, he had participated in fights that had ended with the banishment of creatures far more powerful than the horde he'd slaughtered upon empowerment, but those had been team efforts. He hadn't tapped into the power he knew he had in a while, and he couldn't help but wonder why.

At least he was getting closer. His inner pessimist had believed the ghost control he'd exhibited in the Nightside had been a fluke, but, while more difficult in the mundane world, it was by no means impossible. In fact, it became easier the more he tried, like exercising.

But the flashier stuff, like enhancing his body or glaring monsters in half? He hadn't pulled it off again, and he realised he missed it. This must've been how priests felt hen unable to call upon their patrons, or how Droods did when barred from using their miraculous armour, for one reason or another.

He felt himself smirk. Whining that he didn't have even more power? Supernatural world problems, right there.

'Right, you two,' he told the ghosts, flicking his wrists. 'You two are going to have some fun, and I'll be, I don't know, the rich pervert tagging along, eh? Getting higher than a kite and having an eyeful.' He held up a finger. 'So he'll think. And, unless I've missed something, he'll go for the couple first, then the loner.'

'You're sure he can't hurt us,' Patrick said for the umpteenth time, making JC roll his eyes.

'Quite sure. Really, the only reason I'm not joining and making both your dreams come true is because if he swung through you two, he'd hit me while I'm with my pants down.' He wiggled his eyebrows. 'So to speak.'

Inwardly laughing at the dirty glares the ghosts gave him, he waved them on, reaching into his jacket to fish out a cigarette. The powder would make smoke, but was otherwise inert. The last thing he needed was having to take on some murderous freak while tweaking.

JC leaned back into his chair, laughing, grunting and muttering in appreciation and encouragement as the ghosts made out, though he wasn't really paying attention. His eyes were trained on the windows, looking for a suspicious shadow, or maybe the gleam of a blade. He could only hope the movement of his shining gaze wouldn't give anything away and alert the killer.

A few minutes later, the door next to the bed being abused by the ghosts burst into splinters, just like they were losing the ectoplasmic recreations of their clothes. JC didn't think he'd ever felt more grateful to have a murderer break into a room he was in, but if this was going to spare him from seeing those two knock tombstones, he wasn't going to be picky.

A handful of splinters cut into his suit and skin, and JC struggled not to growl in anger at the scratches, though the torn fabric honestly ticked him off more. Instead, he managed a terrified, confused yelp, pretending to try and fail to get out of the chair. Though he looked like he'd fallen onto his rear, JC was actually prepared to jump to his feet at any moment. Likewise, the hands clutching his unharmed sides were actually wrapped around the handles of a silver knife and a pistol, filled with every bane of the unholy under the sun, from silver bullets and rounds blessed with holy water to wooden slug like small stakes.

The figure at the door was dark and silent, a musclebound man in rough clothes and a hockey mask, looking a head taller than JC. In one hand, he clutched a machete that didn't look rusted or dull at all, despite the old blood covering it.

The ghosts, credit to their dedication to the role, scrambled to sit up straight, looking remarkably human. As they sputtered, Voorhees flattened the lower half of the bed under his boot, reducing it to wooden shards, and stomped through the debris, swinging his blade at both of the ghosts' necks.

He pulled it back, bemused at the lack of damage, followed by the ghosts' disappearance as they faded out of reality, but did not remain frozen in shock for too long. By the time JC pulled out his gun, aimed and shot, Jason was already turning towards him. He received a couple rounds to the chest and one to the forehead for his efforts.

The killer stumbled half a step back, the bullet wounds smoking. He didn't make a sound as he resumed making his way to JC, machete raised, and by now, the Ghost Finder was convinced he wasn't dealing with a vampire. The little stakes to the heart hadn't done anything, nor had the holy bullet to the skull. Almost absently, JC left the knife where it was, not eager to get in close quarters with someone this tough. At least not while he still had that machete.

Voorhees still smelled dead, though. Maybe not vampiric, not that JC had seen many bloodsuckers - only in the Nightside, never on cases, and he hadn't fought one - but undead. Still, whatever kind of walking corpse Jason was, he didn't seem vulnerable to the ol' reliable.

Voorhees came at him with surprising speed, making JC's eyes widen behind his shades. However, he kept a tight grip on the grenade he'd pulled out, throwing it to the floor just as he jumped backwards.

JC winced, rolling to a crouch, as he watched smoke flood out of the window he'd leapt through. The grenade had been a calculated risk, and it had left his ears ringing, just as he'd expected. His sight, however, was still fairly clear. Oh, the mortal part of it was still full of afterimages, stung by the explosion's flash, but his Outsider perception was as sharp as ever. When Jason kicked the cabin's backdoor off its hinges, breaking it in half with enough force to send the upper portion fly at JC's head - something the Ghost Finder barely managed to duck -, he was like a dark stain on JC's perception.

JC sprung to his feet, wondering if it had been a mistake to tell the pilot and copilot to stay away. They needed to be ready to fly at any moment, sure, but he felt like he could've used the help. His worries that too many people would've made Voorhees avoid them felt ridiculous now. His endurance, if nothing proved he could've made his way through the groups he'd been said to have slaughtered.

Jason shambled out of the burning cabin, and JC's eyes darted from his joints, blasted to the bone, to his split stomach and thighs, ropes of rotten intestine hanging from the former. And yet, he wasn't even limping.

JC's face hardened. Tough sumbitch, but he could be hurt, and all the endurance in the world didn't matter if you were blasted to pieces. He watched Voorhees' wounds for signs of regeneration, but if he was healing, it was too slow to see.

He wished he'd gotten two grenades. He'd been planning to shove the one he'd thrown down the killer's throat and splatter his skull, but he'd been startled when the hulking man had shrugged off three bullets, only to briefly speed up.

Nothing for it now. JC debated making a run for the plane and ganging up on Voorhees with his employees' help, but ditched the idea. He wasn't sure he could outrun the rotten lug, and besides, what would stop Jason from throwing that machete right through his skull from behind?

No. He'd have to make a stand here. JC clutched his silver knife as he lifted the pistol with his other hand, waiting for Voorhees to have another go. All the while, he was careful not to back away too far. His otherworldly sight had caught some black smudges, darker than the shadows around them, in the surrounding woods. He didn't know if they were traps, or worse, but he saw no need to risk it.

He had all the danger he could want right here, after all.

JC aimed his gun at Voorhees' punctured skull, the neat hole in the forehead still smoking, twirling his knife as if to throw it. Instead, he flicked pointed the handgun down with a flick of his wrist, pumping a couple rounds into Voorhees' right ankle, raw and showing yellow bone after the explosion. Jason might have grunted as his foot was shot off, but he still swung a machete in a slash that JC barely managed to sidestep.

The Ghost Finder hissed as he felt blood sheet down his split cheek, but grinned savagely as he watched Voorhees limp, trying to turn around and face him once again. The salt-filled rounds had done well, forged to tear through most things unnatural as they were. Maybe he should've gone with them from the start.

The next machete swing, meant to split JC open from groin to neck, was stopped cold by the blade of his silver knife. The impact jarred his arm, which felt like it had been torn from its socket, but JC watched with satisfaction as the blood-spattered steel flew to land a handful of feet away, leaving the machete with no tip.

Before the overgrown zombie could try to stab him with what remained of his blade, JC cut it in half, making good use of the ensorcelled knife's ability to cut through most things its edge could reach. He wasn't about to start splitting buildings in two soon, but anything from werewolves to spectres and, it seemed, machetes, was fair game.

When Jason threw the remains of the machete at his throat - little more than a hunk of sharp metal, barely longer than the hilt -, JC knocked it out of the air with his pistol, reflexes honed by years of fighting monsters so fast they might as well have been invisible, most of the time. His knife rose again, severing the hand Jason had reached out, to rip his junk off for all he knew, at the wrist.

The seemingly casual swing brought his arm up, an opportunity Jason didn't miss. JC grit his teeth as he felt bones grin in the undead's grip, but brought his pistol a handspan under Voorhees' chin, pulling the trigger.

The slug, filled with specially-prepared salt, tore Jason's head open, leaving him swaying in place. JC gave his handgun an appreciative look, thankful for its ammo capacity. It might not have been a Colt Repeater, to hold an infinity of rounds, but then, the Carnacki Institute didn't exactly have Jack Drood working in its weapons labs, either.

Breaking the dead man's grip (he was sure Happy would've groaned at the wordplay, grumbling that puns gave him worse headaches than his telepathy) was harder than he'd hoped, but easier than he'd expected. For one, the hand didn't try to finish the job of ripping his arm off Voorhees had been about to start, though JC made sure to completely obliterate his head before he tried anything. Still, his grasp was inhumanly strong, so JC resorted to cutting the fingers off when he failed to pry them open.

After that, came the messy, grim business of chopping Voorhees up, so he wouldn't come back to hunt him as the Headless Horseless Man. JC noticed his knife couldn't do more than scratch the bloated, blackened heart that seemed to throb when he glanced away from it. The tug on his min he felt whenever it appeared to beat didn't escape his notice, either: without its cover of unliving flesh, the heart appeared as a black, pulsing abyss in JC's sight, like the core of an apple cracked and filled with maggots.

After repeatedly failing to do more than cut into the heart, JC shook his head and rose. It must've been well past midnight by now, but he didn't feel like dawn was going to come anytime soon. At least he had something interesting to bring back to London. The heart would have to be destroyed, or sealed, like the rest of the Institute's grisliest trophies.

After setting Voorhees' diced remains on fire, to make sure nothing but ash would remain, JC began walking away, the heart in one hand, pulling out his phone with the other. Time to call Kim, ask her to tell the Americans he'd taken care of their problem, or the pilots, tell them to make sure everything was ready. Even if Jason's heart seemed to hold all the evil he'd felt in his unlife- else why would it have made JC's head ache to look at it?

A scoff escaped his lips when he saw the cracked, shattered device.

'Alone in the woods, he sees his phone is broken? What kind of schlocky horror flick shite...'

* * *

JC nursed his bruised arm, appreciating the soothing, almost inaudible hum of the private jet as it flew over the Atlantic. In one hand, he held the heart, which did not seem to move to him, but one couldn't be too sure, in his line of work. He'd refused to leave it out of his sight even when he'd used the plane's phone to call Kim, who'd been audibly relieved to hear her sweetheart was coming home.

JC smiled faintly as he remembered his girlfriend's voice, her insistence to take her along next time he jumped into danger, whatever it was. Women like that were one of a kind...

The head of the Carnacki Institute looked up as the door to the main area opened, allowing the copilot to walk in. The man was middle-aged, with salt- and-pepper hair, as well as one of those faces that would've made him unremarkable, if not for his squat body, visibly muscular under his dress shirt and slacks.

His tie was undone, as were most of his buttons. JC's brow creased, but he kept his tone friendly. 'Hi. Something the matter?'

The man's nostrils flared, which, coupled with his thick neck, made him look like a bull. He jabbed a thick finger at JC-no, at what he was holding.

'That's gotta go,' the copilot growled, pointing shakily at the heart. 'I've told you bringing it back is bollocks, but no. Who listens to the help, huh?' he spat on the spotless floor. 'I shouldn't have let you board. Hand it over, or you're going out with it.'

'I don't think you know,' JC said slowly, standing up, 'what you're talking about. Why don't you go lie down and cool your head? Or go help in the cockpit. I'm sure you're needed.' Damn, it looked like it was the heart. Was the evil it held...contagious? JC had dealt with bad places more often than bad objects, and most of the latter had been artefacts, not body parts. In hindsight, it should've been obvious, though. The tug on his mind hadn't simply been a result of the heart's wicked aura, but, it seemed, a psychic assault.

Not for the first time, he missed Happy's telepathy, as well as Melody's paranormal expertise. Clearly, he still had much to grow until he could make up for their absence. The fact that the copilot was trying to reason with him, even in a hostile manner, made him feel like he was missing something. If Voorhees' spirit had taken over the man, surely he would've simply pounced on JC to try and kill him? Had the heart been altered after being taken out of America, or was there something else going on?

The copilot's face scrunched up. 'Telling me to piss off? Why don't you take your own advice, pal?'

JC mused that no one but douchebags ever called him that as the brawny man ran at him, trying to rip the heart out of his hands. The Ghost Finder tried to keep it behind him, kneeing the copilot in the crotch and stepping on his left foot, but the man's wild attempts to either grab the heart or manhandle JC resulted in it being flung out of sight, maybe behind a chair. He ground his heel as the man doubled over in seemingly delayed pain, cradling his balls, then elbowed him in the forehead.

The copilot staggered back, looking punch drunk, but, if anything, more determined. He bared his teeth in an insane grimace, eyes bulging. 'Dammit, Chance! How can you work for the Institute for so long and still fail to destroy shit like that on sight?' He laughed, as if the fact JC hadn't done so was hilarious. Spittle flew from his mouth as his head hung back, then he looked back at JC. 'I'm going to rip out your heart and feed both of 'em to ya. How does that sound?'

'Tiring,' JC replied as the copilot tried to tackle him to the floor and wrap his arms around his waist. JC jumped above the lunging madman, stomping down on his spine before he could turn or stand up, and was rewarded with a pined grunt. Quickly stepping forward, JC turned the man over with a kick to the head. A stomp to the throat left him gasping and futilely trying to push JC's leg away.

JC moved back, kicking the wheezing copilot between the legs a couple time, then stomping on his crotch. The man howled, back arching, and JC bent down to grab his shirt collar. A backhand turned the man's face, but he still cursed at JC through bloodied teeth. 'I'll die before I let you bring that filth back to Britain!'

'You'll just die,' JC sneered, pulling out his phone and smacking the man in the teeth with it. As he gasped, JC shoved the shard past his lips, leaving him choking on glass and plastic. The copilot's eyes widened in horror as he clutched his raw throat, but JC wasn't done. Seizing his collar with both hands once more, JC dragged him away, opening a window with a vocal command. With a last, regretful look at the man he'd failed to save from the darkness that lurked under the world's skin, JC hefted him and threw him out of the window.

The customised plane was built so that it slowed down when the pilot or copilot was alone in the cockpit, to make for easier manoeuvres. As such, JC was able to see the copilot fall, gurgling rather than screaming, to the blue-green expanse of the ocean below.

If the fall hadn't killed him, the cold or weather soon would, unless...hmm. Were there sharks around here? They'd certainly do him in faster, if there were.

'Couldn't bring that back to Britain,' JC echoed bitterly, beginning to look around for the heart. At the same time, he discreetly reached into his coat, pulling out a vial, opening it and lifting it to his mouth. To his utter lack of surprise - when did such things ever go well? -, there was only a stain of cold, dark blood where the heart must have fallen.

JC's eyes flicked to the door that led to the cockpit. He hadn't seen the pilot come in, but he had been busy. It was closed, so, not liking his chances, he opened it a crack, just enough to throw a fistful of salt inside. No screams.

He spun around, expecting another madman to jump at him, so he was somewhat surprised when a heavy body crashed into him from above. The pilot, grinning with foul, ooze-like blood around his mouth, smashed both fists into JC's chest while repeatedly bringing his knees down on his junk. He met a headbutt with one of his own, but the crazed pilot giggled, grabbing JC's throat with a surprisingly strong hand while punching him in the temple with his other one.

JC opened his mouth, spitting a mouthful of salt into the pilot's, leaving him gagging as it clashed with whatever had taken over him. JC tookhis shades off, and the pilot whimpered as he was confronted with the light from the Outside - then he grabbed his eyes and pulled them out, shrieking. JC blinked as the eyeless man leapt on him, trying to kill him as they rolled across the airplane.

Their fight brought them to the cockpit, after what felt like forever, but the pilot was already breathing heavily by then, a tangle of broken limbs and cracked ribs, his preternatural endurance the only thing keeping him together in the face of JC's superior skill.

JC straddled the pilot, trying to strangle him to death, but, in a last burst of strength, the madman broke free, wrapping the Ghost Finder in a bearhug. JC grunted, which was enough for the pilot to bite down on his tongue and rip it out. He glared at the pilot, feeling blood fill his mouth. as the other man giggled, Before JC could get his hands around his throat again, the pilot headbutted him, breaking his nose, then clamped his mouth over the Ghost Finder's.

A bloated tongue pushed the blood aside, allowing a deluge of tainted vitae to flow down JC's throat. He gagged in disgusted surprise, and the pilot grabbed the sides of his head, keeping him in place as he spewed more filthy blood and tissue. His face remained a mask of insane joy even after JC throttled the life out of him and the light left his eyes.

The Ghost Finder bent over, smashing a fist into his stomach as he tried and failed to make himself puke. Then, as he swayed in place, darkness crept at the edges of his vision. Knowing better than to listen to the voice that began filling his head, JC turned his sight inwards.

* * *

He had seen enough.

The mother turned monster after lack of care led to her son' apparent death, the boy growing up alone, with no one but his insanity and the imagined echoes of her screams to listen to, the victims, year after year...he'd seen enough.

Voorhees, like most serial killers, was a man-child lashing out at the world. He had no business trying to steal JC's body from him, whatever powers of possession his heart held. But JC knew he wouldn't give up. He'd never try to make something else of himself, would have rather held JC trapped in this realm between, or killed him, than sought redemption.

Jason believed he was doing what his mother wanted. JC had seen enough of his delusions

With the power that filled his eyes in the material world suffusing his entire spiritual self, JC reached out to the knot of hatred, anger and pain that was the core of Jason Voorhees' being, ignoring the bloodcurdling shriek the misshapen thing let out.

Then, he opened a portal to the beyond, and what looked like dozens or hundreds of mangled limbs reached out through it. Everyone who had die at Jason's hands.

With a cold smile, JC picked up the dark spirit and tossed it into the centre of the horde, which grabbed it from all sides and ripped it to shreds. When the core pulled itself together, hurt and confused, the process was repeated.

Again...

And again...

And again.

But, as cathartic as this was to watch, he had places to be.

* * *

'Kim, darling,' JC mumbled into the headset he'd somehow made fit, seeing triple as he was. At least he'd managed to tap into his power enough to regrow his tongue...or was he simply communicating spiritually? Certainly he could not feel anything in his mouth, much less focus on such details. 'Would you terribly mind if you set me up a spot in the infirmary? I might need to be quarantined.'

'What, did you catch something?'

'Let's just say, you won't be in a rush to kiss me.' He looked out of the window, watching the buildings rise up, as lightheadedness returned. 'Oh, and I'm about to crash the work jet...' He yawned. 'Into the Thames. Send someone...to take care of that, would you?'

'JC, you-!'

'That's...a dear,' he chuckled, feeling the plane tilt upwards as it hit the water.

Just another day in the office for JC Chance, ghost-finding daredevil, latest (and greatest, in his humble opinion) head of the Carnacki Institute.

...He bet Eddie Drood never ended up like this.