The Caretaker
Title: The Caretaker
Chapter No: Two part 2
Author: Me!
Email: Mclarenmjude@gmail.com
Fandom: Friday The 13th
Rating: NC-17 for graphic scenes of violence and gore.
Genre: Horror/Mystery
Content: Jason Voorhees/Elissa McCormack
Summary: It was the money that drew her there. The money and a job that had been advertised many times. It was good job, too, and one with an excellent health package. If only she knew how much she would need it.
Disclaimer: The only person I own is Elissa McCormack. Jason Voorhees and Crystal Lake do not belong to me, therefore no money is made from this story.
WARNINGS: Extremely graphic violence, and disturbing murder scenes. Not for the faint hearted or those who cry at Bambi and think Twilight is the epitome of excellence. You do not like blood and guts, then do not read.
Author's Note: I will gladly take any and all comments, especially those helping me improve my writing, but I will not give trolls the time of day, and nor will I bat an eyelash at online bullies who think all stories should be written to their specifications.
Now for the second half of chapter two!
Huggles, Jude xxx
He watched them go inside, a machete firmly held in one hand and a bear trap in the other, his single mindedness focused his attention solely on the woman with the local sheriff. His automatic response kicked in, and he stood there, behind one of the large trees, observing and learning what he could. From his point of view, which was not great by anyone's standards, he could see the woman following that useless sheriff, her body language screamed the fact that she was begging. Begging for what, he didn't know, but if she thought she was going to move into Old Jed's house and take his place, then she thought very wrong indeed.
She didn't have a damn clue. None of them did, and neither did that man Crystal Lake had elected as sheriff. He certainly hadn't done anything to justify his position as chief law enforcer. It had been almost three months and there was still no sign of who killed Jedediah Smithson. Knowing the town in which he lived, Jason assumed they all blamed him, just like they did for every other brutal killing or beating that went on.
Jedediah Smithson, Old Jed as Jason called him, had been his friend and he had been a friend in turn. When the old man had taken a bad fall, who had been there for him? Certainly not those who had been termed as “family.” The son, Graham, had visited Jed twice in the eight weeks it had taken the old man’s ribs to heal, and the daughter had called once, but it was him, Jason Voorhees, who had murdered Old Jed. It was Jason Voorhees who had caused the old man to fall and break three ribs. Jason Voorhees who set the fire that killed Jedediah Smithson.
He stared at the house, his friend's house, and it amazed him how it was the same and yet so very different. There was no sign of the flame that had consumed the house, that had licked at and burned his feet, no smell of scorched flesh to torment his nostrils, no wheezing breaths of an old man to break his heart, telling him to run, to get away, to save himself.
His grip on the machete tightened, and a swell of rage and hate burned just as hard, just as quick, as those flames that had eaten his clothes as he had hacked away at them with everything he had. Useless, Jason knew, he had been nothing but useless. For a long time, he had believed his mother when she called him special, and for a long time, he believed he could walk on water, even before he died. He held himself so high and he was so proud, despite what everyone said, despite the mockery and the vicious laughter, he had believed. He had held within his heart the faith that he could do anything, and when he came to after drowning, that belief had soared.
Jason had heard, even from his mother, that the higher a person was, the further they fell, but that could not happen to him, not after he had survived drowning, not after surviving several other attempts on his life.
And then Old Jed came along.
And so did the fire.
He fell and he fell hard. For all he had at his disposal, he couldn't save his friend, and it made him seethe. In his home at the mines, he would sit at his grinding stone, sharpening everything he could lay his hands upon. Axes, knives, arrows, and a replica weapon that hadn't been dangerous until he took to his whetstone for an hour, made it sharp enough to slice a six inch thick vine in one swing.
All the weapons he used to protect the Voorhees grounds and keep the lake clean meant nothing, not one damn thing. Jedediah Smithson had died in his arms, and no amount of specialty or sharp weapons had aided him, so yes, Jason Voorhees had fallen, but now he knew better. He was not special and he could not walk on water, and nothing he did mattered because they would keep coming and coming, desecrating his land however they saw fit, while that so-called “sheriff” and his fellow deputies did nothing to stop it.
Jason often wondered what they, and by they he meant the town, would do if he just stopped. Stopped protecting his land, stopped breaking into stores when he needed food, stopped everything. They made a lot of money from his infamy, he knew, with tourists and campers, and the ghoulish folk who wanted tours to the places where killings had occurred. Not one of them gave a thought about that, about him, and yet he fed them, clothed their children, provided enough money to fund the election of Sheriff Gregory Ross.
While they all lived in luxury, he wore clothes that were tatty and torn, shoes he had to steal from those who trespassed on the Voorhees lands. Fact was, nobody gave a damn about him, and now that sheriff had just poured a little too much salt in his wounds. Moving someone into Old Jed's House was more than he could take.
Unlike the trespassers and the poachers who came to hunt deer, bears, and badgers, which he despised, unlike the ghoulish and their ilk, he wanted this woman to see him, to know what was coming to her, and so as he watched the law man show the woman into the house, he moved out from behind his tree and waited for her to see him.
Once, before Old Jed, he would have waited, and if the person didn't cause any trouble, he would let them be. He didn't enjoy killing; it was a chore, and he longed for the day when he didn't have to do it anymore, but he had land and when people came to urinate all over it, then he would do what was necessary. Some people protected their homes and families with guns, and some by using exquisite fighting techniques. He protected his with weapons that ensured clean and blunt deaths for those who used his land as a toilet or a place to reproduce.
Despite popular theory, he had no problem with sex. It wasn't filthy or dirty, or bad or what they said about his like and dislikes as they hired new so-called “caretakers.” What he didn't like were the beer cans strewn about, used condoms full of semen thrown into the lake, flowers that took a decade to bloom, killed by urine...
Filth, plain and simple.
Yet it never crossed the minds of any of those townsfolk why he never killed the etymologists, or the nature photographers, those who came to highlight the beauty of Crystal Lake. Those he loved, truly, as they saw past the myths and legends of Jason Voorhees, the little boy who drowned. They saw a lake that had fish and wildlife, deer, squirrels, some beautiful birds, and the like. It wasn't just the campers and the tourists and the ghoulish who came here, but that never entered the small minds of those who blamed him for everything that went wrong in their lives.
Now, as he stood there, watching the sheriff and the woman watch him from Old Jed’s house, his only thought was he would not hide anymore, and when Jason thought something, Jason did it.
And Jason had stopped hiding.
XXXX
Elissa stared, uncomprehendingly, out the hallway window, but unlike half hour previous, her eyes weren’t focused on the wilderness. Oh no. They were wholly locked onto whoever it was curious enough to break out an unnerving version of a welcome wagon, and yet insecure enough to hide behind a...
Was that a hockey mask?
The necessary squinting of her eyes only served as a reminder that she needed her eyes tested.
Damn diabetes, she thought while still squinting. Yes, it was indeed a hockey mask, and the late afternoon sunlight reflected off the many scratches on it. She did begin to wonder why a new one hadn’t been purchased, but if his clothes were any indication, he had very little in the way of cashy money.
Much like herself.
Or how she had been until she got this job, which she was not going to give up without a damn fight. Maybe that’s why the peeping Tom was wearing a mask. To intimidate her.
Well, she would just see about that.
What sort of person did that? her mind demanded as she glared back. What sort of jerk would purposely frighten a woman in the woods? A low down, good for nothing bully is what.
She had just landed on her feet, and no man cowardly enough to come stomping around in a mask was going to ruin that, no matter how big he was.
“Ma’am, I think it best we be going back to town... Ma’am... Ma’am!”
The sheriff’s voice got quieter the further Elissa walked away from him, down the stairs and towards the front door, armed with nothing but wit, charm, and a ton of fighting words on the tip of her tongue.
No more would she allow others to take on her battles. She was alone out here, and she had already gathered that the isolation wasn’t entirely designed by nature, but had more to do with the resident Nelson Muntz, who obviously enjoyed throwing his weight around. All that taken into consideration, it was safe to say she would be alone out here for a long time to come.
The front door - no, her front door - opened, and her cheap, worn Chucks slapped against the wooden floor of the porch, where she came to a stop.
Elissa beamed oh so brightly as she waved at the behemoth in the hockey mask. “Good afternoon, sir!” She called out, the sound of her voice crystal clear without the city noise to muffle it.
The man just stood there.
“Is it always this beautiful or just this time of year?” There. She had been more than polite and civil.
The only response she got was from sheriff Ross, who huffed and puffed in his hurry to catch up to her.
Her eyes went wide when she saw his gun out of the holster, and if she wasn’t mistaken, it was fully locked and loaded.
And pointed right in the direction of Nelson Muntz.
The only gun she had ever seen belonged to her grandfather, and it been one scary machine. Long, with a sword or knife at the end. Bayonet, her memory conjured, but that was in no way as terrifying as the sheriff’s.
It was much shorter than the Bayonet, but it sure as hell seemed a damn sight more powerful.
“C’mon now, Miss McCormack. This is where we would be leavin. Ya jes’ git yerself behind me until we git in the car. See, Hollins got that ol engine up n runnin.”
Elissa quickly darted her gaze to the deputy, and it dawned on her that Nelson was the answer to every single question she had.
Sheriff Ross spoke before she could act. “We’ll jes’ be leavin’ now, sir...”
What she felt next was like nothing she had ever felt in her life.
There wasn’t a tiny breeze, yet a ghostly wisp of air skimmed her cheek, and it chilled her right down to the bone. A split second later, a thud hit her ears, and the deep thump of injured wood stopped the breath in her lungs. A part of her screamed to not look back, to for once do as she was told, to get the hell in that car, and leave, but it was plain old human nature.
When someone said not to look down, the first response was to do just that, and it was the same with the voice of fear inside.
Elissa turned her neck slow as could be, and found a forty inch machete stuck deep in the wooden wall of her house. Hanging from the blade was a chunk of dark blonde curly hair.
Her dark blonde curly hair.
He had cut her hair.
With a machete.
She touched the curls dangling from the much used blade, feeling the dry strands randomly pull loose, and fall to the ground.
Gray eyes glanced at Nelson, her hand itched with the dry hair, and her jugular throbbed with the imagined sensation of steel cutting through flesh. Her hand rose of its own accord and grasped the place where that... that thing would have sliced if he hadn’t missed.
Unless he had meant to miss, in which case sheriff Ross was right about getting the hell out of dodge.
Elissa, keeping her gaze trained on the man, side stepped to the right, then watched as the man took a step forward. Another step to the right, another responding step forward. Another, then another, and another followed until she stopped.
The man stopped.
She stepped to the left, and Nelson moved forward again, which made her lips twitch into an involuntary smile.
His head tilted to the side, so she tilted hers, then copied again when his head straightened.
So this why cats died of curiosity, she thought she raised her hand and watched his make fists.
Definitely not the type to bring cookies, was he?
“Ma’am, we oughta be goin while the goin’s good.”
“He cut my hair,” she replied, her mouth still curved up at the corners.
Whether it was genuine humor or adrenalin, she would never know, but when the body is controlled entirely by the overwhelming need to survive, the person follows every word fear says without question.
Right now, fear whispered at her: keep it up, keep his attention, don’t threaten, don’t speak, do everything I say.
Elissa unknowingly complied; her feet moved in a sort of dance, while her eyes watched him follow. Step to the right, one forward, step to the left, one forward...
She blinked.
No.
Nelson stepped back.
She moved to the right and he moved forward, then again to the left and he moved back, then wholly without thought she was the one to break the rhythm by placing one foot in front of the other.
The man stood still, and so she took another, and she kept going until she was close enough to see he had one eye and it was a rather nice shade of blue.
“I think you left something at my place.”
Chapter No: Two part 2
Author: Me!
Email: Mclarenmjude@gmail.com
Fandom: Friday The 13th
Rating: NC-17 for graphic scenes of violence and gore.
Genre: Horror/Mystery
Content: Jason Voorhees/Elissa McCormack
Summary: It was the money that drew her there. The money and a job that had been advertised many times. It was good job, too, and one with an excellent health package. If only she knew how much she would need it.
Disclaimer: The only person I own is Elissa McCormack. Jason Voorhees and Crystal Lake do not belong to me, therefore no money is made from this story.
WARNINGS: Extremely graphic violence, and disturbing murder scenes. Not for the faint hearted or those who cry at Bambi and think Twilight is the epitome of excellence. You do not like blood and guts, then do not read.
Author's Note: I will gladly take any and all comments, especially those helping me improve my writing, but I will not give trolls the time of day, and nor will I bat an eyelash at online bullies who think all stories should be written to their specifications.
Now for the second half of chapter two!
Huggles, Jude xxx
He watched them go inside, a machete firmly held in one hand and a bear trap in the other, his single mindedness focused his attention solely on the woman with the local sheriff. His automatic response kicked in, and he stood there, behind one of the large trees, observing and learning what he could. From his point of view, which was not great by anyone's standards, he could see the woman following that useless sheriff, her body language screamed the fact that she was begging. Begging for what, he didn't know, but if she thought she was going to move into Old Jed's house and take his place, then she thought very wrong indeed.
She didn't have a damn clue. None of them did, and neither did that man Crystal Lake had elected as sheriff. He certainly hadn't done anything to justify his position as chief law enforcer. It had been almost three months and there was still no sign of who killed Jedediah Smithson. Knowing the town in which he lived, Jason assumed they all blamed him, just like they did for every other brutal killing or beating that went on.
Jedediah Smithson, Old Jed as Jason called him, had been his friend and he had been a friend in turn. When the old man had taken a bad fall, who had been there for him? Certainly not those who had been termed as “family.” The son, Graham, had visited Jed twice in the eight weeks it had taken the old man’s ribs to heal, and the daughter had called once, but it was him, Jason Voorhees, who had murdered Old Jed. It was Jason Voorhees who had caused the old man to fall and break three ribs. Jason Voorhees who set the fire that killed Jedediah Smithson.
He stared at the house, his friend's house, and it amazed him how it was the same and yet so very different. There was no sign of the flame that had consumed the house, that had licked at and burned his feet, no smell of scorched flesh to torment his nostrils, no wheezing breaths of an old man to break his heart, telling him to run, to get away, to save himself.
His grip on the machete tightened, and a swell of rage and hate burned just as hard, just as quick, as those flames that had eaten his clothes as he had hacked away at them with everything he had. Useless, Jason knew, he had been nothing but useless. For a long time, he had believed his mother when she called him special, and for a long time, he believed he could walk on water, even before he died. He held himself so high and he was so proud, despite what everyone said, despite the mockery and the vicious laughter, he had believed. He had held within his heart the faith that he could do anything, and when he came to after drowning, that belief had soared.
Jason had heard, even from his mother, that the higher a person was, the further they fell, but that could not happen to him, not after he had survived drowning, not after surviving several other attempts on his life.
And then Old Jed came along.
And so did the fire.
He fell and he fell hard. For all he had at his disposal, he couldn't save his friend, and it made him seethe. In his home at the mines, he would sit at his grinding stone, sharpening everything he could lay his hands upon. Axes, knives, arrows, and a replica weapon that hadn't been dangerous until he took to his whetstone for an hour, made it sharp enough to slice a six inch thick vine in one swing.
All the weapons he used to protect the Voorhees grounds and keep the lake clean meant nothing, not one damn thing. Jedediah Smithson had died in his arms, and no amount of specialty or sharp weapons had aided him, so yes, Jason Voorhees had fallen, but now he knew better. He was not special and he could not walk on water, and nothing he did mattered because they would keep coming and coming, desecrating his land however they saw fit, while that so-called “sheriff” and his fellow deputies did nothing to stop it.
Jason often wondered what they, and by they he meant the town, would do if he just stopped. Stopped protecting his land, stopped breaking into stores when he needed food, stopped everything. They made a lot of money from his infamy, he knew, with tourists and campers, and the ghoulish folk who wanted tours to the places where killings had occurred. Not one of them gave a thought about that, about him, and yet he fed them, clothed their children, provided enough money to fund the election of Sheriff Gregory Ross.
While they all lived in luxury, he wore clothes that were tatty and torn, shoes he had to steal from those who trespassed on the Voorhees lands. Fact was, nobody gave a damn about him, and now that sheriff had just poured a little too much salt in his wounds. Moving someone into Old Jed's House was more than he could take.
Unlike the trespassers and the poachers who came to hunt deer, bears, and badgers, which he despised, unlike the ghoulish and their ilk, he wanted this woman to see him, to know what was coming to her, and so as he watched the law man show the woman into the house, he moved out from behind his tree and waited for her to see him.
Once, before Old Jed, he would have waited, and if the person didn't cause any trouble, he would let them be. He didn't enjoy killing; it was a chore, and he longed for the day when he didn't have to do it anymore, but he had land and when people came to urinate all over it, then he would do what was necessary. Some people protected their homes and families with guns, and some by using exquisite fighting techniques. He protected his with weapons that ensured clean and blunt deaths for those who used his land as a toilet or a place to reproduce.
Despite popular theory, he had no problem with sex. It wasn't filthy or dirty, or bad or what they said about his like and dislikes as they hired new so-called “caretakers.” What he didn't like were the beer cans strewn about, used condoms full of semen thrown into the lake, flowers that took a decade to bloom, killed by urine...
Filth, plain and simple.
Yet it never crossed the minds of any of those townsfolk why he never killed the etymologists, or the nature photographers, those who came to highlight the beauty of Crystal Lake. Those he loved, truly, as they saw past the myths and legends of Jason Voorhees, the little boy who drowned. They saw a lake that had fish and wildlife, deer, squirrels, some beautiful birds, and the like. It wasn't just the campers and the tourists and the ghoulish who came here, but that never entered the small minds of those who blamed him for everything that went wrong in their lives.
Now, as he stood there, watching the sheriff and the woman watch him from Old Jed’s house, his only thought was he would not hide anymore, and when Jason thought something, Jason did it.
And Jason had stopped hiding.
XXXX
Elissa stared, uncomprehendingly, out the hallway window, but unlike half hour previous, her eyes weren’t focused on the wilderness. Oh no. They were wholly locked onto whoever it was curious enough to break out an unnerving version of a welcome wagon, and yet insecure enough to hide behind a...
Was that a hockey mask?
The necessary squinting of her eyes only served as a reminder that she needed her eyes tested.
Damn diabetes, she thought while still squinting. Yes, it was indeed a hockey mask, and the late afternoon sunlight reflected off the many scratches on it. She did begin to wonder why a new one hadn’t been purchased, but if his clothes were any indication, he had very little in the way of cashy money.
Much like herself.
Or how she had been until she got this job, which she was not going to give up without a damn fight. Maybe that’s why the peeping Tom was wearing a mask. To intimidate her.
Well, she would just see about that.
What sort of person did that? her mind demanded as she glared back. What sort of jerk would purposely frighten a woman in the woods? A low down, good for nothing bully is what.
She had just landed on her feet, and no man cowardly enough to come stomping around in a mask was going to ruin that, no matter how big he was.
“Ma’am, I think it best we be going back to town... Ma’am... Ma’am!”
The sheriff’s voice got quieter the further Elissa walked away from him, down the stairs and towards the front door, armed with nothing but wit, charm, and a ton of fighting words on the tip of her tongue.
No more would she allow others to take on her battles. She was alone out here, and she had already gathered that the isolation wasn’t entirely designed by nature, but had more to do with the resident Nelson Muntz, who obviously enjoyed throwing his weight around. All that taken into consideration, it was safe to say she would be alone out here for a long time to come.
The front door - no, her front door - opened, and her cheap, worn Chucks slapped against the wooden floor of the porch, where she came to a stop.
Elissa beamed oh so brightly as she waved at the behemoth in the hockey mask. “Good afternoon, sir!” She called out, the sound of her voice crystal clear without the city noise to muffle it.
The man just stood there.
“Is it always this beautiful or just this time of year?” There. She had been more than polite and civil.
The only response she got was from sheriff Ross, who huffed and puffed in his hurry to catch up to her.
Her eyes went wide when she saw his gun out of the holster, and if she wasn’t mistaken, it was fully locked and loaded.
And pointed right in the direction of Nelson Muntz.
The only gun she had ever seen belonged to her grandfather, and it been one scary machine. Long, with a sword or knife at the end. Bayonet, her memory conjured, but that was in no way as terrifying as the sheriff’s.
It was much shorter than the Bayonet, but it sure as hell seemed a damn sight more powerful.
“C’mon now, Miss McCormack. This is where we would be leavin. Ya jes’ git yerself behind me until we git in the car. See, Hollins got that ol engine up n runnin.”
Elissa quickly darted her gaze to the deputy, and it dawned on her that Nelson was the answer to every single question she had.
Sheriff Ross spoke before she could act. “We’ll jes’ be leavin’ now, sir...”
What she felt next was like nothing she had ever felt in her life.
There wasn’t a tiny breeze, yet a ghostly wisp of air skimmed her cheek, and it chilled her right down to the bone. A split second later, a thud hit her ears, and the deep thump of injured wood stopped the breath in her lungs. A part of her screamed to not look back, to for once do as she was told, to get the hell in that car, and leave, but it was plain old human nature.
When someone said not to look down, the first response was to do just that, and it was the same with the voice of fear inside.
Elissa turned her neck slow as could be, and found a forty inch machete stuck deep in the wooden wall of her house. Hanging from the blade was a chunk of dark blonde curly hair.
Her dark blonde curly hair.
He had cut her hair.
With a machete.
She touched the curls dangling from the much used blade, feeling the dry strands randomly pull loose, and fall to the ground.
Gray eyes glanced at Nelson, her hand itched with the dry hair, and her jugular throbbed with the imagined sensation of steel cutting through flesh. Her hand rose of its own accord and grasped the place where that... that thing would have sliced if he hadn’t missed.
Unless he had meant to miss, in which case sheriff Ross was right about getting the hell out of dodge.
Elissa, keeping her gaze trained on the man, side stepped to the right, then watched as the man took a step forward. Another step to the right, another responding step forward. Another, then another, and another followed until she stopped.
The man stopped.
She stepped to the left, and Nelson moved forward again, which made her lips twitch into an involuntary smile.
His head tilted to the side, so she tilted hers, then copied again when his head straightened.
So this why cats died of curiosity, she thought she raised her hand and watched his make fists.
Definitely not the type to bring cookies, was he?
“Ma’am, we oughta be goin while the goin’s good.”
“He cut my hair,” she replied, her mouth still curved up at the corners.
Whether it was genuine humor or adrenalin, she would never know, but when the body is controlled entirely by the overwhelming need to survive, the person follows every word fear says without question.
Right now, fear whispered at her: keep it up, keep his attention, don’t threaten, don’t speak, do everything I say.
Elissa unknowingly complied; her feet moved in a sort of dance, while her eyes watched him follow. Step to the right, one forward, step to the left, one forward...
She blinked.
No.
Nelson stepped back.
She moved to the right and he moved forward, then again to the left and he moved back, then wholly without thought she was the one to break the rhythm by placing one foot in front of the other.
The man stood still, and so she took another, and she kept going until she was close enough to see he had one eye and it was a rather nice shade of blue.
“I think you left something at my place.”