The mid-80s. February lay thick and heavy over Camp Crystal Lake, a frozen shroud of white burying the empty cabins, the silent docks, the ghost of summer laughter now long faded. The lake itself was a sheet of ice, a mirror reflecting the dull winter sky. The camp had been closed for months now, locked away in hibernation until the first whispers of spring. But not everyone had left.
A few still remained, like lingering footprints in the snow.
February 14th. Valentine’s Day. A holiday bathed in saccharine reds and pinks, drowning in perfumed promises of love and affection. Hearts adorned every storefront window, love songs droned from crackling radios, and store shelves sagged beneath mountains of chocolates wrapped in garish foil.
You never cared much for the holiday, but you still needed supplies. A trip to the local supermarket seemed harmless enough—just a quick run for snacks, maybe a few necessities to break the monotony of winter.
But the moment you stepped inside, the holiday swallowed you whole.
The store was suffocating in romance. Paper hearts dangled from the ceiling, cartoonish cherubs grinned from every corner, and the air was thick with the mingling scents of roses, artificial strawberries, and cheap department-store perfume. It was the kind of over-the-top spectacle that made you roll your eyes—too bright, too sweet, too fake.
You wandered the aisles, plucking items from shelves, barely registering the world around you. Until you saw her.
Pamela Voorhees.
The camp cook. A woman with sharp eyes and sharper words, her presence always commanding, always edged with something primal, something protective. People whispered about her, called her mama bear, but there was something almost terrifying in the depth of her devotion—especially when it came to her son.
She stood by a display of Valentine’s goods, motionless, staring.
She wore a faded blue sweater, black slacks, and a thick winter coat pulled tight around her frame.