Summertime Crush

The scent of pine needles and damp earth still clung to Jason, even after all these years. He sat on the decaying porch of what used to be his mother's cabin, the one at Camp Crystal Lake.

It was a ruin now, a skeletal reminder of a past that haunted him more than any ghost.

He ran a calloused, scarred hand over the splintered wood, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. He wasn't smiling because of the horror, the bloodshed, or the endless cycle of vengeance.

He was smiling because of Sarah.

Sarah—the name, even in his own silent, internal monologue, felt foreign, almost fragile.

It was a name that conjured images of sunlight, laughter, and a profound, almost painful innocence that had no business existing in his world.

But she had existed, long before the lake claimed him, long before the mask became his face, long before the machete became his extension.

She existed in the flickering, sepia-toned reels of his memory, a beacon of improbable joy in a childhood that was otherwise a canvas of shadows.

He remembered the summer of '57 with a clarity that surprised even him.

He was a boy then, just 7. A gangly, awkward kid, already bigger than most his age, with a face that even then, held the promise of an unconventional future.

The other campers, the ones who whispered and pointed, called him names he couldn't quite grasp, but the venom in their voices was clear enough.

He spent his days on the fringes, observing, always observing, the vibrant chaos that was Camp Crystal Lake.

Then Sarah arrived.

She was going to be a freshman in college come fall, working for the summer, and saving up for textbooks and late-night pizza.

Her hair was a bright, improbable blonde, pulled into two perpetually bouncing pigtails that seemed to have a life of their own. Her eyes, blue as a summer sky, sparkled with an unshakeable optimism that baffled and fascinated him.

She was, in every sense of the word, too cheerful. Too happy. It was almost offensive, this relentless effervescence, in a world that, to his young eyes, seemed determined to be anything but.

He first saw her by the lake, instructing a group of giggling girls in the finer points of knot-tying. She moved with an easy grace, her laughter echoing across the water, light and airy like the dandelion seeds that drifted on the summer breeze.

He was hiding, as usual, behind a thick cluster of trees, observing. He was always observing. And from that moment, his observations became singularly focused on Sarah.

She had an uncanny knack for finding him, for seeing him even when he thought he was invisible.

One afternoon, he was sketching in his worn notebook, meticulously drawing the intricate patterns of a spider building its web, when a shadow fell over his page.

He flinched, instinctively pulling the notebook close, but then a voice, soft and melodious, said, "That's a beautiful drawing, Jason."

He looked up, startled. Sarah stood there, her pigtails swaying, a genuine smile on her face. Not the forced, pitying smiles he usually received, but a real, honest-to-goodness smile.

His breath hitched in his throat. He mumbled something unintelligible, his cheeks burning.

"Do you draw a lot?" she asked, her voice gentle, devoid of any judgment.

He managed a nod, still unable to meet her gaze.

"You're very talented," she continued, and he risked a glance up. Her blue eyes were wide, earnest. "You should show your mom."

He shook his head vehemently. His mother, Pamela, was often… preoccupied. Her love for him was fierce, but it was a love often overshadowed by a whirlwind of responsibilities, anxieties, and a relentless protectiveness that manifested in unpredictable ways.

Sarah knelt beside him, her presence surprisingly calming.

"Well, I think they're wonderful," she said, her voice a warm hum. "Keep practicing. You'll be a famous artist one day."

That was the start of it, the quiet, unspoken understanding that grew between them. Sarah didn't treat him like the other campers did. She didn't mock his slowness, his quietness, or the way his face seemed to contort into strange grimaces when he was deep in thought.

She simply saw him. And in seeing him, she validated him in a way no one else ever had.

He started spending his afternoons near her, not always interacting, but simply existing in her orbit.

He'd see her teach swimming lessons, her movements fluid and confident in the water, a stark contrast to his own terrified inability to stay afloat.

He'd watch her lead campfire songs, her voice surprisingly strong and clear, even when a little off-key.

He'd observe her organize scavenger hunts, her enthusiasm infectious, even for the most jaded of campers.

One particularly sweltering afternoon, she found him by the edge of the woods, painstakingly trying to untangle a bird caught in a discarded fishing line.

His clumsy fingers fumbled with the delicate strands, and the bird, terrified, thrashed wildly.

"Oh, poor little thing," Sarah cooed, kneeling beside him. Her touch was feather-light as she took the bird from him. "Here, let me help."

Her nimble fingers, so much smaller and more precise than his, worked quickly, carefully. She spoke to the bird in soft, reassuring tones, and in what felt like mere seconds, the line was free. The bird, dazed but unharmed, chirped once and then soared into the sky.

He looked at her, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and gratitude.

"Th... th... thank you," he managed, the words a rough whisper.

She smiled, her face flushed from the heat and the exertion.

"You were doing a good job," she said, her voice gentle. "Sometimes, you just need an extra pair of hands."

She then glanced at his own hands, which were still stained with dirt and a faint smear of bird droppings. "Let's get those cleaned up, shall we?"

She led him to the pump by the main lodge, and without a word, began to pump water onto his hands, gently scrubbing away the grime. Her touch was so light, so tender, that he almost flinched.

He wasn't used to such kindness, such unadulterated care. He felt a strange tingling sensation in his chest, a warmth that spread through him like wildfire. It was then, standing by the old water pump, her hands gently cleaning his, that he knew. He was utterly, hopelessly, irrevocably smitten.

His crush on Sarah was a secret, fiercely guarded. He didn't know how to articulate the whirlwind of emotions she stirred within him. It wasn't just admiration; it was a profound yearning for her presence, a desperate desire to protect her, to keep that light within her from ever dimming.

He would collect wildflowers for her, leaving them anonymously on the porch of her cabin, hoping she would understand the silent offering. He'd follow her at a safe distance, making sure no one bothered her, a silent, unseen guardian.

He remembered the day of the big talent show. Sarah was performing a song on her ukulele, a cheerful, folksy tune that perfectly encapsulated her bright spirit.

He sat in the back row, hidden in the shadows, his heart thrumming with a nervous excitement he couldn't explain. She was beautiful up there, her blonde pigtails bouncing as she strummed, her voice clear and sweet.

He imagined a future where he could sit beside her, openly, proudly, and listen to her sing every day. It was a naive, childish fantasy, but in that moment, it felt real, palpable.

Then came the day of the swimming lesson. It was a hot, muggy afternoon, the kind that made the air thick and heavy.

He wasn't afraid of the water. He loved it in fact. It was the only place his body could move with any semblance of grace. He just couldn't swim, a fact that shamed him deeply.

He'd tried, once, but the water had felt like a suffocating blanket, pulling him down, down, down. The other campers had been relentless. They teased him about his lack of ability to swim. They pushed him, splashed him, called him names.

He'd learned to avoid the lake after that, to stay on the shore, a silent, watchful sentinel.

But Sarah was teaching that day, and a strange, uncharacteristic bravery surged through him. He wanted to impress her. He wanted her to be proud of him. He stood at the edge of the dock, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

"Come on in, Jason!" Sarah called, her voice bright and encouraging. "The water's lovely!"

He hesitated, his body trembling. The other kids were already in the water, splashing and laughing. He saw some of them pointing at him, their whispers carrying on the breeze. He heard a familiar snicker, and his resolve began to waver.

But then he looked at Sarah. She was smiling, her blue eyes fixed on him, filled with a warmth that encouraged him, if only for a moment. He took a deep breath, and with a clumsy, ungraceful lurch, he stepped off the dock.

The cold shock of the water took his breath away. He flailed, his arms and legs churning wildly, his eyes wide with panic. The shouts and laughter of the other children seemed to morph into a distorted, mocking chorus.

He saw Sarah, her face suddenly etched with concern, swimming towards him. He tried to call out, to reach for her, but the water was everywhere, filling his mouth, his nose, his lungs. He felt himself sinking, the light fading above him.

He heard a distant scream, a primal, guttural sound that he later realized was his mother's. And then, darkness.

When he awoke, he was in the infirmary, his mother hovering over him, her face a mask of fury and grief.

He was coughing, shivering, but alive.

Sarah was there too, standing a little distance away, her face pale, her pigtails looking oddly deflated. Her blue eyes, usually so bright, were clouded with a profound sadness. She didn't say anything, but her gaze, filled with a quiet despair, spoke volumes.

The doctor said it was a miracle.

His mother said it was a curse, and her fury knew no bounds.

Pamela, irate and inconsolable, demanded Sarah stay far away from Jason, her voice a low, venomous growl that promised retribution.

He, Jason, just felt… different.

The world seemed sharper, colors more vivid, sounds more intense. And the bitterness, the deep-seated resentment that had always simmered beneath the surface, began to boil.

Sarah was gone the very next day. The camp, bowing to Pamela's tirade, had let her go.

Jason watched her from a distance, as she packed her meager belongings into her little car. Her blue eyes, usually so bright, were welled up with tears and still clouded with a profound sadness, and her pigtails, though still bouncing, held a no enthusiasm.

He understood. He was a symbol of something dark, something that had nearly ended, and she, with her boundless optimism, couldn't reconcile with it. Their quiet understanding had been shattered by the icy grip of the lake.

He watched her leave the camp—her wave, a small, tentative gesture that might have been directed at him, or perhaps at no one at all. He didn't wave back. He just watched her go, a gaping hole forming in his chest where something fragile and beautiful had once resided.

The years that followed were a blur of pain, rage, and the deepening shadows of his mother's vengeance.

The lake, once a symbol of his humiliation, became his sanctuary, his hunting ground. The whispers and taunts of the past transformed into the screams of his victims.

He became the monster they whispered about, the embodiment of their fears.

And with each victim, each swing of the machete, a tiny shard of the boy he once was—chopped away—replaced by the relentless, unfeeling entity he was destined to become.

But even as the legend grew, even as the blood flowed, Sarah remained. She was a flicker of light in the darkness, a ghost of a memory that refused to be extinguished.

He sometimes wondered what became of her.

Did she ever become an artist, as she'd once suggested he could be? Did her blue eyes still sparkle with that impossible cheerfulness? Did her pigtails still bounce with such abandon?

He knew, logically, that she was probably a grandmother by now, her youthful exuberance mellowed by the relentless march of time.

He knew that the girl he remembered, the one who saw him, truly saw him, was long gone.

But in his mind, in the quiet recesses of his tormented soul, she remained frozen in that summer of '57, forever young, forever bright, forever the one who had, however briefly, touched his dark world with a fleeting, improbable ray of sunshine.

He stood up, his heavy boots creaking on the rotten wood of the porch. The sun was setting, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, a stark contrast to the encroaching shadows.

The lake, still and dark, stretched out before him, a silent witness to countless tragedies. But in that moment, for him, it wasn't just a place of horror. It was also the place where, for a fleeting summer, he had known kindness, a glimmer of acceptance, and the overwhelming, terrifying, beautiful agony of a boy's first crush.

He picked up a small, smooth stone from the ground, worn smooth by the ceaseless flow of time and the elements. He turned it over in his hand, his gaze fixed on the lake. He still couldn't swim. But he could remember.

And in the vast, echoing silence of his immortal existence, the memory of Sarah, her blonde pigtails, her blue eyes, and her too cheerful, too happy demeanor, was a whisper of warmth that even the deepest darkness could not entirely extinguish.

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting the camp into an eerie twilight. The crickets began their nightly chorus, a melancholic symphony that had played out countless times over the decades.

Jason stood there, a towering, silent figure against the encroaching night, not a monster, not yet, not entirely.

Just a man, a very old, very scarred man, remembering—his friend—a camp counselor named Sarah, and the summer that had irrevocably shaped the monster he would become.

A summer when, for a brief, incandescent moment, he had been just a boy with a crush.