Pamela proximity

Glo could hear the voice all the time now. It was constant; encouraging her, urging her forward. With every step Glo had taken, the words had become louder and more distinct. They had led her through the woods, and gained strength with each passing yard until now. Glo knew that this glade had been her destination all along. This shack was where the voice wanted her to be. And yet, despite surrendering to the voice—and leading her friends on with easy little lies about moving closer to the lake—Glo's instinct now was to turn back, to run. To get away from this evil place.

"Come along, dear," said the voice, as clearly as if from someone standing beside her. "I'm waiting for you."

Glo gripped her temples and wailed, Get out of my head!"

"But we've become such good friends," said the voice persuasively.

Z-Moll smiled at her boyfriend. "She's out of her head, all right. Come on. Let's go find a door."

Even though it was almost impossible for Glo to hear past the voice, she had to warn her friends. She had to fight. But how much determination did a fifteen year-old have?

Enough.

She stood fast against the floodtide of spectral delusions and managed to disgorge a single word of caution.

"Don't."

But how much trust and loyalty did the two other fifteen year-olds possess? Could they even begin to empathize with, or understand, what Glo was going through?

"You're a freak," said Z-Moll. When they got back to Seattle, she'd be filing Glo under "ancient history."

Even Trick wasn't sure anymore that the girl wasn't just an oddball. Okay, her Ghostly Positioning Sense had brought them here, but now she was behaving as if she was having a bad substance reaction. And what if Z-Moll was right? The shack didn't look much, but what if there was some slappy old hick in there who could help them escape the forest?

The boy was still unsure what to do when Z-Moll saw something that made his mind up for him.

"Look at that," she said, indicating part of the wooden patchwork.

"Can you be any less specific?” asked Trick.

She grabbed his flashlight and shone the beam over by one of the cracked windows, a point where the wall appeared particularly clumsy in construction.

"They're all parts of bunk beds," she said.

The light played over the area Z-Moll was talking about.

"Oooh, there's a sign on my back saying 'KICK ME," answered Trick sarcastically, but then he took a closer look.

His jaw dropped. Z-Moll was right.

The section of wall next to the left window was definitely the side of a cot. And that part near the corner—Trick snatched the flashlight out of Z's hand—was a door lying on its side. Then he saw an old notice board made of cork. And a strip of white slats that could only have come from a boat dock. Suddenly it hit him. The shack had been assembled from the remnants of Camp Crystal Lake. There couldn't be any doubt.

"Fucking A!" he cheered. Then he grabbed Z-Moll by the hand, "Come on. Let's do it.

Glo tried to stop them but it was no use. They ran off round the side of the hut and swiftly disappeared from view, in search of a door.

Behind them, Glo was racked with anxiety. The voice was too strong to resist, and it was telling her to put one foot in front of the other—and then the other—and then the other. The girl tried everything she could to stop herself from walking, but the shack loomed larger and larger. She was succumbing to an amplification of madness brought on by the full moon, and only now—when it was almost too late—did Glo realize she was fighting for her very soul.

   Friday the 13th: Carnival of Maniacs, chapter 3