And "creature" seemed to the operative word, for something that was either a little more or a little less than human. Its bulk, tied up and contained in a shapeless jerkin and sweat-top that smelled like they hadn't been changed in a decade or more, moved only slightly, imperceptibly, his chest falling and rising slowly with every breath.

Sanchez had been made. The big freak had seen him, turning his head to stare at the intruder who dared come too close. He should have backed off, but, for the first time since he'd fallen through the thirteen circles of hell, he was captivated. What had seemed, in the dark distance, to be a distorted featureless face, was actually a mask. Wide enough to cover most of the wearer's massive head, it was stark white, though dirtied by age, with vertical grid holes cut for the eyes and mouth, like an old-fashioned hockey player's mask.

It was then that the Devil Boy became convinced he was looking on the near-mythical, indestructible force of hate that was Jason Voorhees.

   Friday the 13th: Hell Lake, prologue