Pamela illusions

Glo dropped to her knees and ground her fists into her temples.

"What are you doing to me?" she cried, her cheeks glistening with tears. "Get out of my mind, you witch! Get... out... of my... mind!"

She looked up to see if there was anyone who could help her, but the old woman across the road had been decapitated and was drenched in spreading pools of blood. The two kids, the waitress, a man driving by in a GMC—they had all been beheaded and now had gnarled, pitted stumps where their heads used to be. And even though the townsfolk were moving and seemed to be alive, their bodies were streaked with the indelible tarnish of blood.

   Friday the 13th: Carnival of Maniacs, chapter 7

Glo closed her eyes and tried to concentrate. The last thing she remembered was getting ready to stomp on Pamela's head. But that was in the woods near Crystal Lake, whereas now she had no idea where she was. As for the people...

"It's an illusion,” the girl told herself through gritted teeth. "It's just an illusion."

"Are you okay?" asked the old lady with genuine concern.

Glo looked and saw the neck drip right in front of her face. Her rational mind knew the stump couldn't possibly be real, but her subconscious mind sent her fleeing down the street. For the first time since this whole nightmare had begun, the girl was starting to doubt her own sanity. Now, more than ever, she needed to call for help.

Finding no phones on the street, Glo ran back to the diner where she was met by the comforting aroma of a hot grill. The waitress turned her bloody neck in Glo's direction.

"Hey there," said the severed spine in welcome.

Glo forced herself to look at the damaged flesh and tried her utmost to pretend everything was normal.

"I... I need to make a call."

The waitress pointed to a payphone right next to the door. Glo mumbled her thanks and was about to use the phone when she noticed a small TV sitting on the counter. A newscaster was reading the headlines through a gaping wound across his neck. Glo shivered and turned away, only to catch sight of a mirror which, instead of her own features, reflected the living face of Pamela Voorhees, healed and restored.

"Hello, dear," grinned the psychopath.

Glo couldn't take any more. She dropped the phone and bolted into the restroom, where she cried her heart out.

   Friday the 13th: Carnival of Maniacs, chapter 8

Gripping the sides of the washstand, Glo raised her head to look at the mirror one more time: the btch was still there. That square cut of blonde hair, that broad face and the dark inset of her manic eyes. There was a photo of Mrs Voorhees in one of Glo's true crime books, and it was indistinguishable from the woman now reflected in the silvered pane.

"Leave me alone!” cried Glo.

"I'm sorry, dear,” smiled Pamela, "but I've grown rather fond of you."

Glo stuck out her bottom jaw. "If you don't get out of my head, I swear I'll kill myself."

   Friday the 13th: Carnival of Maniacs, chapter 8

Glo pumped another four coins into the slot and continued talking, trying to cram as much information as possible into the shortest amount of time.

"The Winnebago knocked me unconscious," she prattled. "Jason too. That's how they got him. They missed me but he was lying in the road. I don't remember exactly but I think they were called 'The Carnival of something."

Casting a quick look around the diner, Glo put the backpack down by her feet and opened it just enough to reach inside for the USGS map. Her hand brushed against the severed head, its parched, leprous skin making her feel instantly nauseous.

"The sheriff wouldn't listen,” she continued down the phone, "but I can tell you exactly where the bodies are. So if you don't believe me, go look for yourself. The map reference is..."

The girl was cut short by the unexpected sound of laughter—a mocking, disjointed hysteria that could only be the renewed psychic blitz of Mrs Voorhees. The bitch was infecting the payphone the same way she'd attacked Glo's cell, only this time the girl wasn't going to be so easily panicked. She closed her eyes and did her utmost to shut the derision out of her mind. She tried to concentrate, to focus from one sentence to the next, but Pamela was growing stronger and soon the demented cackling was almost overwhelming.

Over by the counter, the waitress watched Glo with growing unease. She made a rule of never judging customers by their appearance but this little grunge dork was acting real strange.

"Earl!" she called anxiously.

A burly figure stepped out of the backroom. He had a balding head and a permanent five o'clock shadow, and his greasy apron as good as said he was the cook.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

The waitress nodded in Glo's direction; the girl was yelling into the phone and was beginning to upset the other patrons.

"Shut up, you bitch!" shouted Glo, her defiance crumbling

"Hey!" Earl bustled out from behind the counter. "What's going on?"

Just then, Glo felt a hand grab her shoulder. She turned and saw the hockey mask of Jason Voorhees bearing down on her. This was the first time Glo had seen Jason in daylight, and the sheer force exuded by his decaying mass was almost beyond comprehension.

Glo screamed and snatched the backpack off the floor. Then, using her shortness to her advantage, she ducked under Jason's arms. The phone and the map slipped through her fingers as she scooted for the door, but Jason was too fast. He caught the girl's shoulder a second time and hauled her back into the room. Glo cringed as he raised his gleaming machete into the sunlight.

Earl let go of Glo's leather jacket. He hoped she didn't try to go running off again before he had chance to explain.

"Hold on," he said. "You dropped this."

He held out the USGS map, but when Glo's eyes came to rest on the folded sheet she saw only a deadly blade. She retreated in horror as Jason stabbed the machete closer and closer towards her stomach, perversely entertaining himself with the foreplay of an assured kill.

"Go on, take it!"

Earl tried to put the map in Glo's hands, but she pressed her back against the door and did everything she could to avoid him.

"I think she's on drugs," said the waitress.

"What?" Glo hesitated long enough for Jason to bring the machete down across her right hand.

The girl winced, expecting the fire of amputation to burn through her wrist, but she felt nothing—no pain, no blood, no shock. And now there was a map resting in the palm of her hand.

A chuckle rippled through the depths of Glo's consciousness as Jason transformed into the disheveled cook.

"Get out of my head!" Glo shouted.

She could see the final curtain falling on her sanity. Her brain was awash with twisted laughter, a cruel backcloth for the most deranged hallucination yet:

"Kill her, Mommy. Kill her!"

   Friday the 13th: Carnival of Maniacs, chapter 9