Jason goes to Canada

A fateful tryst

Tara, 16 years old, was rightfully nervous pulling her old Honda to the edge of the North Woods.
Randy had swore to her over the phone that he would be there before she arrived, marijuana in hand.
She saw his little truck, but the boy himself was nowhere to be seen.
She cut her engine, Taylor Swift dying mid-chorus.
Randy better NOT be trying to scare her. It had been a shitty day and all she wanted was to get baked and get laid.
She rolled down her window halfway.
"Randy! I'm heeere!"
No reply.
"Cut the bullshit! I'm not in the mood!"
The sun had set a few minutes ago, and the woods were soaking up the dark happily, it's shadows stretching and deepening. She would never come out here alone. Even in the company of friends she would stay creeped out the entire time. But it was the best spot to hang out, as yet unknown to parents and police, so she usually sucked it up.
"RANDY!!"
Her irritation conquered her fear briefly, and she got out, slamming the door.
"You better not be high already! You said you would wait!"
Tara walked over to his truck, peeking inside. On the seat was a quarter-bag of weed, and a few blunt wraps.
Well, he hasn't smoked yet. Was he taking a shit?
It was only at that moment, the last of the daylight disappearing through the pines, that she remembered an offhand comment at school that day.
Someone had died in the woods the day before. No.
Someone had been killed in the woods the day before. It was a half-heard conversation from a few students in the lunchroom, she didn't pay it any attention or heed.
It didn't affect her.
Until now.
"RANDY GODDAMIT I'm about to LEAVE!"
Panic was making the trees taller, the shadows deeper, the distance to her car a mile instead of ten feet.
If he was trying to scare her, she would dump him on the spot. Well, after they smoked anyway.
Something came flying out of the woods at her like a missle, she ducked instinctively. It struck Randy's truck with a heavy THRUNK!
"What the fuck Randy you asshole! Get out here!"
She looked down to see what he had thrown at her.
Oof.
Randy hadn't thrown the object. Randy WAS the object.
His head anyway. She instantly recognized the long black hair, the cute little goatee that he had been so proud of. The dumb look he usually gave her when she tried to help him with his Geometry homework.
Now that dumb look was frozen on his dead face, although this problem had been a little bigger than the degrees left in an isosceles triangle.
Tara barked a strange laugh, her mind refusing the scenario instantly.
It was an elaborate prank is all. Randy had somehow fashioned a replica of his head, capped it with a wig identical to his own hair, filled the whole thing with fake blood oh my fucking god it was fucking REAL.
Every fiber of every muscle in her locked up like an old engine, making it impossible to scream or even move.
Even when the head-chucking madman emerged from the woods, stomping towards her like a train on a track to Hell.
My God he's wearing a goalie mask like her Dad wore thirty years ago when he played for that amateur hockey team, except they used sticks and not a big freaking machete like this guy.
He lifted it as he came, dark blood frozen on the length of it's edge.
Randy's blood, soon to be joined by her own.
Her last regret, the one thing that sprang to mind above any other thought, was that she never got to smoke the weed. If she was gonna die, she'd rather die high.
She wanted to scream WAIT, but she saw in the dark holes of that mask there there would be, could be, no waiting. You may as well ask the Sun to stop moving through space at a million miles per second. It would sooner honor the request than this huge killing machine.
Tara managed to raise one hand in defense, but the blade sliced through her fingers just as easily as it relieved her torso of it's head.
The nub of her spine wiggled a little as it fruitlessly tried to send signals to it's missing brain, which was currently rolling away through a bed of pine needles.
Two strong gurts of blood sprayed from the stump of her neck, and then her legs folded.
The man stood over her body, watching it spasm and tremble. When it finally came to rest, he calmly collected both heads, arranging them on the hood of her car in a final kiss.
The tragedies of love.
He himself had never had the chance to love anyone besides his mother, but she was no longer around to comfort him and protect him from the ugliness of the world.

He had been avenging her murder ever since, and never paused once to consider how much blood would have to be dedicated to her memory to satisfy the loss.

He already knew the answer.