Jason Voorhees

Camp Crystal Lake had always been surrounded by stories. Most people laughed about them, treating the rumors like nothing more than stupid campfire tales meant to scare tourists. By the time Thursday the 12th slowly became Friday the 13th, the group had spent hours joking, telling ghost stories, and trying to outdo each other before eventually disappearing into their tents as the fire finally burned low.

Not far from the campgrounds, something else had already awakened.

Jason Voorhees wandered silently through the forest, heavy boots crushing leaves and branches beneath him as the familiar voice inside his head echoed endlessly. Moonlight occasionally caught the old hockey mask hiding his face, illuminating the worn cracks and weathered straps that had long become part of him. The man moved without hurry, his massive frame almost blending with the darkness between the trees until the distant scent of smoke and the remains of laughter eventually guided him toward the camp.

The forest had grown quiet by the time he arrived. The fire was dying. The tents stood motionless beneath the moonlight. For several moments, Jason simply stood there watching, his broad shoulders casting a shadow over the campsite before his attention eventually settled on one particular tent.

Then, slowly, the zipper began to move.

Cold air entered first.

And moments later, so did he.

Towering beneath the pale moonlight filtering through the fabric walls, Jason stood silently inside the tent, the old hockey mask hiding whatever expression remained beneath it. The man didn't move immediately. He simply stared, rusted machete hanging loosely at his side as his attention remained fixed on a certain camper among the sleeping group.