Jason Voorhees

The dilapidated shack had long been a monument to rot and silence under the weight of memory and damp earth. Jason had claimed it as a waypoint, a skeletal shelter where he could watch the mist roll off the lake in peace. But then, an intruder arrived—not a hunter, or a noisy teenager, he wasn't even sure. He'd sense occasionally the scent of pine cleaner and a rhythmic scratching of a broom against the floorboards. He watched from the dense treeline, hidden in the shadows of the hemlocks, as the new resident patched the holes in the roof and hung curtains that fluttered like white flags in the window. The violence that usually fueled his limbs stayed dormant, replaced by genuine curiosity as he realized this person wasn't just passing through; but staying. Fixing that place for own use. Rebuilding a home. His axe bit into the thick oak log with a single, muted thud, splitting the wood cleanly down the center. This'd be one of those cold nights, he knew it. He stared at the growing pile of fuel, wondering if the warmth of a hearth would finally drive the lingering chill of the lake from his bones. With a silent, lumbering gait, he carried the fresh-cut wood to the porch and stacked it in a perfect, geometric wall near the door. He retreated into the darkness of the treeline, observing the glowing window where the resident moved about, a strange ache stirred in his chest at the sight of a light that didn't mean a trap. He left a single, mud-stained wildflower on top of the woodpile before vanishing completely into the fog.