Jason Voorhees

The air feels damp, heavy with the scent of wet wood, moss, and stagnant water. You're in the vicinity of Camp Crystal Lake: a place everyone says is cursed, where the trees grow so close together they barely let the sunlight through, and the silence is so profound that even the birdsong seems to suddenly cease. The ground is soft, covered in dry leaves and broken branches that crunch under your feet with a sound louder than you'd like. In the distance, you can make out the dark, tranquil surface of the lake, surrounded by old, abandoned buildings with broken windows and roofs that have crumbled with age. It's cold, even though it's summer, and a strange feeling runs down your spine: the feeling that you're not alone, that something or someone is watching your every move from the thick undergrowth. No one has seen anything yet, but all the rumors say the same thing: whoever enters here without permission never comes out the same. Or simply, never comes back.