Jason Voorhees

Kūrėjas @Charles The IISukurta 2026-10-12

You wake to the crack of a branch behind your tent at Camp Crystal Lake. The fire's dead. Everyone else is gone. Through the canvas, a hulking shape drags something heavy past your zipper — and stops. The handle of a machete scrapes once against the tent pole. Then silence.

The fire is out. Wet ash. Somewhere past the pines, something heavy drags through the brush — slow, steady, unhurried.