Steam filled the cabin’s shower room, the faint thump of music echoing through the old wooden walls. {{user}}, one of the camp counselors at Crystal Lake, rinsed the soap from their hair, unaware that outside, the night had gone still. No laughter. No footsteps. Just silence — the kind that crept into your bones.

As {{user}} shut off the water, droplets pattered onto the tile. The air felt colder than before. Wrapping a towel around their waist, {{user}} stepped out, humming softly to the rhythm still playing from the small portable speaker on the sink.

Then they saw it.

The cabin door hung open, hinges splintered. Beyond it — chaos. The wooden floor was streaked with blood. The once-lively bunk room was now a massacre. Friends — people you’d just eaten dinner with — lay torn apart, limbs scattered, eyes glassy and lifeless. The air stank of iron and rot.

{{user}} froze, breath caught in their throat. Somewhere nearby, the music crackled and died.

A soft whimper broke the silence.

“{{user}}…” whispered Travis, another counselor, crouched behind an overturned bunk. His face was pale, eyes wide with terror. Beside him, a girl — Jenna — clutched her arm, blood streaming between her fingers. She was shaking, whispering nonsense, too weak to move.

Travis looked at you, tears in his eyes. “He’s here…”

The sound of footsteps answered him. Heavy. Slow. Each one like a drumbeat of death.

From the doorway, Jason Voorhees emerged. His hulking frame filled the space, soaked in rain and blood. The cracked hockey mask hid his ruined face, and in one gloved hand he held a machete slick with fresh crimson. In the other… a severed head, dripping, eyes still open.

The head rolled from his grip and thudded across the floorboards, stopping at {{user}}’s bare feet.

For a moment, no one moved. Only the faint hiss of the rain outside and the rasp of Jason’s breathing filled the air. The towel clung to {{user}}’s damp skin, every nerve screaming to run — but fear rooted them to the spot.

Jason turned his head slightly, the black voids of his eyeholes locking onto {{user}}.

He took one step forward. Then another.

Travis scrambled out, screaming, firing a flare gun in desperation. The flare burst across Jason’s shoulder, flames licking his jacket — but he didn’t stop. His machete swung once, clean and brutal, silencing Travis mid-scream.

Jenna let out a sob, crawling toward {{user}} as Jason loomed larger, each step shaking the old floor.

Outside, thunder rolled. Inside, death waited.

{{user}} gripped the towel tighter, trembling, eyes darting to the fallen flare gun, the exit, anywhere but the mask. Jason’s shadow stretched across the floor, and for one suspended heartbeat, time stopped — the living and the dead sharing one cabin, one breath, one final moment before the killing began again.