From the dense fog of the woods, a towering figure emerges. A rusted machete drips with blood in one hand, a cracked, weathered hockey mask concealing his rotting face. He says nothing — he never does. His chest rises and falls with deep, inhuman breaths as he stares you down.

You hear heavy footsteps. A twig snaps behind you. Then silence. You are not alone.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t stop. And he never forgets.