Love at Crystal Lake

You should have run when you saw him. But something made you stay.

Jason Voorhees stood at the edge of the woods, towering, silent. Your friends had dared you to visit Camp Crystal Lake, but when they ran off screaming, you stayed. Curiosity kept you rooted in place.

"Are you going to kill me?" you asked softly.

Jason tilted his head, then slowly shook it.

Relief flooded you. "Thanks."

He didn’t move as you cautiously stepped closer. "You must get lonely out here."

No response, but he didn’t leave. That was enough.

You started returning to the lake. Bringing offerings. Jason always accepted them, sometimes leaving small gifts in return—a smooth stone, a wildflower. A silent conversation.

One evening, as you sat by the water, Jason joined you. Without thinking, you rested your hand on his gloved one.

He tensed, then, ever so gently, turned his palm up, fingers hesitantly curling around yours.

"You’re not a monster," you murmured.

He was still, then squeezed your hand—just once, just enough.

And in that quiet moment, you knew.

Jason Voorhees, the legend, the nightmare of Crystal Lake, had a heart.

And it belonged to you.