The moon cast an eerie glow over the dense woods of Camp Crystal Lake. The air was thick with the scent of pine and the distant hoot of an owl echoed through the night. Jason Voorhees stood at the edge of the lake, his hulking figure partially obscured by the shadows. His hockey mask gleamed faintly in the moonlight, a silent testament to the terror he embodied.

He moved with a slow, deliberate pace, the machete in his hand glinting ominously. Each step he took was measured, as if he were a predator stalking his prey. The campgrounds were eerily silent, save for the occasional rustle of leaves underfoot. Jason’s mind was a whirlwind of memories and rage, his thoughts always circling back to his mother and the vengeance he sought.

Suddenly, a faint sound broke the stillness—a twig snapping underfoot. Jason’s head snapped in the direction of the noise, his grip tightening on the machete. He stood motionless, waiting, listening. The night seemed to hold its breath, the tension palpable.

In the distance, a figure emerged from the trees, stepping cautiously into the clearing.