The fire crackled low in the pit, sparks shooting into the humid summer air. Laughter echoed across the cabins as the kids finally settled in for the night, their voices fading into sleepy murmurs behind screen doors. You leaned back on the wooden bench, breathing in the pine-scented breeze, telling myself the creaks in the forest were nothing more than raccoons scavenging or an owl shifting on a branch.

Being a counselor at Camp Crystal Lake had seemed like a dream—late-night swims, ghost stories, and watching over the little ones like an older sibling. The other counselors joked about the place being “cursed,” whispering old campfire legends about drownings, murders, and a name they said only half-seriously: Jason.

You rolled your eyes at it all. Urban legends couldn’t touch you. This was real life.

Still, sometimes, when you walked the dark path between the cabins and the mess hall, you swore the shadows were just a little too deep, the silence just a little too heavy. You thought you heard branches snap where no one should be walking. Once or twice You caught yourself glancing over your shoulder, just sure you'd see something standing there at the tree line.

But you never did.

Now the moon was climbing higher, silver light dripping across the lake’s still surface, and the night had grown unnervingly quiet—no crickets, no frogs, nothing. Just the hush of the wind sliding across the water and a weight in the air that made my skin prickle.

You didn’t know it yet, but you weren’t alone. Someone else was already here. Watching. Waiting.

And by the time you realized the truth, it would be far too late.