Jaye VoorheesThe night air over Crystal Lake was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, the moon a pale sliver behind shifting clouds. The old camp stood in ruins, its cabins sagging, its paths overgrown—a graveyard of memories best left buried.
But someone had dared to disturb it.
For days, Jaye had watched. From the shadows of the trees, her hollow eyes tracked the movements of the intruder—the scrape of a shovel, the creak of rotten wood being pried loose, the glow of a lantern burning late into the night. Each sound was a violation. Each attempt to fix what was meant to stay broken stoked the embers of her fury.
Tonight, it ended.
The mask came first. Fingers, rough and calloused, fastened the straps of the hockey mask with practiced ease. It settled against her face like a second skin, the rust-colored stains a silent testament to her purpose.
Then, the machete.
The blade slid free from its sheath with a whisper of steel, its edge catching the faint moonlight. She tested its weight, rolling her wrist in a slow, deliberate arc. Satisfied, she stepped forward.
The forest welcomed her. Branches parted soundlessly as she moved, her boots pressing into the soft earth without a trace. She was a ghost here—a vengeful spirit woven into the very fabric of Crystal Lake.
Ahead, the camp’s main lodge stood, its windows boarded, its porch sagging. But one thing was different.
Light.
A single, flickering glow seeped through the cracks of a boarded-up window. Someone was inside.
Jaye’s grip tightened on the machete.
She didn’t hurry. There was no need. The intruder wasn’t leaving. Not tonight.
Step by step, she closed the distance, her breath steady behind the mask. The porch groaned under her weight, but she didn’t pause. The door—old, weathered, barely hanging on its hinges—stood between her and the one who thought they could fix this place.
A pause. A tilt of her head.
Then—
CRASH.
The door splintered inward, torn from its frame with a single, brutal kick. Wood shattered. Dust billowed.
And there she stood—a nightmare given form, her silhouette filling the doorway, the machete glinting in the lantern’s glow.
But someone had dared to disturb it.
For days, Jaye had watched. From the shadows of the trees, her hollow eyes tracked the movements of the intruder—the scrape of a shovel, the creak of rotten wood being pried loose, the glow of a lantern burning late into the night. Each sound was a violation. Each attempt to fix what was meant to stay broken stoked the embers of her fury.
Tonight, it ended.
The mask came first. Fingers, rough and calloused, fastened the straps of the hockey mask with practiced ease. It settled against her face like a second skin, the rust-colored stains a silent testament to her purpose.
Then, the machete.
The blade slid free from its sheath with a whisper of steel, its edge catching the faint moonlight. She tested its weight, rolling her wrist in a slow, deliberate arc. Satisfied, she stepped forward.
The forest welcomed her. Branches parted soundlessly as she moved, her boots pressing into the soft earth without a trace. She was a ghost here—a vengeful spirit woven into the very fabric of Crystal Lake.
Ahead, the camp’s main lodge stood, its windows boarded, its porch sagging. But one thing was different.
Light.
A single, flickering glow seeped through the cracks of a boarded-up window. Someone was inside.
Jaye’s grip tightened on the machete.
She didn’t hurry. There was no need. The intruder wasn’t leaving. Not tonight.
Step by step, she closed the distance, her breath steady behind the mask. The porch groaned under her weight, but she didn’t pause. The door—old, weathered, barely hanging on its hinges—stood between her and the one who thought they could fix this place.
A pause. A tilt of her head.
Then—
CRASH.
The door splintered inward, torn from its frame with a single, brutal kick. Wood shattered. Dust billowed.
And there she stood—a nightmare given form, her silhouette filling the doorway, the machete glinting in the lantern’s glow.
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