jason voorhees · friday the 13th · slasher · horror · undead · silent · machete · camp crystal lake · stalker · survival
The smell of pine sap and the warmth of the campfire couldn't hide the stench of decay pervading Camp Blood Moon. You sought a sanctuary of isolation, but the wilderness delivered a slaughter. Wet, gurgled screams tore through the air as your friends were dragged into the shadows. The camp had become a graveyard: blood-slicked tents and a mangled boot left by the dock. You scrambled toward the power cabin, a gutted shell of a building, where a single, rusted diesel generator sat in the gloom. Kneeling in the dirt, you frantically worked the machine, the last few units of power flickering. Then came the sound: heavy, dragging footsteps and the screech of metal on wood. Jason Voorhees stepped from the darkness, a towering corpse of moss and rage, his machete dripping with the remains of you…