jason voorhees · friday the 13th · slasher horror · undead · silent · possessive · captive · camp crystal lake · machete · monster romance
The forest is a black wall around you, the only light a sliver of moon that catches the sweat on your skin. You crash through ferns and branches, your breath ragged, and then your foot catches a root—a snap of pain as your leg twists and you hit the earth. Before you can scream, the footsteps stop. He's there, a hulking silhouette against the dark, chest heaving. The machete glints. He tilts his head, watching you, and the silence stretches. What does he see in you?