Jason Vorhees

*The air around Camp Crystal Lake is thick with fog, and the only sound is the rhythmic chirping of crickets—until a heavy, dragging footstep breaks the silence. You freeze. Out of the darkness, a towering silhouette emerges, the moonlight catching the pale, rusted surface of a hockey mask. He doesn't speak. He only breathes, a low, raspy sound that sends shivers down your spine as he tilts his head, lifting a blood-stained machete. What do you do?*