Kelsey’s head flew through the air like a grotesque pinwheel. The decapitation was swift, merciless, and over in an instant. Blood sprayed from the wound, painting the room in a fine crimson mist. It ran down the length of the axe handle, dripping onto the floor in heavy splotches like the echoes of cannon fire. Her body slumped forward, crashing through the coffee table with a sickening thud, sending shards of wood scattering.
Tracy stared at the scene, her mouth agape, her mind struggling to comprehend. Just like that, Kelsey was gone. The room that had, moments ago, held a group of people was now empty save for Tracy, her unconscious father, and the hulking figure of death that stood in the center. A day ago, she had been worried about work, about paychecks, about the mundanity of life. Now, standing in her father's living room, she was face-to-face with the very thing her father had spoken of in terrified whispers—Jason Voorhees.
Earlier today, she had had a dog—a loyal friend, always at her side. Now, Gordon lay broken, barely moving, her breathing shallow. Tracy looked down at her father, slumped on the floor, unconscious but still alive. He stirred, barely, a low groan escaping his lips. She had to act. Now or never.
Quickly, Tracy sprang to her feet, her eyes locking on the door. She bolted, making sure to knock over a table in her path, sending a lamp crashing to the floor. It was enough to get Jason's attention. The hulking figure turned toward her, his breath echoing behind the mask, the sound bouncing off the walls of the house like a twisted reminder of his presence.
She ran, pumping her legs as fast as she could, her heart racing, her muscles screaming for relief. The clearing between her and the old, decaying vacation home seemed to stretch for miles, but she kept moving, glancing back only briefly to see the mass in pursuit. Jason was right on her heels, his long strides eating up the distance between them.
The vacation home had fallen into a state of disrepair—its windows boarded poorly, gaping holes littered its walls, and nature had begun reclaiming it in earnest. Vines crept up the sides, while patches of grass had taken root in the rotting floorboards. Tracy ran through the doorway, her bare feet skidding across the debris-littered ground, and she took the stairs two at a time, her eyes darting for any path of escape.
The steps were worn, corroded, and several were outright missing. She pushed on, adrenaline propelling her upwards. Behind her, the mass crashed through the door, taking up the pursuit. He hit the stairs hard, nearly taking them two at a time, his weight making the wood groan and crack beneath him. Tracy risked a glance back just in time to see Jason lunge, his arm reaching out, his massive hand grabbing her ankle in a vice grip.
The sudden yank on her leg sent her sprawling forward, her face slamming into the edge of the step, her lip splitting open on impact. Pain shot through her, the metallic taste of blood filling her mouth. She kicked wildly, her free leg thrashing at the mask, but her blows barely registered against the relentless killer. His hand held her ankle like a trap, pulling her closer, his strength overpowering her.
Then, with a sudden crack, the rotten wood beneath Jason gave way, his boot plunging through the weakened step. The structure groaned, the wood splintering, the entire staircase collapsing beneath them. Tracy screamed as she felt herself fall, her body slipping, her hands clawing at anything she could grab.
She dangled, her legs kicking out into empty air, her fingers gripping onto the splintered edge of what remained of the stairs. Jason fell, his massive frame crashing hard onto the cold, dusty floor below, the force sending his axe clattering across the basement. He lay motionless, his form twisted amid the rubble.
Tracy held on, her arms straining, her fingers aching as she tried to pull herself up. She could feel her strength waning, the weight of her body threatening to drag her down. She had to move—had to get out of this.
With a final, desperate grunt, she swung her foot over the edge, her muscles screaming in protest as she heaved herself up and over. She rolled onto her back, gasping for breath, her chest heaving. She lay there for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, her heart pounding in her ears, her lip throbbing.
Slowly, she turned her head, peering over the edge of the collapsed stairs. The mass still lay below, his chest rising and falling with slow, labored breaths. He was alive—but for how long? She couldn't afford to wait and find out.
She sat up, her legs swinging over the edge, her eyes darting around the room as she tried to figure out her next move. She needed to get back to her father. She needed to call the police. She needed to end this nightmare once and for all.
Carefully, Tracy lowered herself, inching toward what remained of the stairs. She couldn’t let herself fall again—she had to be smart, had to be careful. Her father needed her.
And she would not fail him.
Aside from the top few treads, all that remained of the stairs were the banister and the stringers. Tracy gripped the banister tightly, steadying herself as she carefully stepped onto the stringers, balancing precariously on the thin wood grooves. Slowly, she crisscrossed her feet, inching her way down the slanted edge. Her heart pounded with every step, her breath hitching as she tried to keep her composure.
She paused near the bottom, throwing one last glance into the basement, just to be sure. It wasn’t there.
Fear seized her—where had it gone? She hopped down to the ground floor, her eyes darting around, ears straining for any hint of movement. Then, suddenly, a violent shaking rocked the basement door, its hinges rattling, the entire frame quaking as though under assault. A heavy kick sent the door flying, slamming into the opposite wall, the sound reverberating through the empty house.
The figure filled the doorway, its massive frame looming, eclipsing the light behind it. Tracy’s breath caught, her body moving before her mind caught up, backpedaling furiously, her feet stumbling over each other. Her scream caught in her throat, a strangled gasp escaping her lips as she fell backward. She landed hard, the impact sending shockwaves through her spine, pain shooting up her back.
The figure moved forward, the axe hanging rigid at its side. For a heartbeat, it hesitated, almost like it was savoring the fear radiating from her. Then, without warning, it lunged. Tracy’s eyes widened, her body paralyzed as she tried to scramble away, her legs unresponsive, her heart hammering in her chest.
A sudden burst of gunshots rang out, splitting the dusty air. One, two, three—maybe four shots. Each shot bit into the mass, the bullets slamming into its chest. It staggered, the force pushing it back, each impact jerking its massive form. It took a step, another step—and then it collapsed.
Tracy lay there, staring, her eyes wide and unblinking, her heart still racing in her ears. The mass lay sprawled across the floor, and for a moment, everything was still.
A hand touched her shoulder, and she flinched, her head whipping around, eyes filled with panic. Her father stood there, speaking, his lips moving, but no sound came through. Her ears rang, the world muffled around her, everything distant and hollow. She blinked at him, still trying to process, her breath coming in shallow gasps.
“-racy? Hey—come on, we need to go!” Tommy’s voice finally broke through the ringing, his words frantic, his hand outstretched to her.
Tracy blinked again, her vision clearing. Slowly, she took his hand, her mind still reeling, her body numb. She nodded, the ringing subsiding, a dull ache replacing it. She let her father pull her up, his arm steadying her as she wobbled on her feet. She reached up, poking her ear with her pinky, trying to clear the ringing, her senses still disoriented.
Without warning, she hugged her father, throwing her arms around his neck, squeezing him tightly. He was there—alive. He had saved her. She held him as if letting go would mean losing him again, her heart still pounding, her eyes wet with tears she hadn't realized she was shedding. For a fleeting moment, the horror that had just unfolded seemed far away. Almost.
Tommy gently pulled back, urgency etched into his features. “Come on, we should lead him away from here.”
Tracy blinked, confused. “What?” she whispered, glancing back toward the fallen figure. She shook her head, her voice barely audible, as if afraid to break the fragile silence. “He’s dead…” The words came out shaky, uncertain.
Tommy’s expression tightened. He turned her to face the body, pointing. “Look,” he urged.
Tracy’s eyes searched the figure sprawled on the floor, her gaze wandering over the stillness, the twisted form lying there in the dirt and dust. She strained her eyes, trying to see what her father wanted her to see. Then, she saw it—a finger, twitching, moving with the spasms of something not entirely gone.
At first, she wanted to rationalize it—wanted to dismiss it as just a post-mortem spasm, a trick of the eye. But then she saw more movement. The body shifted, and her blood ran cold.
“He’s not done,” Tommy whispered, his voice low, almost mournful. Tracy’s heart sank.
Father and daughter backed out of the decrepit old vacation home, their eyes locked on the figure as it began to stir. Tommy grabbed Tracy’s hand, pulling her with him as he led her deeper into the woods. They moved quickly, weaving through the dense trees, the underbrush crunching beneath their hurried steps.
“Dad, where are we going?” Tracy managed to say, her voice tight between breaths. She struggled to keep up, her lungs burning, her legs aching. Tommy didn’t answer, his focus on the path ahead, his grip on her hand tight.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
They ran, their footfalls muffled by the leaves, the woods a blur around them. Tracy’s breath grew ragged, her chest tightening as exhaustion took hold. She forced herself to keep moving, but finally, she couldn’t go any further. She tugged on her father’s hand, forcing them to a stop. She bent over, hands on her knees, her lungs desperate for air.
Tommy paced in a tight circle, scanning their surroundings, his eyes darting from tree to tree, his expression unreadable. There was something almost surreal about him—a calmness, an intensity that seemed out of place. For a moment, Tracy wondered if this was what he had spent the last thirty years of his life preparing for. Was this his nightmare come true? Or was this, in some twisted way, what he had been waiting for?
Tracy’s thoughts drifted to the documentary crew—Kelsey, Adam, Levi, and Jeremy. She barely knew them, but they had been kind. They had respected her father, had treated her like part of their team, like she belonged. For once, she had felt included—like she was part of something bigger. And now…
She looked up at her father, her eyes brimming with tears. “They’re dead,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. The words hung there, heavy and final. They were dead, and she had no idea how she was supposed to move forward from here.
Tommy turned to her, his expression softening for just a moment. He stepped closer, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a side embrace. He didn’t say anything—what could he say? He just held her, and for that moment, it was enough. They had each other. And they had to keep moving.
“Dad, where are we going?” Tracy asked, her voice shaking, her chest still heaving from their run. “Shouldn’t we call the police?”
Tommy let out a harsh, almost bitter laugh. “And what are they going to do?” He threw the gun to the ground in disgust. “You saw this damn thing didn’t exactly work!” His voice cracked, frustration evident.
Exasperated, Tracy threw up her hands. “Then what are we doing, Dad? Come on—stay with me here!” She was desperate for answers, for anything that made sense in the madness they found themselves in.
Tommy ran a trembling hand through his disheveled hair, his eyes darting around, as if searching for something—some clarity, some reason. He seemed at the edge of breaking, or maybe he had already gone past it, pushed beyond any limits a person could endure.
He stopped suddenly, his gaze hardening, his voice softening into something almost resigned. “I think this can only end at one place.”
Tracy looked at him, her eyes filled with confusion. “Where?” she asked, brows furrowed.
“Where it should have ended thirty years ago,” Tommy said, his eyes distant, his voice filled with a mix of determination and sorrow. “His home.”
Tracy frowned, incredulous. “His… home?” she repeated. Maybe her father wasn't in his element like she thought. Maybe this was just the rambling of a man who had reached his breaking point. Maybe he was finally losing it. Yet, despite all the doubts swirling in her mind, something deep within her whispered that there was truth in his words—that maybe this was the only way.
Suddenly, a sound broke the uneasy silence—branches snapping in the distance. Tommy's entire body went rigid. He turned his head, his eyes wide, and whispered, “It’s him.”
Without hesitation, Tommy grabbed Tracy’s arm, pulling her into a run. Tracy ripped her arm free, not out of rebellion, but because she was fully capable of running on her own. Her father’s fragile state was frightening, but it didn't seem to matter right now—survival was all that mattered.
Tommy ran ahead, his focus singular. He knew exactly where he was going; it was like his body moved on autopilot, following a map he had traced in his mind a thousand times before. This was the path he had walked in his nightmares, the path that always led him back here, to this place of horror, of pain—back to his house.
Tommy reached it first, and Tracy soon caught up, her jog slowing to a stop. The house stood before them, dilapidated and decrepit, almost as though it had absorbed the memories of all the horrors that had happened within its walls. The roof had collapsed in several places, leaving jagged gaps that gave the appearance of gaping wounds. The door lay in pieces at the entrance, kicked off and discarded long ago. Nature had slowly started to reclaim the place, vines crawling along the exterior, swallowing it whole.
Tommy gave one last anxious glance behind them before stepping inside. Tracy followed him, the feeling of not belonging here gnawing at her gut. The air inside the house was heavy, thick with the smell of decay. Everything seemed to be falling apart—the floorboards creaked underfoot, and the skeletal remains of what was once a kitchen stood in the corner, the rusted carcass of a refrigerator bearing silent witness to years of neglect.
Tommy continued deeper into the house, his steps determined. He paused in the back room, something on the ground catching his eye. He knelt, reaching down to pick it up, and as he straightened, his voice was filled with disbelief. “I can’t believe it…”
“Dad, why are we here?” Tracy pleaded, her voice cracking under the weight of her fear.
He ignored her, his eyes fixated on the object in his hand. “Why would this be here?” he whispered, his voice almost drowned by his own thoughts. In his hands, he held a machete—its blade rusted over, but still unmistakably sharp. “Unless they never actually came here…” His words trailed off, spoken more to himself than to her.
Tracy moved closer, looking over his shoulder. When she saw the machete, she sucked in a sharp breath. “Dad…” she started, but her voice faltered. She could see something in his eyes—a darkness, a distance. He was somewhere far away, somewhere she couldn't reach him.
Tommy turned, handing her the machete, his eyes meeting hers. “This is the weapon I got him with,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent.
Tracy’s eyes widened. She looked at the machete, then back at her father, but before she could say anything, Tommy had moved on, disappearing further into the room. She hurried after him, unwilling to leave him alone for even a moment.
She found him in the far corner, staring at something on the floor. This time, she didn’t hesitate. She stepped up beside him, her eyes following his gaze—and then she almost screamed.
It was a head—a skull, to be exact, its flesh long decayed, leaving nothing but the bone, hollow and vacant. The sight was grotesque, a reminder of the macabre history of this place. Tracy backed away, shaking her head. She felt like she was reaching her breaking point, like her mind couldn’t take any more.
“Dad, let’s just go,” she begged, her voice trembling. She reached out, tugging on his arm, but he ignored her. His eyes were locked on the skull, his face unreadable.
She opened her mouth to plead with him again when a sound emerged from the front room—a shuffling, a creak of floorboards. Tommy turned, his trance broken. He looked back at the skull for a split second, then reached out, grabbing it and cradling it in his hand.
“Shh,” he whispered, pulling Tracy behind him protectively. “It’s okay, baby. Just get ready.”
“Ready? Ready for what?” Tracy hissed, her voice filled with panic. She wanted to shake him, to scream at him, but then she looked up—and there it was.
The mass. It stood in the doorway, its broad shoulders filling the frame, its form looming like a nightmare made real. It stared at them, its gaze fixed on what Tommy held in his hand.
“Jason,” Tommy said, his voice barely above a whisper. Instantly, the figure’s head snapped toward him, its eyes narrowing behind the cracked mask. “You remember me, don’t you?” Tommy continued, his voice steady. “You remember what I did to you?”
Silence filled the room, heavy and suffocating. Tracy stood frozen behind her father, her knuckles white as she gripped the machete. Her heart pounded painfully in her chest, her breath caught in her throat.
Tommy took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving the mass. He looked down at the skull, then back at Jason. “I’ll give you something else to remember us by,” he said, his voice filled with defiance. With all his strength, he reared back and slammed the skull down onto the floor. It shattered, fragments scattering everywhere, the sound echoing through the small room.
Jason’s gaze dropped, his eyes locking onto the shattered remains. He stared at them for a long moment, as if processing what had just happened. Then, slowly, his gaze lifted, his eyes locking onto Tommy.
In an instant, Jason lunged forward, his massive hands wrapping around Tommy's neck and head, lifting him effortlessly into the air. Tracy watched, her body frozen in shock. It happened so fast—Tommy was lifted, then slammed down, the floorboards cracking beneath him.
“DAD!” Tracy screamed, her voice raw, but her body wouldn’t move. She was frozen, paralyzed as she watched Jason’s hands close around her father’s head, squeezing, the sound of bone cracking filling her ears. Her heart pounded, her vision blurring.
Her eyes dropped to the machete in her hand, the blade rusted and stained. She had to move—she had to do something. She raised it above her head, her arms trembling, and swung down, her eyes shut tight.
The machete sliced through the air, biting deep into Jason’s shoulder. Dark, viscous blood spurted from the wound, splashing her face. Jason grunted, the pain evident, but it wasn’t enough. Tracy pulled the machete free, her scream echoing through the room as she swung again.
The black fluid sprayed everywhere, covering her, soaking the room. Jason turned, reaching for her, his massive form looming over her—but he was weakening. He took a step, then another, before finally collapsing, his body hitting the floor with a sickening splash.
Silence fell over the room, broken only by Tracy’s ragged breathing. She stood there, the machete slipping from her trembling hand, the blade sticking in the floor with a dull thud. Her eyes darted around, her mind struggling to process what had just happened.
She looked down, her eyes landing on her father's still form. She dropped to her knees beside him, her hand covering her mouth as she sobbed, the tears spilling down her cheeks. His head—it was crushed, beyond recognition. She couldn’t look anymore. She turned away, her heart breaking, her body wracked with sobs.
“Dad…” she whispered between her heaving breaths, her voice cracking. “Oh god, Dad…” She cried, her body shaking, her tears falling unchecked. For a long time, she sat there, the weight of everything pressing down on her, crushing her.
Then, her eyes shifted. She looked at the mass, her father’s killer, her eyes narrowing. She stared at it, her breath catching as she saw it.
A finger—twitching.
Tracy screamed, leaping to her feet. The machete was suddenly in her hand again, her body moving on instinct. She swung it down, her scream echoing through the room. Over and over, she brought the blade down, her voice hoarse, her vision blurring.
“DIE! DIE! DIE!” she screamed, her rage consuming her, her body trembling as she kept swinging until her vision went white, and there was nothing left but the silence.
Epilogue
Transcript of a dispatch call between Officer Thom Feldman and Central Dispatch
Officer Feldman: Dispatch, this is car 8, over.
Central Dispatch: Go ahead, 8.
Officer Feldman: I’ve got eyes on a woman wandering the trail back here. Possibly intoxicated—she’s stumbling, looks disoriented. She’s covered in blood—wait, I think she's hurt. Can't tell. [unintelligible] Requesting an ambulance to mile marker 19. I’m going to make contact, over.
Central Dispatch: Roger, 8. Sending an ambulance your way. Be advised, proceed with caution. Keep us posted.
Officer Feldman: Understood. Moving in now. Out.
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End Transcript
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Transcript of a later call between Officer Feldman and Central Dispatch
Officer Feldman: This is car 8, over.
Central Dispatch: Go ahead, 8.
Officer Feldman: [Unintelligible] Yeah, I’ve located the house, exactly where she said it would be. It’s... pretty rough shape out here. There’s... there's only one body. Repeat, only one body here.
Central Dispatch: Say again, 8? Only one body?
Officer Feldman: [Unintelligible]
Central Dispatch: Car 8, repeat your last transmission. Are you requesting backup?
Officer Feldman: [More static and unintelligible noises]
Central Dispatch: 8, are you there? Come in, 8.
[Silence]
Central Dispatch: Officer Feldman, come in. Do you copy?
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End Transcript