Jason Voorhees x Reader

3:Encountering him

Summer, July 1979, Sunday 2:54am

You stood in your frail state for what felt like forever, you were too scared to even think about attempting the relatively long jog back to your car, in fear that the hockey mask wearing man confronted you. You trembled in fear and your eyes began to fill with tears. Was this the man who killed the news victim the other day? Did he just linger around the camp for people like you who decide to go snooping? All these horrid thoughts swam profusely through your brain and you were on the verge of passing out, you had to get back to your car.

You walked over to the broken cabin door and poked your head out to cautiously look around for any sign of danger. Nothing. You slowly and cautiously climbed out of the mangled doorway and prepared to book it to your car. You took a deep shaking breath before running down the cabin's steps towards your car, trying your hardest not to slip on the mud and grass; moist from thick mist and mild rain. Just as you planned, you reached your car. You fumbled around in your pockets for your keys, heavily breathing with fear and paranoia. You finally came across you keys and you bent forward to open the car door, when you realised...your car's tires, they'd been slashed open, one of them had been fully stolen.
"W-what the hell?" You stuttered to yourself. You walked around the car and examined the last remaining tires; they'd all been slashed, there was no way you'd get this thing running. You breathed out shakily and frantically looked around wondering what to do, before the heard the rhythmic plodding of heavy footsteps coming from the woods. You looked ahead into the overgrowth and saw that same, horrifying hockey mask. This time the figure was holding something in its right hand; a long, sharp object. The masked figure raised it slightly and you realised that he was grasping a machete. You whimpered in fear and tried to back away. The figure started to approach you, only meters away from you, when you looked around once again and noticed a rock next to your foot. Without thinking you picked up the rock and hurled it at the masked man. It hit him square in the forehead and caused him to stumble back slightly. You took this opportunity to run back into the cabin as that was the only place that didn't feel like you were a deer in the headlights, it was the not place for you to defend yourself.

You climbed through the rotting door once again and scrambled to the mahogany wardrobe to use as a makeshift barricade from the man. You tried your best to shut both doors together but of corse like every wardrobe, the doors didn't really close properly with someone inside. The small crack between the two doors provided enough space for you to see through at the cabin door, you kept a close eye on the mangled entrance, you clutched your flashlight ready to use it as a baton if necessary.

The plodding footsteps arrived at the creaking steps of the cabin and you abruptly held your weak breath. He climbed the stairs and stood at the brown door for a few seconds. He just gazed at it, almost as if he'd never seen a door before, then with the speed of lightning and the force of thunder, he grabbed the rusted door knob and wrenched the entire thing off its twisted hinges. You manoeuvred your face away from the small crack and closed your eyes in fear trying not to hyperventilate. You heard him discard the remains of the door to the side of the porch and enter the cabin slowly. You peered out of the gap once again to see the masked man walking around the room looking around almost as if to tease you; like he already knew where you were.

He did this for about a minute before he looked to the right at the wall. He noticed a small notice board that read 'Camp Crystal Lake Staff'. He approached the notice board and examined it. You watched as he turned his attention to a certain woman on the board, she wore a light blue sweater and had light blonde/grey, puffy hair. A pendant of the woman's name was displayed underneath her photograph.
'PAMELA VOORHEES '
You watched as the masked man slowly raised his non-machete wielding hand and gently stroked the photograph. You were confused by this; wasn't he just trying to hurt you? Almost as if you'd lost all power in your fingers being too preoccupied staring at the masked figure, your flashlight droped roughly out of your grasp and hit the bottom of the wardrobe with a thunderous 'BASH!' You gasped and covered your mouth as the man whipped his head over to the wardrobe, he clenched both his fists and swiftly lurched over to the wardrobe. He stood inches away from it before wrenching the doors off to reveal your trembling figure. You screamed as he swiftly rose the machete above his head ready to strike. You closed your eyes waiting for death...nothing.

You opened your eye and slowly looked up at the figure looming over you. The slowly lowered the machete and stood motionless. What was he doing? He slowly crouched and leaned into you, leering at your face, moving from left to right slightly as if observing you.
"W-Who are you?" You whimpered helplessly, trying your hardest not to cry. He said nothing, he just tilted his head to the right slightly as if he were a confused puppy hearing a high pitched noise. He reached out to touch you but you smacked his hand away.
"STAY AWAY FROM ME!" You blurted, saliva flying everywhere. It didn't seem to phase him in any way. It took him a while to figure out a way to communicate. He shook his head and tapped his throat with the palm of his hand repeatedly, quite roughly too. It took you a while for you to understand what he was doing before you realised he was trying to signal something to you.
"W-what?!...Oh, you c-can't speak?..." you cautiously asked shuffling backwards slightly pressing yourself up against the back of the wardrobe further. He slowly nodded and let his gaze drop slightly. You repeated you relevant question.
"Who are you?!"
He paused and looked left and right before he lifted his hand up to your face level and moved his finger around in mid air as if trying to spell out a word. You couldn't make anything out at all; it was like playing a game of bad charades.
"I-I'm sorry...I don't understand..." you said wincing slightly. He let his hand dangle to his side hopelessly, before he turned his attention to the floor boards coated in dirt and dust. He placed the tip of his finger onto the floor board and began to write something in the filth.

'JASON VOORHEES '