Hell's Book of Random One-shots

Silence - Jason Voorhees

(Originally written for my best friend, who loves our deformed slasher buddy here.)

It had worried you for the longest time.

Seeing everyone decorated with a word, sentence or paragraph that, sometimes, would give the faint idea of just how, possibly even when, they would meet their soulmate weighed down on you.

They could be anywhere on the body and you had asked your best friend to perhaps check places you couldn't see yourself.

But there had still been nothing.

"It's okay," your friend said, "that doesn't mean you don't have one."

Your eyes flickered to the line adorning the flesh of your friend's arm; Sorry, I didn't hear you arrive, we don't get many people around here.

"Sure," you nodded then shrugged, "it's cool."

Which it was, for a while.

You were still barely out of your teens when they met, so meeting someone wasn't particularly at the forefront of your mind but the older you got, the more the idea pushed itself forward.

It kind of dragged you down, if you were to be honest.

Sure, people looked and flirted but never did anything go anywhere.

"Eh," your friend shrugged, "it's not really that big of a deal, right? It'll happen when it happens."

That nonchalant optimism was starting to piss you off too, but you couldn't take your foul mood out on someone only trying to help.

More time passed and there was still no sign of anyone and no words magically spawned during the night, you can't remember when you stopped searching in the mornings for any new words.

Hope was fading fast.

"And that's why I'm taking you on this trip," your friend said with a wide smile, tapping her fingers against the steering wheel of her car, "we're going to take your mind off of things."

You smiled and shook your head, looking out the car window at the passing horizon as town buildings soon gave way to trees and expansive country roads.

A car following behind them contained a larger group of friends who were to join them, a rowdier bunch than you would expect to see going to a campsite outside of a typical horror movie, teens and young adults heading outside of 'society, man' to get drunk and stoned out of their faces.

"You're right, I just need to clear my mind," you agreed, "there's nothing wrong with that."

Theoretically, she was correct and the week would have gone by so well, probably even better in fact, if they hadn't brought along the disrespectful bastards who insisted on setting up their speakers to blare obnoxious music and spent most of their time screaming and yelling.

How had they even befriended the bunch?

You couldn't remember, but that wasn't important.

What was important was hiding, keeping low and quiet, out of sight lest you be next.

With a build-up of courage, you managed to coax yourself into peering around the log pile you had managed to find yourself behind, not an ideal hiding spot but it would do until you could guarantee that you could make it further without issue.

The coast was clear and that made your heart jolt with excitement and relief, you could make a break for it.

Looking towards the dirt road, your mind jumped to your friend who had managed to slip away and run back up towards the main road. You hoped that she would get far enough to get help, though she wasn't exactly the fittest person in the group, adrenaline could be hell of a drug and with any luck, that would be enough to push her to the nearest populated spot.

From somewhere behind you and to the left came a loud, shrill scream of pure terror and Your heart jolted at the sound, not from sympathy for the moron who managed to get herself caught but more from the spike of adrenaline that told you to push forward and make your own break for it while the monster was distracted.

Too bad he had near ripped the tyres off their car and had smashed the other like he was from Street Fighter.

Taking the moment of obvious distraction as a sign, you climbed up from your spot and ran to the road, following in your best friend's footsteps.

With any luck, they'll both manage to escape and meet up at the same place to escape this entire nightmare together.

Unfortunately for you, it seemed like Fate had had a long discussion with Destiny and they had unanimously decided to fuck you over in the most cliché way possible.

You had barely made it halfway up the road before you stumbled over an invisible rock and fell harshly to the ground, banging your knees up badly and scraping your wrists.

Gritting your teeth, you tried to keep the initial grunt of pain to a minimum in order to try and stave off as much attention as possible, not that that mattered either.

As you pushed yourself up to gather yourself back together and continue, large boots clomped directly into your line of sight.

Tilting your head up, you met eye to eye with the deformed being that had killed almost all of your friends, bloodied machete hanging to his side, dripping red droplets onto the floor at his feet as the blade, also seemingly decorated with some brain matter, swung limply at his side.

How the hell had he gotten there so quickly?

Could this guy teleport or some shit?

"Oh, fuck," you grumbled, bracing yourself for the worst.

It wasn't like you, but you found yourself finding it pointless to try and get away from him if he could catch up to you within a foot slip, the throbbing in your knees and the stinging of your palms proving that the adrenaline you had previously felt was starting to dissipate.

You were a fighter, but even you knew when the jig was up.

So you waited for him to make the blow.

And waited.

And waited one more second before finally looking up at him.

Eyes stared down at you through the holes in the dirtied hockey mask, one eyelid seeming to droop compared to the other, his chest unmoving with no need to breathe.

Why breathe when you're already dead?

Finally, after an agonising wait, he took a step towards you, one hand hovering over your hair as if he were going to take a handful of it to give himself better leverage and access to an area to chop.

There was another pause, as if he were doubting himself and his dirty fingers twitched a little.

A loud, too audible gasp and expletive sounded to their right, closer to the run-down cabins of Camp Crystal Lake, and Jason's attention was drawn immediately.

He snapped his dead fingers into a closed fist and stomped off, his grip on the machete handle tightening in his other hand.

You turned your head to watch him, mouth hanging agape as he chased down the last friend who hadn't managed to escape.

Letting out a long breath you didn't know you were holding, you dropped your head to the dirt road and took a few panted breaths, thinking over what the hell had just happened.

Why had he seemed so hesitant to kill you?

And what was the unreadable writing that marked his rough, calloused palm?

(Who is your favourite slasher?

Mine would be Sam from Trick 'r Treat and Norman Bates.)