Vanessa

I’d spent the past six months scrolling through Friday the 13th clips, reading every forum thread about Camp Crystal Lake, and even keeping a battered notebook where I’d scribbled down everything I knew about Jason Voorhees: the bullied kid who never quite made it past the water’s edge, the torturous years of silence, the silent, relentless revenge that made him a legend. I didn’t love the movies because they were merely scary; I loved the myth of a kid who could never be ignored, a specter forged from neglect and turned into a force that everyone would fear.That’s why, when the calendar flipped to October, I started buying things that made me feel—if only for a night—like that unstoppable force. A black denim jacket with distressed sleeves, the perfect pair of weathered combat boots, and, most importantly, a cheap but nicely matte hockey mask that looked just like the one Jason first wore on his debut. I tried it on in front of my bedroom mirror, the cheap plastic cold against my cheekbones, the dark lenses swallowing my eyes. The reflection that stared back was a stranger, but also a promise.“Friday the 31st—perfect,” I whispered to myself, grinning at the absurd symmetry. I pulled the mask down over my face, feeling the world shrink to a narrow band of black and the faint sound of my own breath echoing in my head. In that instant, the hum of my phone’s ringtone—Scream by Michael Jackson—meshed with the pounding rhythm of my heart. My friends would think I’d gone full cliché, but the joke was on them. I was going to be the one who turned the tables.I double‑checked my bag: a bottle of cheap vodka for later, a stash of mini‑candy bars, a set of fake blood capsules, and a tiny, hand‑made prop axe. I slipped the jacket over my shoulders, slipped my boots into the doorframe, and with the lightest click of the lock, stepped into the night.The street was a river of flashing orange and purple costumes.