With how long Jason has been killing, you would think people would believe the legend of Camp Crystal Lake by now: the boy that drowned, now acting as the camp's guardian. Making sure no kid has to ever set foot here again. Whoever was behind the car crash on the edge of camp seemed unaware of such legends. Or maybe they just didn't care. Either way, Jason was the one who had to deal with it. He always was.

Jason approached the old gate of Camp Crystal Lake. The giant sign that hung from it once welcomed children to various activities, games, and a world different from the dreary gray cities of New Jersey. But now the world was long gone. Attempted many times to be rebuilt, but always doomed to break down and become a darker world. Jason's world. A world that heaven abandoned, and Hell would never touch. A world Jason alone will walk forever.

Red and blue lights flickered past the trees. Stopping Jason in his tracks. The trees of his world offered cover. Shielding Jason from the blinding light of a police vehicle. The lights were the only things the site had to offer. The only thing that had any semblance of movement. Everything was still, so still, like a painting. Frozen in time, to only have its mysteries unraveled by any spectators.

Jason inched closer. Attempting to take a shot at interpreting this painting's mysteries. An aged pickup truck remained pressed into the side of a police car. Two more police cars remained behind the damaged one. Swerved off the tiny strip of road and into the outer trees that guarded the forest. Cops adorned the road that split the forest in two. The bodies grew distant as they strayed further from a peculiar epicenter: a man in a pair of blue coveralls. Or were they black? The details were hard to make out. No thanks to the bodies that surrounded the man, and the police lights that switched the colors of this curious painting.

Jason lurked closer into the painting. Edging the boundaries of his world. The details of the man became clearer. The split-second of blue light helped Jason discern the substance that decorated the man's coveralls: blood. Bullet holes peppered the coveralls as well. The back of the head, however, remained spotless. Graying hair receded to reveal the top of the man's head. It was free of blood and dirt that covered the rest of the man's body. Jason was curious. Most of the corpses' heads and necks received damage. Slashed necks, missing eyes, and other head injuries were a common mark on the sea of corpses. But the man—this one man—seemed untouched. Seemingly uncorrupted by a facial injury.

Jason fixated on the painting's subject. He wanted to see the man's face. Was his face obscured by violence like the others, or was it clean? Was it the face of an angel, a demon, or a victim? Jason's knees lead him down and his arm stretches outward. Plagued by curiosity, the arm inched closer to the man's head. A dull sense of dread squeezed Jason's chest for a moment. The sudden fear of finding out the answer was a fleeting thought. But Jason continued. His sudden surge of emotions only reminded him of what he used to be.

Jason's hand stopped right above the man's shoulder. An emotion sprung up again, it was different this time. More intense. It burdened Jason's body with incredible weight, but his hand didn't feel it. It remained weightless as it hovered above the man's left shoulder. But Jason's body froze, shackled to the ground he knelt on. No longer able to control the movements of his outstretched hand. It was like he was being put back to sleep.

Back whenever he was on a rampage. Whether it be Tommy Jarvis, a previous camp counselor, or any other person who dared to invade Jason's world, it all ended the same: they defeat Jason and he goes to sleep for a time. But this time his body reacted without him. It reacted to something—something to do with this man. These emotions—were they even Jason's? Jason watched helplessly as his body stilled. His outstretched hand shook, refusing to succumb to the sleep-like allure of the painting. The red light switched to blue again. Causing something to appear in the corner of Jason's eye.

It was something that mimicked a face, but it was inhumanely pale. Its pallor reanimated Jason long enough for him to turn his head to the sight of a mask. The man's hand gripped the mask with feigned vigor. Its presence drove away the heavy emotions that Jason seemingly absorbed. The peace was enough for Jason to move again, away from the man's body and toward the mask. Jason picked up the mask slowly. The man's grip on the mask broke, allowing Jason an easy time. Too easy.

Jason knew how heavy a corpse gets. He knows that when a person dies, they sink toward the ground. As if the Earth itself was demanding the corpse to return to her. Jason knew better than anyone that she used maggots and dirt to ravage corpses. To break them down into nourishment for her children. Those same children that aid in helping Jason guard his world, to twist and corrupt his world to the eyes of innocent onlookers. To tell them to stay away and never come back. To give Jason peace.

But this man isn't heavy, judging by how easy it was to take the mask. The man was ragged. Beaten beyond the point a normal person could take before they died; especially one of his age. And yet, his grip was as light as a feather. Unrestrained by Mother Earth's demands. What kept him from her pleas of nourishment? Did she not want him?

The answer came quicker than any of Jason's questions. A sharp pain bore a hole into Jason's back. More holes opened. Pushing Jason more and more toward the ground. Mother Earth's pleas, were they coming for Jason? No, she tried to claim him many times and failed. Instead, it was the man who heralded Jason's end. Sprung to life from painting-like sleep, the man continued to stab Jason with a shard of glass. Until Jason was finally motionless. Now he was the one subjected to painting-like sleep. Or that's what Jason thought the man assumed. The man went for the mask. Attempting to take it out of Jason's hands. Jason held on with the grip of a corpse. Jason wondered why the man had such an interest in the thing.

A bullet tore through the muscle of the man's arm. Another hole took a spot in his coveralls. The bullet came from the gun of an officer—a surviving one. The man gasped at the unexpected pain that erupted. Stopping his attempts to take the mask from Jason. The man looked toward the last survivor.

"Jason!" the officer yelled.

The man tilted his head at the name. Jason rose slowly. Turning a glare toward the officer as soon as he was able to stand.

"Oh shit! There's two of them!"

Two of them?

Jason thought there was only one of him. He turned to the man behind him. The man moved his head toward Jason. The shadows of the night shrouded the man's face. The police lights' reach was too far to give Jason any proper details. But from what Jason could see the man's face was blank. Just like the mask that he still held onto.

Jason redirected his attention to the cop that hid behind the one working police car. His glare alone shakes the determination to live out of the cop, replacing it with fear. The officer swallowed their fear as they pulled the trigger. Missing Jason completely. They shot again. Hitting Jason's shoulder. The bullet stopped. Opting to make a home into Jason's flesh. Jason kept moving. The cop panicked. They shot again. The bullet soars through the air and ricochets off of Jason's mask. While Jason was stunned, the cop crawled into the cop car for more protection. Jason continues to walk again, faster this time. He couldn't let the blow to his mask go unpunished. Blood needed to be spilled by his hands tonight. This was his home to protect, no one else's.

Jason saw a glimpse of the cop within the driver's side of the vehicle. He effortlessly punches through the door's window. Paying no mind to the retaliating slashes from the glass that marked his wrist. Jason dug into the car, like a child on their birthday opening a present. Hoping to pull out the cop by their neck. Soon enough, he felt something. It wasn't a neck, but an ankle. Jason began to pull. Ignoring the cop's kicks and screams. The cop shot one last time. The bullet digs into Jason's arm. Jason loosens his grip for a moment. Allowing the cop to kick his hand off of their ankle. The dull heat of aggravation stirs in Jason's chest. He moves to the back door of the car. Pulling the door completely off its hinge. He grabs the cop's ankle again, pulling harder. They weren't gonna get away. The cop pulled the trigger on their gun. The sound of clicks caused their heart to sink. With no weapon left, they held onto the seat in front of them. Screaming an agonizing scream that begged for mercy. The fear of violent death was too much for them to handle.

Their wish fell on deaf ears as the door behind them swung open. Not off the hinges like Jason, but close enough. It was the man—the Jason doppelganger—who began to pull on the cop's upper body. The screams of the cop echoed throughout the forests. But the trees lent their aid to Jason. Swallowing those echoes, using them as an entree before the main course: the cop's body. Jason latched onto the cop's other leg. His doppelganger wrapped his arms around the cop's neck and chest. They both pulled in unison. Muscles stretched and bones began to dislocate from their sockets. Sinew and tendons popped and tore throughout the cop's torso before it finally gave way. Violently, the cop's spine and hips separate. Entrails and organs slither out of the cop's open torso like the yolk from an egg. Ready to be served, the entrails and organs splatter to the floor of the car, and the cold concrete of the road. Blood erupted all onto the chairs and soaked into the sleeves of Jason's coat.

Jason, now finished with his duties, threw the legs into the forest. Leaving them to be eaten by Mother Nature's children. Jason turned back to the peculiar conditions of the police car. The man that helped him kill the cop was nowhere to be found. Jason circled the trunk of the car. Grabbing the corpse of his recent victim by the arm. He couldn't let the rest go to waste. Just past the corpse was the man. Sitting on the ground with his legs outstretched, arms resting on his thighs with his head slumped down. Jason couldn't help but stare at the man. The pose he was in reminded him of how kids at camp used to sit. The faded memory of a quiet kid in a circle who would sit in the same pose. Waiting for their turn to introduce themselves and talk about their favorite animal, or a funny story of how they found their shoe in the washing machine at home.

The corpse's arm snaps in Jason's grip as the sour memory of summer camp slowly fades away in the recesses of his mind. To be used as fuel for the next set of troublemakers that decide to invade his world. Jason chucked the other half of the corpse into the forest and focused his attention on the man again. Jason couldn't tell if he was asleep or if his wounds finally caught up to him. The shadows kept the man's eyes secret. The man returned to playing his part in the painting: an old man amid a terrible crash where all the cops are dead.

Jason had no interest in letting the man stay like this. The man—just like him—was a killer. Jason isn't aware of the man's reasons for killing, but he can't help but relate to the man. Jason lurked toward the man. Causing his mother to stir from her grave: Pamela Voorhees.

"Jason, my boy!" Pamela yelled. Her voice boomed in Jason's head. Bouncing off of the walls of his skull.

"Remember what he did to you, Jason. He wants to hurt you. Just like everyone else."

But Jason did remember.

His mother wasn't necessarily wrong, the first thing the man did to Jason was attack him. But, somehow, that was the one time Jason felt like everyone else. This man has attacked every cop that's near the crash site; did he attack Jason because he knew who Jason was? Or did he see Jason like any other person he's murdered?

"What do you plan to do with this man? He deserves to die." Pamela said.

Maybe, Jason thought.

Jason knelt toward the man and reached out again. His hand eased itself near the man's neck. He placed two fingers on it. The beat was slow, hypnotic, but the man was still alive. Jason planted his hand on the man's shoulder. Shaking him softly. The man didn't respond.

"This is your chance Jason, Kill him now!" Pamela begged.

Jason shook his head. He made a fist with his thumb upright on the side of his fingers. He placed his fist to his chest and rotated them over it.

"Sorry," Jason signed.

Pamela huffed sharply. Worried about her son, she faded away to whatever abyss she calls home. Silence returned to Jason's mind, but a faint ache in his chest took the place of Pamela's demands. He knew he had disappointed his mother, but Jason already made up his mind. He had a feeling that there was something to learn from this man. Jason threw the man over his shoulder. He checked his hand to make sure the white mask was still in his grip. He placed the mask in the inner pocket of his coat, then he was off. Out of the painting and back into his world.

The twisting trees welcomed Jason and his new guest. The sky, once cloudy, was now clear. Allowing the moon to veil Camp Crystal Lake with its light. It wasn't long until Jason ended up in an area with four cabins. The years of peace in Camp Crystal Lake took a toll on most of them. Holes patterned the roofs and walls. Some of the doors were broken off, thanks to Jason. There was one, however, that managed to avoid complete dilapidation. The broken panes of the window had fabric placed over them. Any holes were poorly patched with wooden planks; it still fared better than its fellow cabins, Jason thought.

Jason brought the man into the cabin and turned on the lights. Half expecting them to not work, but they did. A sigh of relief as he didn't have to worry about gas yet. He turned right toward the kitchen. Once he was in he went left. Passed an armchair to a small bedroom. He laid the man onto the bed. The bed cried, unprepared for the weight it had to bear. It didn't help that the man almost stretched off of the bed. Jason did not look forward to any moment in the future where he would have to lay in one of these beds.

Jason opened the door next to the bed to a bathroom. He opened the mirror door above the sink. Pills and bandages adorned the shelves. It wasn't often that Jason had to use any of these. It didn't have a lot of effect on Jason—being undead and all—but it was nice to have every once in a while. A half bottle of pain relievers to further dull his sense of pain, a few bandages wrapped around an old, but still bleeding wound. This was one of the few things that helped Jason remember the feeling of being human.

But now there was an actual human here, at Camp Crystal Lake. A human, that Jason didn't want dead. How many pills does a living person need? Jason looked to the back of the bottle for guidance.

Adults and children 12 years and older: take 2 pills every 6 hours while symptoms last.

Two—a lot less than Jason thought.

He took 2 pills out of the bottle. Placing it back into the mirror after obtaining some bandages. Jason walked out of the bathroom into the kitchen. Grabbing a cup, rinsing it, then filling it with water from the sink. There was no end table, so Jason opted for the dresser to the left of the bathroom door. He laid the pills in front of the cup of water, and the bandages next to it. Jason opened one of the drawers on the dresser. A pencil rolled in excitement at the sight of Jason. Pieces of paper lie still, waiting to be used. Jason grabs a piece and the pencil. Using the wall to help him write a message for the man.

Pills, water, and bandages on the dresser. More in the bathroom.

He left the piece of paper just under the man's arm. He couldn't miss it once he woke up. Leaving Jason with only one thing left to do. Jason fished the mask out of his pocket. Looking at its blank gaze. Seeing the white on the inside of it, thanks to the lights. Jason moved into the kitchen, then into the living room. Placing the mask on the mantle above the fireplace. Everything was done. All that was left to do was to wait for the man to wake up. Jason retired onto the couch.

Jason pulls out a book from under the couch. He figured he could get a chance to read it while the man rests. Sleeping wasn't high on Jason's priority list. His body could go months at a time without it. So he's found other ways to pass the time. The book belonged to a previous intruder that treaded Jason's camp. Jason killed them of course, but the book grabbed his attention. The smiling children on the cover protected the book from any harm. Their cheerful demeanor tempted Jason to read it. And he has, for a while, he's read through it plenty of times. But seeing the childrens' never-ending smiles gave Jason peace.

He opened the book, reviewing the various words that the children taught him. One child stretched their hand. Putting their thumb on the bottom of their chin. Jason read the word above them.

Mom.

Jason copied the child. Placing his thumb under his chin, half expecting his mother to respond. There was no surprise when it didn't happen. Jason turned the pages in the book. Looking for another word. He stopped on a page of a kid drawing a rainbow. The green-eyed kid stared at Jason. Eager to show their work on the canvas. On the sides of the pages, the kid signed different colors. Jason copied a few of them.

Green. The color of the trees that engulf the camp. A color that Jason welcomed into his vision every time he went out on a patrol. He rested his thumb on the middle of his pointer finger as it pointed. Wiggling it with faint glee.

Red. The color of blood. Despite its warm intensity, the color felt cold to Jason. His body would cool at the touch of thick blood from his victim. He touched his mask—the part where his lips would be—moving a tense finger downward.

Blue. This color meant many things to Jason. As a child, the alluring blue waters of Camp Crystal Lake pulled Jason into its depths. Revealing to him the uglier parts of humanity. Their need to demonize what they don't understand. Now murderous blue waves of the lake lead him away from humanity. Away from civilization. Away from his mother. Ushering him into a world of his own. Away from the ridicule that nestled deep fear into his soul. A world that only he could walk. For when he found his mother, she was slain. Martyred in honor of him. And now he lived in spite of the one who killed his mother; in spite of the old world that failed him. Now alone—with his mother in his head—he yearns for the silent pale blue moonlight. The only blue that could calm his rage. Jason's hand tensed into the sign for the letter B. Wiggle the letter B, the instructions said, but Jason's B shook violently. His rage boiled over in his body. The only emotion that his undead body couldn't dull.

There was a sound. The sound of a bottle falling to the floor. Jason jerked as the rage in him still lingered. He rushed back to the bed the man laid in; he was gone. The bathroom door was closed. Jason broke down the door. Allowing the bedroom's light to pour into the bathroom. He flipped the light switch. Tilting his head when the light didn't turn on. The bedroom's light showed Jason an open bottle of painkillers on the floor. Jason Picked up the bottle. Noticing that it was empty. Jason looked back to the shelf. The cup of water was empty and the pills and bandages were gone. He must've needed more pills, Jason thought. Jason looked back to the empty bathroom. Toward the closed shower curtain. If the man had to be anywhere it would be here. Jason ripped the curtain off of the bar it hung from. Nothing. The bathtub was empty.

Something shattered as it collided with the back of Jason's head. He swung his arm as he turned. Punching the man into the wall near the doorway. Jason grabbed at the man's throat. The man stabbed Jason with whatever was left of the tube light. In and out of Jason's torso, it went. Jason crushed the man's wrist into his grip. Stopping the man from stabbing him; allowing the man enough time to headbutt him. Jason stumbled back. The man reached behind Jason. Choking him out with a bloodstained shirt. After some time, the man's grip began to loosen, allowing Jason to break free. Jason pushed the man's arm to his sides and held him in place. Looking into his eyes.

The man's eyes were dim. Absent of any malice that was riddled in his actions. His upper eyelids threatened to crash down as his eyes retreated upward. Low sighs rumbled in his throat as heavy breaths left his lungs. The medicine was starting to have its effect. It was then, Jason too, began to dim. The rage inside of him subsided as he stared into the man's eyes. Long breaths urged his grip on the man's arms to loosen; finally, Jason let go completely. The two stood in the still air. Jason turned on his heels. Marching out of the bathroom. He stopped once he reached the edge of the bed. Turning back to the man. The man didn't move. He continued to watch Jason as he left, but had no intention to leave himself. Jason motioned for the man to follow him. No response. A more direct approach was needed.

Jason approached the man again. Throwing the man over his shoulders. He grabbed the cup off the shelf and walked past the bed. Jason turned out of the kitchen back into the living room. Jason placed the man down and took the bloody shirt from him. Placing the shirt on one of the dining chairs. He'll worry about cleaning it later.

"Stay here, " Jason signed.

The man didn't respond, he didn't do much of anything besides watch as Jason went back into the kitchen. Jason refilled the cup with water. Coming back into the living room, Jason gives the man the cup. He pulls out a chair from the table, ushering the man to sit down. With a cup in hand, the man makes his way to the chair and sits down. Jason sat across from him, almost unaware of the fact that he now has a complete view of the man's face.

The light pulled back the dark shadows that once veiled the man's face. Like a plot-twist reveal in those old Scooby-Doo cartoons intruders would watch before Jason butchered them. The heroes would decapitate the monster, revealing a shrewd man was the real monster behind it all. Except this time, the man in front of Jason has had his disguise off for a while. A disheveled salt and pepper beard protected the man's top lip and connected to unkempt hair that long abandoned the hairline of younger years. The scar on the man's left eye fractured his chilling stare. The left brow arched over a swollen eyelid. As a light blue iris floated in the pinkish sclera of the irritated eye.

There wasn't a word Jason could think of to describe the man. He wasn't shrewd like the pointed chin, curled mustache villains of old cartoons. The man seemed like the type to sit in an old armchair and stare at whatever's on tv. You'd peer your head behind a wall every time, checking to see if his eyes were still open. Hoping that he'll just fall asleep, so you could watch your favorite show. Noticing that his eyes were closed for a significant amount of time, you go for the remote; slowly of course. But then he moves again, snatching the remote from you. I was watching that, the old man in the armchair would probably say. And then you would sulk while peepaw went back to watching his show. Jason rustled a little. He managed to find a word after all.

Peepaw.

Jason knocked on the table. Grabbing the man's attention for a second.

"Drink," Jason signed.

The man does without fail. In seconds, the water from the glass slithered into the man's throat. The cold liquid of life chilled the man's throat. Freezing his ribs for a moment. The man huffed, relieving himself of the desperation that it took to drink the water in one go.

Jason couldn't help but notice the man's behavior. Jason knew he was capable of complex behavior on his own. But right now, it's as if the man wasn't a person. The man simply waited for Jason to tell him what to do. Like a kid's toy, the man's body and thoughts were inactive. Seemingly given life thanks to Jason's command. Jason signed again. Attempting to release him from the toy-like spell.

"Do you understand me?"

The man did not respond. Frozen in time as he continued to look past Jason. Waiting for Jason to tell him where to move, what to do. But Jason only wanted the man to act independently of him. In a way that wouldn't involve them trying to kill each other. Still, they sat. Unaware that both of them are waiting for the other to act.

Jason stood. An idea in his head leads him to the couch. In a few seconds, he returns to his seat at the table with the book in hand. He opens the book to a page: Conversation, it said at the top. The double-page spread showed various children signing phrases to each other. If anyone was going to help Jason get through to this man it was gonna be these kids.

Jason turned the page over to the man. Tapping the table again when he noticed the man didn't look at the book. Jason pointed to the first phrase on the top right. A little dark-skinned girl with a green shirt peddled her hands to her chest with the phrase at the top.

Sign (or sign language).

The man looked at the girl in the bubble for a second before looking back at Jason. Jason copied the little girl. Adding more to the sign.

"Do you understand sign language?" Jason asked.

The sign for drink was obvious, but Jason didn't know how much training the man had. To Jason's surprise, the man nodded at his question. Jason continued.

"My name is Jason."

No response. Nothing but the same desolate stare.

The man looked back at the book. He didn't respond, but Jason relaxed knowing that the man is acting on his own now. The man seemed fixated on the girl in the green shirt. Jason refereed their staring contest. The girl's stare was unwavering, and the man became more entranced. It wasn't long before the man caved. The girl, frozen in the book illustration, was too powerful. But unlike the girl, the man could move, and he did. A finger landed on the animal she was holding with strained pressure. It was a dog. Jason tilted his head as the man looked at him.

What did he mean, Jason thought.

"Dog," Jason signed.

It didn't seem the man was trying to say anything, as he lowered his head back into the book. Much to Jason's confusion. The man began to look through the book in an almost frantic motion. Jason watched as the man's scarred eye twitched, his mouth opening and closing in a short rhythm. The hand that turned the page quivered as it wrinkled the ends of the pages with a pinch. The man suddenly stopped once he arrived at an earlier page in the book. Animals, it said at the top. A girl with healthy caucasian skin and a purple shirt sat happily in a field. She looked in the direction of the man, welcoming his company; the man wasn't concerned about her. No, instead, it was the dog that the man was enticed with. The dog stared, but not at the man. It stared off toward the fish on the adjacent page, who smiled back at the dog.

Jason leaned forward, attempting to look into the man's world. The man's head shot up as Jason got too close. Jason froze. The man's gaze filled Jason's body with unfamiliar anxiety. The fragile tower of cards that was Jason's legs shook. Despite no change in Jason's emotions. A dull feeling lulled in his stomach, but it didn't belong to him. The hearts and aces of Jason's legs collapsed back into his chair. But the shining diamonds of Jason's eyes gleamed curiosity in the man's behavior. The man's own eyes hid the mystery, but his body could not. The shaking only riddled Jason's legs, but the man's entire body was gripped by it. The man's shaking reminded Jason of his prior humanity.

Back when Jason was a child, a terrible illness befell him, causing him to vomit. Clammy hands gripped the toilet bowl as the heat dizzied Jason. His breathing would shorten as his body forced him to arch forward. Ready to expel whatever was inside of him. The only reprieve was the ice-cold bathroom floor on sickly warm skin. His mother would find him, placing a hand on his back as he heaved.

Thinking back to such a time would've made Jason squirm. The feeling of being too sick to move is something he would never miss. But thanks to the way he was now, feelings of nausea were never an issue. But the man in front of Jason was experiencing something similar to Jason's recollection. The man's back was arched. Teeth and a tongue peeked through the small opening of the man's mouth. The man swallowed quickly as the saliva that welled in his mouth became too much to bear. While the dog looked over to that same fish. Torturing the man with nothing but an innocent smile.

The man shot up like a rocket. Jason expected the man to rush to the bathroom, but instead, he went for the door. Jason ran, cutting off the man.

"Are you sick?" Jason signed.

The man ignored Jason's question. Attempting to push Jason out the way. Jason squeezed the man's arms to his side again. The man squirmed, no longer willing to remain submissive. His brow pinched as his scowl at Jason sharpened. The man struck Jason's mask with a headbutt. Jason recoiled, but his hands remained firm. Fixed on the man's wrist. Jason could only think of what his mother would do in a situation like this. He tried to think back to whenever his mother and him would disagree. He would remember squirming just like the man he held down, but he would also whine and wail. Jason remembered the sensation of his mother's gentle touch caressing the top of his head. The cold touch of her fingers would quell the heat that buried itself into Jason's head when blood started rushing to it.

"Jason." His mother would start. A stern, but soft tone would escape her lips. "Jason. I need you to listen to mommy."

Maybe that could work.

Jason wrapped his arms around the man and placed a firm hand on the top of the man's hand. The man gasped. Squirming more at the sudden bear hug. After some time, he stopped. Then, a sound. Jason thought it was the man groaning over the hug, but it wasn't. A low growl from the man's stomach traveled upward into a frail high note into Jason's ear cavity. Jason freed the man from the hug. Struggling to meet the man's eyes as they trailed away from Jason ever so slightly. The man paced toward the kitchen before Jason could catch him again. Jason followed him, watching as the man inspected the empty innards of the fridge.

Oh.

A sharp inhale punctured Jason's lungs at the sudden realization. Never would he have thought he'd have to worry about the prospect of starvation ever again. But seeing the man before him tap his mouth with his thumb and fingers pinched together caused a wave of anxiety to well up inside of Jason.

"We'll find some," Jason signed.

The man huffed, but complied anyway, as Jason ushered him to follow again. They exit out of the kitchen and make their way to the front door. The front door wailed as Jason pushed it open. Jason paused once he noticed the door didn't stop its wails behind him. He turned around to the man still in the house. The man looked to the mantle, to the deflated white mask.

Jason had forgotten all about it, but the man didn't. The man marched toward the mask. Never taking his eyes off of it; fully entranced by it. His short breaths quickened as he put his hands on it. A satisfying exhale left the man's lungs as the mask draped itself over his face. A king wouldn't be esteemed without a crown; a child would be powerless against monsters without a toy to protect them. Now the man—not with a crown or a toy—but with the pale mask, was complete. No crowned king would have his esteem; no toy from a child could ward him off. For those things were powerless against him now that the mask stripped him of any familiar humanity. He wasn't just a man anymore; now an imitation of one. A mere shape.

Jason looked at the man—The Shape. He noticed The Shape's shoulders weren't tense anymore, despite the empty stomach that ailed him. It was as if the mask was a natural part of him the way it fit so well on his head. Jason couldn't help but slide his fingers down his mask. Noticing that he too, couldn't live without his piece of headgear. Jason circled his heart with his fist toward The Shape. He felt like it was rude to look so intently at his face earlier. The Shape simply tilted his head. All that mattered to him was that the mask was back where it belonged: over his face. Dwelling on the past was an action The Shape had no interest in. He simply stopped in front of Jason. Waiting for him to move. Jason caught on and began to move away from the cabin, with The Shape following close.

The first step was to get weapons. There were none in the last cabin they were in. But there was a cabin on the edge of the camp that had a pretty diverse selection. Different bows, knives, bats, and other weapons were displayed on shelves. But most of them were scattered on the floor. Jason ran out of shelf space long ago. A few guns were also scattered amongst the pile of weapons; Jason never bothers to use them. He swears they're empty.

Jason pulls a bow from a shelf, admiring its aged texture. Jason couldn't help but think back to when the camp was open. He always loved archery but wasn't good at it back then. Many chastised him for not being able to shoot a bullseye, and he always went crying to his mother about it. It was then his mother had enough and decided to help Jason get better. Against the opinions of many, who claimed Jason couldn't do it. But Pamela didn't care, and Jason was grateful for her help.

Jason jumped as The Shape bumped into him. The white mask on The Shape was scarier than any ghost. Ghosts could only dream of being able to touch the things in the living world. But The Shape's dreams were reality as he reached out toward an old kitchen knife on the shelf. His corporeal form warmed the hilt of the unused knife, and his other hand slid across the blade. His breath of satisfaction echoed out of his mask and burrowed into the walls of the shed. The Shape turned toward Jason. Holding up his knife in preparation to stab something.

Jason remained unfazed by The Shape's interest in his new weapon. It was like seeing a kid excited over a new toy, but it was actually a hand-me-down from an older sibling. The Shape—like a child—had a glint of excitement in his eyes. Jason could also feel the murderous intent behind the still functioning eye of The Shape.

Jason and The Shape left the shed and headed deeper into the woods. The hints of civilization faded away as they got further away from the camp. Leaving the parts of Jason's realm that housed only Mother Nature's children. After some time, Jason paused. Extending an arm to catch The Shape that shadowed him. Jason inched closer toward a tree. Noticing a foreign mark carved into it. A sudden rustle in the bush broke the woodland silence, but Jason shrugged it off. The Shape didn't. Being more interested, he investigated the bush. Hovering over its edges. Jason readied his bow. Pulling an arrow from the quiver. He nodded at the shape to reveal the contents of the bush.

A clean swipe of The Shape's knife disrupts the bush's form, revealing a raccoon underneath the prickly veil. The raccoon leaps out of the bush, then off of The Shape's chest. Jason fires an arrow. Attempting to catch the raccoon in the air. The arrow glides just short of the raccoon's back fur and sticks into a tree. The raccoon tries to make a run for it. The Shape catches it in a tackle. The raccoon clung to life as it squirmed desperately in his arms. Digging into The Shape's flesh with quick strikes from its claws. The Shape's grip loosened as his hand twinged. He grabbed at the raccoon's snout. Hoping to snap its neck once its head was in place. The raccoon shakes off The Shape's hand quick enough to bite it. The Shape retreated. Freeing the raccoon from his oppressive hold. The Shape pounced. Digging the knife into what he thought was the raccoon. Instead, it was the hard dirt that the raccoon ran across.

Jason pulled back an arrow as the raccoon sought refuge in the tree he wounded. The raccoon jumped off the arrow and Reached the top of the tree in almost no time. Jason shot one last time. But the cracking impact of the arrow against the wood of the tree echoed Jason's failure. The raccoon hissed as it retreated further into the tree's canopy. Jason walked toward the tree. Pulling the arrows out of it. He noticed more marks that didn't belong to him that brazed the trunk. Jason turned as the audible breaths from The Shape rose from the ground with his body.

Jason was surprised by The Shape's lack of disappointment at their failure. No needless chiding or a hit coated in rage was directed towards Jason. Instead, The Shape stared at the top of the tree. Proclaiming silent declaration of war toward the raccoon. A vicious vengeance signed in the breaths that hummed out of The Shape's mask.

Jason shook The Shape out of his daze. Directing his attention to a deer to their right. The Shape tilted his head, interested in how still the deer looked. It could easily be mistaken for a plastic doppelganger that would sit out on someone's lawn. The only semblance of it living was the flaring of its nostrils. The fear that took hold of the deer quickened its breaths. Jason took a few steps toward the deer, causing it to scurry. The sound of its hooves colliding with the ground grew quieter as it retreated into the woods' darkness. Jason tilted his head as the deer disappeared.

A sense of clarity erupts from Jason's mind as another deer—an angrier deer—tackles The Shape, forcing him to the ground. The marks on the trees indicated that it was this deer's territory and not the one they had found prior. The deer circled back around. Attempting to tackle Jason as well. Jason shoots another arrow. Hitting the deer's shoulder. Jason jumped out of the way as the deer spun out of control. He tries to ready another arrow. But the deer gets a hold of him. Boring a hole into Jason's torso with its horn. Jason grabbed the horn, pulling it out of his side. The deer jerked its head, attempting to free itself from Jason's grip. Jason was more than happy to assist. The base of the horn cracked as Jason's grip grew tighter. Slowly, the deer's feet left the ground. Kicking into Jason's groin and chest. There was no visible effect, Jason's body had no room for feelings of pain anymore.

He kicked the deer in its stomach. Sending it flying into a tree. The horn, too weak to hold onto the deer, made a new home in Jason's clutches. Jason studied his new weapon, then glanced as a pair of hands pinned the deer to the tree. The nails dug deep into the deer's throat. Leaving it alive just enough for it to writhe in pain. Begging and screaming for its suffering to end. The Shape's blank mask peaked behind the tree, looking to Jason, then to Jason's bow. Jason followed The Shape's eyes. Dropping the horn and picking up the bow. The Shape raised his finger toward Jason as if telling him to hold off on killing the buck.

The Shape grazed an x into the deer's chest. From what Jason could tell, it was right on top of a lung. The Shape pointed to the x with his knife. Challenging Jason to make the shot. Jason obliged, readying his bow and firing. The deer wailed as the arrow punctured its lung. Its chest seized as blood and foreign fluids within its body rushed to its right lung, rendering it useless. Jason watched as the deer helplessly clung to life. It's squirming, reminding him of the cop earlier that night that tried so hard to live. Praying for the pain to end. No god could hear the deer's prayers. Only the two predators that orchestrated its execution.

The Shape continued. Cutting another x onto the deer. Just above the stomach this time. Jason readied his bow. Another cry from the deer as another arrow cut deep into its stomach. Jason watched as the blood oozed from its wounds. The rhythmic rising and falling of the deer's chest grew slower by the minute. As if time itself had begun to halt. The heavy pressure dug into the tips of the deer's hooves as its limbs grew weaker. The thump of its heart pained its chest as inevitable death clenched it. But Jason felt nothing. Disconnected from the timestream that played the deer's death like a movie. He was merely a spectator, as the deer finished its dramatic monologue. The Shape shook the deer by the throat. Sending the last of its life to the head. The Shape carved one last x above the deer's heart. Jason tried to think of a lesson to cap off this story as he readied his arrow. Don't wander alone at night, or, Don't interact with strangers came to mind first. But as the deer sang its last cry to the arrow rupturing its heart a final—more fitting message came to mind.

Be wary of the starving man and the undead zombie living in the woods.

The Shape lets go of the deer's neck. The puppeteer cut the strings of an old, useless puppet. And like a puppet, the deer fell to the ground with a lifeless thump. Jason marched toward the deer. Lifting it over his right shoulder with no effort. Jason looked at The Shapes' hands. Noticing the blood and dirt that marked them.

"Wash your hands before eating," Jason fingerspelled.

No response from The Shape, as usual. Just echoed breaths that hinted at his humanity. The Shape jumped back into Jason's shadow. Tailing Jason as he walked back to the camp he called home. Jason stopped before a tree with some rope hanging from it. He dropped the deer and tied its front legs with the rope. Jason asked The Shape for his kitchen knife. The Shape complied with no issue. Jason would've preferred to use a machete to split the deer open, but there was no desire to be perfect from The Shape. Speaking of him, Jason couldn't help but hide The Shape from the realities of hunting. In true parental fashion, a small part of him wanted to hide the ugly process of removing the organs and entrails from The Shape's eyes.

"You don't have to watch," Jason signed.

Jason was no longer worried about The Shape's lack of responses. Paying more attention to The Shape's actions. If he didn't want to stay he would've walked back into the cabin with his hypnotic march.

Jason continued hollowing out the deer. Once he was done, he skinned the deer's right leg. Exposing the pink flesh underneath. For a moment, it seemed The Shape's breathing became louder. More desperate at the sight of venison. Jason hoped that The Shape could last a little longer with an empty stomach. Just long enough for him to cook the meat. Jason dreaded the thought of The Shape attacking him for a third time from behind. The opportunity couldn't be more perfect. Over time, Jason's suspicions would ease each time he turned his head and The Shape would just stare. Quietly observing Jason's deer skinning endeavors.

Jason pierced the deer's right outer leg and began separating the meat from it. Once the separated flesh was cupped in Jason's hand, he moved toward the kitchen in the cabin, with The Shape rushing close behind him. Jason looked at the black pan that sat on the stove, waiting to be used. Specks of dirt speckled the edges of the pan, but Jason wasn't worried about it. But now that there was another person amongst him—a person with needs—it seems he needed to start to. He buried the thought in the deeper parts of his mind as he turned on the stove. A black 7 above the knob warned Jason of the roaring flame below the pan. Jason wasn't bothered, as he placed the venison steak into the pan. The venison echoed the deer's fearful cries as it sizzled. The blood from it boiled as it leaked onto the pan's surface. Jason left the venison to its roasting for a moment, to put the knife in the sink. He opened a drawer and fished out a spatula. Once he rinsed it in the sink, he returned to the venison. Squeezing more blood out of it with the spatula.

The whine of the sink handle, followed by water splashing onto a metal surface, joined the venison's dirge. The splashing grew chaotic in Jason's ears as its cascade was disturbed by The Shape's hands. Soon followed by sounds of soap, rubbing onto skin, then the crashing cascade once again came around for its final verse. A final whine from the sink handle silenced the water, and The Shape's boots drummed across the kitchen. The percussion traveled from Jason's right ear to his left as The Shape stopped at the door. Joining Jason in his stare-down as the venison grayed. Jason diverted his attention to The Shape and pointed his thumb over his shoulder. The Shape didn't leave immediately, but Jason's continued staring drove him back into the living room.

Jason wondered if his mother felt the same way when he used to be in the kitchen while she cooked. He never made a mess or anything, but he would stand too close to the stove's flame or touch utensils that were being used. His mother would guide him out, ushering him to play with his toys. Veiling her annoyance in a laugh. Jason then wondered if his mother had any urge to toss him out like he did if The Shape stayed any longer.

The cries from the venison deadened. Jason took off the gloves he had on, looking through the drawers for a possibly non-bloodied substitute. He opened a drawer to the sight of a single oven mitt. Good enough, he figured. He put it in his left hand and grabbed a plate. Then out of the frying pan and onto the plate, the venison went. Thanks to Jason's handling of the spatula. He scoured the drawers again for a fork and a knife, dousing them in water once they were found.

Jason marched out of the kitchen with a dish and utensils in hand. Once the plate, followed by the fork and knife, was placed on the table, The Shape threw his mask off and plunged his face into the seared meat in front of him. Fork and knife in hand, The Shape tore into the meat, as if his meal would be taken from him at any moment. Once Jason retired into the chair across from him, he was already halfway through his venison.

The Shape's gorging ceased as Jason snuck into his peripheral vision. Jason tried his best not to look at The Shape's face, covering his eyes with his arm if he couldn't help reciprocating a stare. Jason's arm trembled as The Shape gripped his wrist. Jason was confused by the sudden surge of emotion that trickled from his arm into his chest. Slowly, his arm was brought down and his eyes met with The Shape's. Again, The Shape's eyes hid his motives behind a blank stare, but the rest of his body could not. His eyes took cover under his tensed brows as his shoulder stuck close to his ears. The same hand that gripped Jason's wrist trembled as well.

Jason's eyes lazily blinked at the sight of The Shape's condition. The hint of desperation that riddled The Shape echoed the many victims Jason had slain. The way that they'd cling to anything that, in their eyes, could've saved their lives. Some were filled with the urge to scream and cry as fear cradled them in its hold. Others were daring enough to fight back, to protect something important to them. Whether it was people or objects. The Shape mirrored those many victims. There were no tears or screams, there were no strikes plagued with fear, but the sense of desperation was the same. It was human. Jason blinked again. Attempting to suppress the sudden rage that overtook him after witnessing The Shape's burst of humanity. No longer mistaking him for an intruder on his camp, but as the dangerous old man from the crash site that intrigued him so much.

Jason looked down toward the half-eaten venison. The tense grip of The Shape tightened around Jason's wrist. He looked back up, unfazed by The Shape's threat. Jason shook his head.

"I'm not hungry," Jason signed.

A minute crawled by before The Shape loosened his grip and finished off the venison. Jason in the meantime headed back into the kitchen and toward the bed that housed The Shape earlier that night. He inspected the dresser to the left of the bed, fetching another piece of paper and the pencil. Once obtained, Jason returned to the living room to find The Shape sitting on the couch. The venison that was once on the plate was now gone, and the empty cup that stood on the table was in The Shape's hand as he downed the cold water that was in it. The pale mask also moved to the coffee table in front of the couch. And as The Shape finished his water, he moved the mask back on top of his head.

The cushions bounced The Shape slightly as Jason fell onto the couch. The Shape paid no mind to Jason until Jason tapped his shoulder. The Shape swerved his head, signaling his discomfort with a sigh. Jason refused to react to it. He considered his question too important for dwelling on The Shape's minor annoyance.

"What's your name?" Jason asked.

The Shape didn't respond, but Jason was prepared for it. Jason wrote on the paper, using the coffee table as a surface. He led The Shape's eyes with his finger to the writing. Name, it read on the paper, with a line next to it. The blank space, needing to be filled in by The Shape. It was displayed like a test created by a teacher. Waiting for the student to take the plunge of filling in the blank spaces. The only difference being the space for The Shape's name took up all the space in the middle of the page, instead of shrinking closer to the top of the paper. The large space somehow seemed more weighted, more important. As if The Shape would've been bound by a contract with no words or clauses.

The Shape made no effort to fill in the blank space left for him. Despite Jason's gesturing egging him on. Instead, The Shape moved his eyes toward the ceiling of the cabin. Accepting the harsh lights in his vision as he took in the view of the aged wood.

After a few minutes of staring, Jason caves. Moving back into the kitchen, grabbing the kitchen knife and some plastic bags, he heads back outside to the deer. Jason eyed the hole in the deer's right hindquarter. He figured the meat in that area had time to be exposed to the elements. Rendering that area forfeit. Jason moved to the left side, skinning, and butchering as much as could fit in the plastic bags. The left hindquarter, tenderloins, and ribs were all gutted from the deer. Jason puts each cut into separate bags and sealed them off with a knot. He untied the rest of the deer and marched to the edge of camp. Leaving the rest of the carcass for any woodland creatures nearby. Jason walked back to the tree with the rope, grabbing the plastic bags to head back into the cabin.

Once inside, Jason put the bags into the freezer. It was only after he closed the freezer that Jason realized that something in the cabin was different. The still air of the cabin held onto a crippling silence. There was no semblance of life, which didn't make any sense. Unless…

Jason went into the living room, realizing the reason for the sudden shift. All the furniture remained motionless through Jason's investigation. The sound of his boots was the only sound that took up space. Jason opened the door to the left of the table, revealing another bathroom. Empty. It was too small for The Shape to hide. Jason checked the bedroom. Nothing was moved. Everything remained how it was left after The Shape woke up. Nothing in the bedroom's bathroom either. It was then, a stone began to grow in Jason's chest. Different from the usual pressure that'd grow in his body when someone would tread in his camp. This sensation didn't demand him to act, but instead left him aimless in what he should do. Jason stared at the floor. Unable to figure out how to relieve the sensation. There wasn't a person to kill, or some duty from his mother to fulfill. It was just him—alone again.

Then came a voice. The voice of his mother who disappeared earlier tonight. She crawled out of the void, making a home in Jason's skull again.

"Everything will be okay, Jason," Pamela started. The sweet hums of her voice rung nicely in Jason's ears. He closed his eyes, shutting out the rest of the world to hear his mother's voice.

"I know it must hurt to see him gone, but it was for the best."

Was it really for the best? Did The Shape even know where to go? What if he got lost in the woods? Will the world take him back after what he did? Jason couldn't help but wonder. At Least when seeing the light in a person's eyes fade as Jason kills them, he sees them saying goodbye to everything they knew. But this time was different, it happened outside of his actions. It happened so suddenly. He didn't get a chance to say goodbye.

"I'm here for you Jason. I always will be."

And she was right—Jason knew she was right. He grabbed the sign language book that rested on the table. Before leaving for his mother's shed, he picked up the pencil and paper on the coffee table. He went back to the dresser and put the pencil back in the drawer. Jason noticed the writing on the paper that filled in the space neatly. The handwriting lacked any character as if it was traced from a handwriting book. All the letters were capitalized and stood stiffly on the line.

MICHAEL AUDREY MYERS.

Jason knew The Shape—no—Michael, wouldn't do anything without a purpose. That was one thing Jason learned from their time together. If Michael thought Jason needed to know his name could it mean that…

No.

Jason puts the paper on the top of the dresser. Trying his best to subside his thoughts; his heart ached with hope nonetheless. Jason made sure to remember each part of the name. As he hoped for the day Michael would return.