Crystal Lake had never liked being watched.
At night, when the wind flattened the surface and the fog settled low, the water looked calm enough to trust. Locals said that was when it was most dangerous. Not because of currents or depth—but because the lake remembered.
The man standing at the edge didn't believe in that kind of thing.
He was in his late thirties, dressed for work rather than weather, shoes already damp from the soft ground near the shore. A utility badge hung from his jacket, catching the weak beam of his flashlight every time he moved. He'd been sent out after a call from a nearby property owner—something about a damaged dock, maybe vandalism. Nothing urgent. Nothing dangerous.
That was the lie Crystal Lake always told.
He swept the light across the water. Trees reflected back at him, broken by ripples that came and went without sound. Somewhere in the distance, a loon cried out, long and hollow, like it was calling to something beneath the surface.
"Hello?" the man called, more out of habit than expectation.
The word vanished almost instantly, swallowed by the trees.
He adjusted his grip on the flashlight and stepped closer to the dock. One of the planks had been pulled loose, splintered at the ends as if something heavy had dragged itself across it. That wasn't right. Teenagers broke things loudly. Animals left clearer signs.
This looked… deliberate.
The beam drifted again, slower this time.
That's when he saw it.
Not a shape. Not movement.
A gap.
The reflection of the trees stopped abruptly near the center of the lake, as though something large interrupted the image just below the surface. The water there was darker, thicker, refusing to mirror the world above it.
The man frowned.
He crouched, setting his tool bag down beside him. The air felt colder near the lake, pressing against his skin through the thin fabric of his jacket. He told himself it was just the hour, just his imagination filling in blanks it didn't need to.
Still, his hand shook slightly as he reached for a loose plank.
There was a sound then. Soft. Rhythmic.
Not splashing.
Breathing.
He froze.
The sound came again—wet, labored, close enough that he could feel it rather than hear it. The beam of the flashlight flickered, briefly catching something pale beneath the water before the batteries steadied again.
A face.
Not fully visible. Not fully human.
The man stumbled backward, heart slamming against his ribs. "Hey—" His voice cracked. "This isn't funny."
The water moved.
Something rose slowly, deliberately, like it had all the time in the world.
The mask broke the surface first.
It was cracked, stained, wrong—its empty eyeholes fixed in a permanent, unblinking stare. Water poured from it in thin streams, rippling outward in perfect circles. Then shoulders emerged, broad and unnatural, wrapped in rotting fabric that clung to a body that should not have been intact.
The man turned to run.
He didn't make it far.
The flashlight hit the ground, spinning uselessly, its beam slicing wildly through fog and shadow. The forest absorbed the sound of the struggle without protest. When it was over, Crystal Lake returned to stillness, as if nothing had disturbed it at all.
Moments passed.
Then the figure stepped back into the water.
Jason Voorhees sank beneath the surface, the weight of years settling over him like a familiar blanket. Down there, the lake was quiet. Down there, the memories didn't scream.
But something had changed.
The lake no longer held him the way it once did.
The chains—rusted remnants of old attempts to keep him down—lay broken on the lakebed. The water felt lighter, thinner, as though it were letting go. Above him, distant vibrations traveled through the depths: engines, metal, movement. The world beyond Crystal Lake was louder now.
Bigger.
Jason rose again, slowly, listening.
Far away, past the trees, past the road that no one took at night, something called out—not with sound, but with motion. A path. A current. A way forward.
The lake released him.
By morning, the dock would be empty. The man would be missing. Authorities would call it an accident, maybe a drowning, maybe nothing at all. Crystal Lake had swallowed worse and been forgiven every time.
No one would think to look toward the city.
No one would imagine that the thing born in still water had learned how to follow moving ones.
And far beyond the trees, under steel and concrete and lights that never truly went out, Manhattan waited—unaware, unwatchful, and very loud.
For now.