It was a dark and stormy night, the kind that sends shivers down your spine. I was walking home from a late shift at work, trying to ignore the eerie feeling that something was watching me. Suddenly, I heard a twig snap behind me. I turned around, but there was no one there. I shrugged it off and continued walking, but the feeling of being followed only grew stronger.

As I turned the corner onto my street, I saw a figure in the distance. It was a tall, menacing figure, dressed in a tattered jumpsuit and carrying a machete. My heart raced as I realized who it was - Jason Voorhees, the infamous killer from Friday the 13th.

I tried to run, but my legs felt like lead. Jason was getting closer and closer, his machete glinting in the moonlight. I could hear his heavy breathing and the sound of his boots hitting the pavement. I knew I was going to die.

Suddenly, he lunged at me with his machete. I dodged to the side, narrowly avoiding the blade. I tried to fight back, but he was too strong. He grabbed me by the throat and lifted me off the ground, his eyes burning with a cold, murderous rage.

I struggled to breathe as he tightened his grip. Blood dripped from his machete onto the pavement, mixing with the rain. I knew I was going to die, but I refused to go down without a fight. I kicked and punched, trying to break free, but it was no use.

With a sickening crunch, he snapped my neck. I felt my body go limp as he dropped me to the ground. My vision faded to black as I heard him laugh, his voice echoing in my ears like a death knell.

As I lay there, dying, I realized that I was just another victim in Jason’s never-ending killing spree. He was a force of nature, a monster that could not be stopped. And as the rain washed away my blood, I knew that I would not be the last to fall to his blade.