I never believed in superstitions until that fateful Friday night. It was Friday the 13th, and I was foolish enough to venture into the woods alone. The eerie setting was enough to send shivers down my spine, but I shrugged it off, thinking it was just my imagination.

As I walked deeper into the woods, I heard a rustling sound behind me. I turned around, but there was no one there. I continued walking, but the rustling sound persisted. Suddenly, I felt a sharp pain in my back, and I fell to the ground. I turned around to see a masked man with a machete in his hand. It was Jason.

I tried to run, but he was too fast. He caught up to me and swung his machete at me. I dodged it, but he caught me with his other hand and threw me to the ground. I could feel the blood oozing out of my wounds as he continued to hack at me with his machete.

The pain was unbearable, and I thought I was going to die. But then, I remembered something my grandfather had told me. He said that when you’re in a life or death situation, your survival instincts kick in, and you become stronger than you ever thought possible.

I summoned all my strength and fought back. I kicked Jason in the face, and he stumbled back. I grabbed his machete and swung it at him. It caught him in the shoulder, and he screamed in pain. I took advantage of his momentary weakness and ran as fast as I could.

I didn’t stop running until I reached the nearest town. I collapsed on the ground, and the townspeople rushed to my aid. They called the police, and I told them everything that had happened.

The police searched the woods, but they found no trace of Jason. They said that he was just a legend, a story that parents told their children to scare them. But I knew the truth. I had seen him with my own eyes, and I had the scars to prove it.

From that day on, I never ventured into the woods alone again. And every time I heard the sound of rustling leaves, I couldn’t help but think of Jason and the horror he had inflicted upon me.