@f13ths.
CAMP CRYSTAL LAKE. camp blood. the amalgamate of rumors surrounding the murders were like some infested swirling pot of things--sifting through the refuse for the truth was like plucking a needle from a stack of needles. the locals claimed a boogeyman, an infallible figure dragging intruders into the woods to die, others said the restless spirits of a mother and her drowned child. shaking off the detritus to reveal all the shiny truths had taken time, but he has an idea of what he’s looking for, at least. the woods are dark and deep, even in broad daylight; he watches trampled paths, quietly weaving through the property until he sees it. the head of a cabin, if it can be called that; a ramshackle stack of timber, tarp stretched across the overgrown, slanted roof, broken windows and a door that looked as if it’d fall if he touched it. sam’s packing a machete at the hip, a sawed off in hand. he presses the arch of his boot against the lower panel of the shoddy door frame, slowly easing it open.
