A Mid-Unlife Crisis

At the intersection, I could go right and head home—home to my decidedly un-murderous cabin, the one with the leaky roof and the surprisingly comfortable armchair.

But turning left? Turning left would take me back to Camp Crystal Lake, to another boring, utterly predictable summer of kids screaming and camp counselors dying.

And honestly, the thought made my perpetually grimy hockey mask feel smothering.

I just wanted to be home watching the game, relaxing.

The old pickup truck, a rust-bucket I’d inherited from some unfortunate hiker, idled with a groan that perfectly matched my mood.

Rain lashed against the windshield, blurring the already depressing view into a Monet painting of misery. The wipers, probably older than half my victims, squeaked a rhythm against the relentless downpour, a perfect soundtrack to my burgeoning listlessness.

It was a truly miserable evening, the kind that made a normal person want to curl up with a mug of cocoa and a bad reality show.

Me? I just wanted to be anywhere but here, contemplating the inevitable.

This camp was a black hole, always sucking me back in.

Right, and home.

Home to the familiar comfort of my secluded cabin, the half-read copy of Knitting for Beginners on the nightstand (don’t ask), the quiet hum of the mini-fridge (mostly stocked with lukewarm river water).

Home to the predictable, the safe, the blissful peace of not having to chase after screaming adolescents.

Left, and to the camp.

To the sticky, humid air, the cacophony of adolescent giggles and terrible pop music, and the endless, endless parade of hormonal teenagers who clearly had a death wish, or at least a severe lack of common sense.

Turning left meant inviting the chaos back, strapping on the old machete, and getting back to the "work" that had become less a calling and more… a chore.

It meant confronting the soul-crushing question that gnawed at my non-existent soul: Was this really all there was to un-life?

I’d tried to escape it. Oh, how I’d tried.

After a particularly exhausting season—the one with the synchronized swimming team and the drone enthusiast—I’d packed up my minimal belongings and moved a few miles deeper into the woods.

I’d traded the distant echoes of screaming for the gentle rustle of leaves, the splash of a drowning victim for the calming gurgle of the stream.

I attempted to take up hobbies: whittling (splinters), birdwatching (too much chirping), even competitive napping (surprisingly fulfilling, but hard to monetize).

I kept to myself, a solitary creature who preferred the company of silence to… well, to anything resembling a camp counselor.

My attempts at dating were, predictably, short-lived.

Turns out, the "mysterious strong silent type" thing only goes so far when you prefer to communicate via heavy breathing and ominous footsteps. No one ever got close enough to see the deep-seated exhaustion I carried, the unspoken boredom that was a permanent resident in my chest.

But Camp Crystal Lake had a way of pulling you back.

It wasn't a sudden, dramatic siren call, but a slow, persistent tug, like a child repeatedly poking you with a stick.

It started with the annual "Welcome Back" flyers left subtly on my doorstep (how they knew where I lived, I never asked).

Then came the increasingly desperate notes from the Camp Director (an optimistic, perpetually confused man named Gary): "Enrollment's up, Jason! We need you!" followed by "We're considering a 'No Running' policy, just for you!" (He clearly didn’t get it.)

This trip, though, was different.

It was triggered by the arrival of a particularly large, glitter-covered brochure advertising "Crystal Lake’s Ultimate Summer of Fun! New Zip Line! Karaoke Nights! And a 'Mystery' Event!"

"Mystery Event." That’s what Gary called my work now.

It used to be "Unexplained Disappearances" or "Local Legend Manifesting."

Now it was just a "Mystery Event," implying it was on par with a scavenger hunt or a magic show.

The indignity!

My heart hammered against my ribs, a dull thud against the silence of the pickup’s cab. The rain was getting heavier, blurring the yellow glow of the intersection’s lone, flickering streetlight.

This fork in the road of my un-life felt less like a choice and more like a punishment for some cosmic sin.

I gripped the steering wheel tighter. My fingers, surprisingly, didn’t tremble.

Ten years of calculated disinterest, ten years of meticulously constructed apathy, suddenly felt like a flimsy shield against the sheer banality of my existence.

Teenagers. So loud. So many questions. So much… running. They deserved more than a quick, efficient dispatch. They deserved… actually, no. They mostly deserved to stay home and play video games like sensible people.

But I, apparently, deserved the truth, whatever it was, about why I was still doing this.

With a jolt, I cranked the wheel to the left. The old truck groaned in protest, its tires spraying water as I veered onto the familiar, soul-crushingly well-worn road.

The glow of the town rapidly faded behind me, swallowed by the darkness and the rain. The road narrowed, trees closing in, their bare branches clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers, as if begging me to turn back.

I almost did.

The air grew stickier, heavier with the scent of damp earth and the distant, faint smell of overly sweet bug spray. I passed the familiar turn-off to the old bait shop (closed for the season, thankfully—less chance of awkward small talk), then the winding lane that led to the camp’s barely-there perimeter fence.

Each landmark was a dull ache in my core, a vivid memory replayed: the time a camper tried to escape by zip-lining across the lake (bad idea), the time a counselor tried to bond with me over S’mores (even worse idea).

The camp sign, weathered and faded, appeared through a break in the trees: "Welcome to Camp Crystal Lake! Where Fun Meets… Rustic Charm!" Rustic charm. Right. More like rustic dread.

The occasional, flashing lights of the main lodge, a slow, methodical sweep through the gloom, briefly illuminated a segment of the churning black waters below.

It looked exactly as it had every other year—chipped paint, rickety cabins, an air of impending doom that was almost palpable.

I pulled into the small, gravel parking area, my headlights briefly cutting through the oppressive darkness. The rain was still coming down in sheets, visibility almost nil.

I cut the engine, and the sudden silence in the truck was deafening, broken only by the drumming of rain on the roof and the distant, dreaded sound of a teenager shrieking.

Already? It wasn't even full dark yet.

A cold dread seeped into my bones, a feeling far more chilling than the damp air. Had Gary started early? Was this some kind of express orientation? Or worse, had someone brought a portable karaoke machine?

I grabbed my old, worn waterproof jacket from the back seat, pulling the hood tight around my mask.

The wind, unleashed from its earlier restraint, tore at my clothes the moment I stepped out of the truck. It was a raw, biting wind, carrying the stinging spray of the lake.

I fumbled for my phone (yes, even I had one, mostly for checking the weather and the local fishing reports), its weak signal battling the remote location.

No new messages, thankfully. I really wasn’t in the mood for Gary’s chirpy texts right now. I shone the phone’s flashlight beam towards the main lodge door, but it was firmly shut, the camp’s perpetually broken "Welcome" sign askew.

The path to my usual killing grounds—the lakefront, the archery range, the dreaded arts and crafts cabin—was treacherous even on a clear day.

Tonight, it would be a muddy slog. But if I was going to be here, I might as well get it over with.

Efficiency was key. Plus, I really hated mud.

I began to pick my way along the narrow, winding trail that hugged the lake edge. The ground was slick with mud, roots, and loose stones.

The wind tried to push me back, to literally blow me off course, but I pressed on, my heart a dull, rhythmic thud in my chest. Below, the waves of Crystal Lake slapped against the shore with a monotonous sound.

Teenagers. Where are you? Let's just get this over with.

A flicker of light, faint and sporadic, caught my eye. It wasn't the lodge lights. It came from deeper along the path, closer to the old abandoned canoe shed.

Someone was out there. Great. Early bird catches the… machete.

I quickened my pace, ignoring the sting of rain and the threat of a slip. The beam grew steadier as I got closer, revealing a small, hunched figure silhouetted against the shed door.

“Hello?” a squeaky voice called out, barely carrying over the wind.

“Is anyone there? I think I’m locked out!”

The figure stiffened, then slowly turned. It was a girl. Nineteen years old, with blonde pigtails that bounced as she turned, and wide, innocent blue eyes that held a distinct lack of awareness. She wore a ridiculous t-shirt that said "Hug a Counselor, They're Terrified."

Oh, they were terrified, all right. Just not of what she thought.

“Are you… the mysterious camp caretaker?” Sarah asked, clutching a small, battery-powered selfie light, its beam trembling as she held it.

“Gary said there was a… a presence. That you help keep the kids in line!”

Her voice was a nervous flutter, barely audible. She looked utterly clueless.

Keep them in line.

I wanted to laugh. If only she knew. I just wanted them out of my line of sight.

My patience was wearing thin, replaced by a surge of desperate resignation.

Sarah ran a hand through her damp hair, her pigtails swaying, her blue eyes wide and eager.

“I… I just got here. I’m Sarah. I’m the new Head of Social Engagement. Gary said you’re super good at… discouraging loitering after curfew.”

I stared at her, my mind struggling to process her words. Social Engagement? Discouraging loitering? This sounded like Gary had completely lost his mind. Yet, the utter earnestness in her eyes, the genuine terror she wasn't even aware she should feel… it was chillingly pathetic.

“No, not loitering in the way you think,” she chattered, her voice bright.

“More like… creating an atmosphere where teenagers want to be in their cabins. Less noise pollution, more positive communal experiences, you know?”

I could feel a headache building behind my eyes. This was going to be a long summer. A very, very long summer.

Sarah continued, oblivious.

“Gary said you’re quite the… silent motivator. He said you have a way of making kids really reflect on their life choices. Are you like, a method actor? You really commit to the whole ‘imposing presence’ thing! It’s awesome!”

She pulled a tablet from her backpack, its screen glaring.

“So, for tonight’s ‘Mystery Event,’ Gary wants you to… well, he wants you to ‘inspire introspection.’ He said if you just… appear around the campfire at midnight, it’ll be ‘super impactful’ for their ‘personal growth journeys.’ And then tomorrow, we have a ‘Trust Fall’ exercise and a ‘Nature Walk’ where you can… ‘facilitate awareness of natural consequences.’”

I closed my eyes behind my mask. My knuckles, white against the machete handle, were starting to ache. Introspection? Personal growth journeys? Nature walk? This was not what I signed up for. My brand was slasher, not spiritual guide.

A sudden, sharp giggle echoed from deeper within the woods. Both of us froze, our heads snapping towards the sound. It was followed by a low, rhythmic thumping, then the unmistakable blast of pop music, getting closer.

Sarah’s eyes widened, but not with fear. With annoyance.

“Oh, great. The Riff-Raff Cabin. They’re supposed to be lights out already! Gary said you’re particularly good at ‘encouraging adherence to the rules.’ You want to head over there now? We can… tag-team it! You do your silent intimidation thing, and I’ll explain the importance of respecting others’ right to quiet enjoyment of the camp grounds!”

She looked at me expectantly, a hopeful, clueless smile on her face.

I didn’t hesitate. Every instinct screamed at me. Not to flee, not to attack, but to simply… cease to exist. This was worse than any death trap. This was administrative hell.

I let out a slow, guttural sigh, a sound that usually preceded an unfortunate demise. Sarah, however, just tilted her head, her pigtails swaying.

“Are you… doing your deep breathing exercises? Gary said you’re very Zen.”

I turned, slowly, deliberately. My massive frame cast a long shadow over the oblivious Head of Social Engagement. The pop music grew louder, closer. I took a single, heavy step, not towards the Riff-Raff Cabin, but back towards my truck.

“Hey! Where do you think you’re going?!” Sarah demanded, her selfie light waggling.

"We’ve got a whole summer of transformative experiences ahead!”

I ignored her, my movements methodical. I reached into my inner pocket. The sound of the Riff-Raff Cabin’s pop music grew closer, and a burst of high-pitched laughter pierced the night.

Sarah, meanwhile, was still chattering away, listing off more "growth opportunities" and "synergy sessions" planned for the summer.

My mind raced. A decade of chasing, of hacking, of terrorizing. It had been, at first, a primal drive. Then, a ritual. Now… this. This endless cycle of administrative duties disguised as murder. My brand. My glorious, terrifying brand was in tatters.

I was Jason Voorhees. I was a force of nature, an unstoppable killing machine.

I was NOT a glorified camp activity facilitator.

I took another step towards the truck, my heavy boots squelching in the mud. The drone of Sarah’s voice, the distant pop music, the sheer, unadulterated exhaustion of it all… it was too much.

I opened the truck door.

“You can’t just leave, Jason! We had a verbal understanding!” Sarah wailed, her voice cracking with the first hint of genuine panic.

“Gary says you’re vital to our success!”

I didn’t turn around. I didn’t need to. My message, unspoken, was clear.

I started the truck. The engine roared to life, a beautiful, rebellious sound. I looked at the road, at the familiar path back to my quiet, boring, peaceful cabin.

And for the first time in a long, long time, I, Jason Voorhees, considered the unthinkable. The choice had been made. The path to the camp, that left turn, was now a dead end.

There was no more "this," no more "Mystery Events," no more "personal growth journeys." The sheer indignity of it all had finally, truly, broken me.

I put the truck in reverse, spun it around in the gravel, and slammed it into drive.

The tires spat mud, sending a satisfying shower onto the pathetic "Hug a Counselor" t-shirt still standing by the canoe shed. The camp sign, "Where Fun Meets… Rustic Charm!", became a shrinking speck in my rearview mirror.

As the trees closed in, swallowing the last vestiges of the camp’s flickering lights and Sarah’s increasingly shrill protests, a profound sense of relief washed over me.

It wasn't the relief of a kill, or the satisfaction of a perfectly executed stalk. It was the simple, glorious relief of escaping a tedious job.

The scent of bug spray faded, replaced by the honest, wholesome smell of pine and damp earth. The incessant pop music gave way to the soothing rumble of my truck’s engine and the gentle drumming of the rain.

My mind, usually a quiet hum of predatory instinct, was now filled with visions of my armchair, my knitting, and perhaps a well-deserved nap.

I wasn’t sure where this new path would take me, but I knew one thing: it wouldn't involve arts and crafts. Or team-building exercises. Or any more godforsaken teenagers.

My brand needed a serious overhaul, maybe something in landscape gardening. Or competitive napping. Definitely competitive napping.

As the last hints of Camp Crystal Lake vanished behind me, a single, guttural sound escaped my lips – a low, satisfied rumble. It wasn’t a word, but it conveyed everything.

I was free.

And it felt glorious.