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whereisyourstar · 2 days ago

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Just Thirty Steps

Part 2 of the Stand By, Hold Back, Be Patient series

Part 1 Part 3

Rating: SFW

Word Count: 4.3k

Warnings: Mentions of abuse (parent to child), referenced home invasion, fear, reader's continued bad financial decisions, the slow burn isn't even a puff of smoke yet, overzealous italics

Fear is a known quantity. A turbulent childhood exposed you to the concept early—any child of divorce, especially a long overdue one, knows that particular flavor of fear. It stayed with you in your teen years, when you found yourself so completely under your mother's thumb that you could barely breathe. It followed you to the city, where you'd been happy for the first time in too long, ensuring you make its acquaintance in anxiety, in decision paralysis, in losing friends. It made a home for itself in that shitty rented bedroom, first in the personal bite of poverty, then in the invasion of your space, your sense of security. The incident. The attack.

This was supposed to be different. This place, your cabin with its gruesome past, the quiet woods, your sweet dog, was supposed to be safe. You had been safe here. You'd kept to the routine, kept to yourself for the most part, hadn't caused trouble, had been smart, and yet—

It's broken. You look out the windows obsessively and the press of the forest is claustrophobic around your home. There's a sinisterness out there now, you've seen it firsthand, heard it breathe, bargained with it, and you cannot unsee it. That silence you liked so much before is now strained between the next knock of tree limb or shift in the foundation to makes you jump out of your skin.

You do think of running. It's what you do when you're scared, it's natural—scared of your parents fighting, so you're the first to school in the morning. Scared of your mother, so you run as far as you can from her. Scared of the city, so you run to wilds. Scared of the wilds, so—what? Where do you go from here? You put everything into owning this place, so sure of it, and you don't see a clear path out.

Sometimes you glance at your phone, at the messages and calls piling up from a number you haven't had the guts to block yet. You could go home. Back to the town that reminds you so much of Crystal Lake, where your mother never left and would invite you back with open arms, then make you pay for it every single day. You've been granted a chance to leave, for whatever reason, and these are your options: admit defeat, prove your mother right, and go home with nothing. Or stay.

Is your pride worth your life?

You get as far as picking up your phone before you stop, breathe, and hold yourself back from wrenching it at the wall instead. The phone is a useful tool no matter how much you hate it, and you don't have tantrum repair money just now.

It takes two days of huddling in fear just to get that far, and it's like a switch is flipped in your brain immediately after. The safety is gone from this place, so what do you do? How do you make it safe again? How do you protect yourself from something like Jason Voorhees, the newest iteration or the ghost?

The next day is spent researching. If you learned anything while pursuing your unused Music Theory degree, it's that you're a subpar student but a damn fine researcher. So you hunker down and look up everything on your house, comparing blueprints (courtesy of the now-defunct New Beginnings Development Co.'s public plan submissions to the town of Crystal Lake) to advice online. Your door locks are infamous in the locksmith community for being particularly easy to break (great), but your windows are actually pretty high-quality. The outer walls are comprised of thick, sturdy oak logs, sourced directly from the small clearing the cabin sits in, and sealed to withstand floods, high winds, and the occasional determined animal. Ditto with the roof, and you're actually impressed with New Beginnings—for a scummy development company, they actually put some real money down building this place. If it weren't for the location and the murders, you're certain it could have easily sold for over a million, billed as a rustic second home for city-weary socialites. Which, well. You certainly saw the appeal, and barring the murderer in the woods, still can't believe you got this place for what you did.

You write down exactly what you need—replacement locks, replacement keys, power tools you've learned to use from videos—and call up the hardware store in town. The older woman on the other end redirects you to a chain store forty-five minutes out of town and gently insists on getting a locksmith, to which you say you'll think about it. No way are you trusting this to someone else, your every neuron hates the idea of letting someone have access to your house, to these needed locks, but you don't say that part aloud. The bored employee who gets the phone at the chain store puts you on hold for twenty minutes while he finds the items you're looking for, but he comes back successful, and that's all you care about. "Perfect," you tell him, already standing from your computer chair and stepping into your shoes. "Can you hold all of that for me for…two hours? I'm pretty far out, but I promise I'll be there to get it." The employee says something about being off shift in thirty, but he puts your stuff under the desk and slaps your name on it all. Heracles, awakened from his nap by the sudden movement, sits up and tilts his head at you curiously. And damn, you never thought you'd be this kind of person, but you can't just leave him here for that long. Not with what you both know lurks out there. To the employee, you say, "Ah, wait—are dogs allowed inside?"

Shoes on, Heracles harnessed and leashed up, keys in hand, hunting knife strapped to your left hip and hidden by your t-shirt, all that's left to do is…go out there. The truck is parked next to the right wall of your house, under a little awning that just covers the cab. It's thirty steps, maybe less if you carry Heracles and use every inch of your stride to hustle to it. Thirty steps. You check the window near the front door, peer from behind the curtain as conspicuously as possible. No shapes in the forest, no white masks, no viscious knives. A fat, brown little bird sits on a branch just outside and chirps cheerfully, like nature itself is teasing you for being so nervous. It's just thirty steps.

You open the door, usher yourself and Heracles out, and slam your key into the lock the same instant you close it. Normally you would turn it three times, listening for the clunk with each turn, but you don't have that kind of time. God, your hands are already shaking. You turn, scan the forest, heart racing impossibly fast, and still nothing. Ten steps. Heracles stops to sniff a tuft of grass and you can hear your own pulse. Twenty steps. The truck is right there, fucking beautiful in all its promised faded sanctuary. Thirty, you twist your key in the lock, Heracles jumps right in and you silently promise him an entire chicken breast all to himself for being such a good boy, drop into the seat, close the door. The lock clicks. You turn the engine over on the first try and only jump a little when the casette that came with the truck starts up its folksy crooning. Seatbelt goes on, gear shifted, and you're rolling down the grassy tire-trail that serves as a road to and from the main road.

It's only when you allow yourself that sigh of relief that you catch movement in your rearview mirror. You watch in horror as Jason just walks out of the woods directly in front of your house and stands there, watching your truck as it rumbles away. He's illuminated by a midday sun, the details of him brought out by it even as you leave him behind. Tall, but you knew that, and dressed in a bafflingly mundane green work shirt and dark brown carpenter pants. The hockey mask is there, as expected, and his weapon is firmly sheathed on his belt. For some reason, that scares you more than anything—a man like that could kill you with your bare hands, you're certain. Had he been watching you? But Heracles hadn't reacted at all, his tail high and wagging with the simple joy of being outside.

You feel his eyes on the back of your neck the entire time you drive.

That bored employee, bless his soul, kept his word about hiding your items behind the counter. You give your name, pay—all the while wincing at the necessary addition to your credit card debt—and consider asking about one of the electric chainsaws you saw walking in. Better not—even if you could afford something like that, you're more likely to hurt yourself trying to wield it than successfully scare off Jason.

You aren't particularly anxious to get back home, so you let Heracles wander the store, then the shopping center it's situated in. He turns heads—he always has, that bully breed reputation precedes him—but those brave enough to ask if he's friendly are always treated to a thorough assault of sniffs and hesitant tail wags. There's one woman with two kids that is so kind, so respectful in directing her children in how to pet Heracles without scaring him, that you're tempted to hand over his leash and walk away. He'll keep those children safe, you knew that even before he flopped onto his back so they could rub his belly, and maybe this lone woman could benefit from some companionship? Whatever life they can give him, it's better than the one you're taking him back to. Will begging for his life even work a second time?

But the family leaves and your mouth stays shut. You can't shake the sense of shame that grips you for not taking that chance. You can't escape your situation, but maybe he could have. As an apology for being such a selfish owner, you buy him a too-expensive hotdog from a nearby truck and let him eat it in three bites, stroking his silky ear the entire time.

On your way back, you wonder if you shouldn't call the non-emergency line in Crystal Lake and ask for an escort to the cabin. Even if you don't fully explain your reason, you doubt it's the first Jason-related anxiety call the department's gotten. Probably not even the first of the year.

Something in you is…resigned, though. You're either about to die horribly, or you're not. You hope it's the latter, else all this planning and researching ways to fortify your house has been an exercise in futility, but if it's the former…well, then you don't have to worry about it anymore. It's the exhaustion that constant fear begets, that numbing, but recognizing it for what it is doesn't change your decision. Still, you rewind the cassette and let it play in its entirety twice on the way home, and by the second time around you know enough of the words and melodies to sing along.

Heracles, who had been sound asleep in the passenger seat for the last leg of the drive home, sits up ramrod straight as you turn onto the not-really-a-road. He stares through the windshield with that preternatural focus from before and whines, high and tight.

"He's out there," you whisper to him, knuckles white on the wheel. "I know."

The rest of the ride is silent. Only the dull roar of the truck's engine prevents you from jumping every time a too-near branch thwips against its body, and you silently thank your past self for not shelling out an extra 500 for a newer, quieter car. You're announcing your presence as obtrusively as possible out here, but when you have every reason to believe you're going to be murdered as soon as you step out, frugality is all the comfort you're likely to get.

It's well past sundown when you back the truck cab under its awning. Heracles' whining has progressed to a full, trembling rumble and, more than anything, your heart breaks for him. "Thirty steps inside, buddy," you tell him. "Just thirty steps."

Your hand barely touches the door handle when there is a massive thud and the entire truck jolts on its suspension, dipping backwards severely, and you know before you even look back. You just see the legs in your back window, standing in the truck bed, which means the rest of him is leaning over the top. An image, violent as it is startling, flashes behind your eyes of that machete puncturing through the truck's roof and finding its home in the top of your skull.

Heracles is with you as you throw open the door and sprint for freedom. Your bags of hardware and tools are heavy, but you've got them slung on your arm and keys in the other hand. The truck door stays open, let the bastard keep it if he wants. Fifteen steps, you can make it in fifteen at this stride.

Something slices the air directly next to your head and your steps falter, then twist, as you flinch. It's over, this is going to be the death of you. You hit the ground hard and the breath is knocked out of you. Precious seconds are wasted scrabbling in the grass to get your balance back, getting as far as your knees when you see that deadly machete half-buried in a trunk a few feet away. And, terribly, there's Heracles standing at that same tree's base, his hackles raised and head down as he growls mercilessly at the man behind you. If that's Jason's only weapon, if you can get ahold of it before he does, maybe you and Heracles will be enough to scare him off. Maybe—

As you push off from the ground, you swing your bag-laden arm behind with all your might and feel it connect with something solid. Jason doesn't make a sound, but you know the combined weight has to be close to forty pounds, which should be enough to knock anyone off their balance, even if only for a moment. The momentum half-turns you as you launch forward, and you have just enough time for your heart to sink when two giant hands snap painfully around your upper arms and bear you back down to the ground.

You cry out before the incoming ground can empty your lungs a second time, and distantly you hear Heracles barking, but mostly you just hear that breathing. It's all around you, you can feel it on your face as Jason takes you to the ground and keeps you there. Nowhere else to look but into the terrible emptiness behind the hockey mask's eyes, nothing to do but struggle—in response to your foot finding some purchase in the dirt, enough to lurch you a touch, he pins your thigh down with his knee. You cry out again, pain and panic, and realize belatedly that you have your breath again.

"Heracles, run!" you scream, stretching your neck and craning backwards to try and see him. A glimpse, and he's just standing there, right next to that fucking machete that will almost certainly kill him, and you want to cry. "Run! Heracles!" He barks, ear-splittingly loud, then whines twice. Another glimpse, he's moved backward a pace. A grim hope spreads through you and you try, one last time. "Go! Go, Heracles, just go!"

He goes. You hear his paws scrambling in the grass, then the crash of underbrush, until all that's left is Jason's panting and your own shallow breaths. A silent thank you to a god you don't believe in for letting your boy escape his fate twice.

You crane your neck back, finding it unstrangled, uncrushed, completely untouched, and feel a cold chill when you see that Jason is staring into the forest where Heracles just ran.

He's off you instantly, all the pressure, both physically and in presence alone, disappearing as he stands and begins to stomp after Heracles.

You gurgle something like a no as you try to get your aching limbs to cooperate. Nothing's broken, you're numb with fear but you know you'd feel that, but everything aches where you've been pinned. Just getting onto your hands and knees is a trial, and Jason is already gone by then, but you still have to try. A faltering effort gets you to your feet, and you straighten every inch of your bruised spine into standing. Your target is just ahead—he left his machete in the tree when he went after your dog. His mistake. The handle is grimy in your bare palm, filth of the sort you're glad you can't clearly see coating its surface, and it's slick enough that you almost lose your footing on your first pull. Second attempt, two hands, and you finally feel how much resistance you're up against. Third attempt, two hands, and a leg braced against the tree's thick trunk and—like it's butter, the machete slides right out.

It's huge. Easily three times the size of your hunting knife, and even that had felt like a dangerous amount of naked blade. This thing is monstrous, the edge wickedly sharp and obviously maintained. You dedicate an entire second to looking it over before giving a practice swing—so much lighter than you thought it would be—and swallowing your abject horror at what you're about to do. Just go into the woods to hunt a killer with his own weapon. Hurt him, kill him, maybe manage to scare him off, but you have to do it at all costs. For Heracles.

You get three shaking strides in when the underbrush crunches directly to the right and suddenly he's there again, stepping out between the trees. And, if you hadn't been slammed so hard into the ground before, you could almost believe that that's your dog he's bringing back to you. Silky tan fur, boxy head, pink nose, and bright, trusting eyes. Your dog, your Heracles, walking sedately next to Jason Voorhees, content to be led by the leash in his hands.

It makes no sense. Like before, that night on the porch, you suspect a trick. What's the angle here? Get your dog back, just to force you to watch while he kills him? Keep Heracles for himself after he's gotten rid of you? Heracles is remarkably calm, hackles down and only a little white around the eyes to be standing next to a complete stranger, and a male one at that—could Jason have given him something? Sedatives?

Jason stares at you, the machete in your hand. You hold your ground, stubborn and paralyzed, and try to keep the tremble out of your voice when you say, "Let him go."

Even in the barely-there light, you can see him lift his massive hand and point directly at you. The machete. A trade.

Okay. Give the killer back his weapon so he can have an easier time killing you after. You're obviously not going to do that, but—

Oh. Jason tosses the loop of Heracles' leash with surprising accuracy, lands it directly on the tip of the machete, and you scrabble to take the loop without slicing a finger off in the process. You look up and Heracles is already trotting over, tail starting to wiggle as he noses into your shin. "Holy shit," you breathe, bending at the waist to smooth a hand over his silky coat to check for damage. Nothing, save for a twig caught in his jowls, which you pick out and toss away without thinking. "I've got you, buddy, it's okay, it's—" But this is no time to celebrate, not with Jason looming and breathing so heavily just steps away. You straighten, make what passes for eye contact with that mask. "I'm going to pick up my keys, unlock my door, then put this machete on the ground, and you are going to wait until Heracles and I are back inside to get it. Deal?"

It's insane even as you say it. Absolutely nothing is stopping him from stepping over and crushing your head in one hand right now, you have no bargaining power here, but he brought your dog back and you have to believe that means something.

Jason Voorhees stands utterly still, not even the rise and fall of his chest visible in the darkness, when he purposefully dips his head into a nod.

You keep him in sight the entire time you walk backward to get your abandoned keys. Machete up, even as your aching arm quivers. A spare thought goes to the bags, their contents now spread out on the ground, and you have to mark them a lost cause. Your fault for not putting that into the deal, not that you'd much like to scrounge around for anything with this man watching you. Then it's up to your door, where you fit the key into the lock without looking on your second try, and you herd Heracles in. Drop the machete in the gravel-dirt that makes a walkway, slip behind the door, and slam it shut. Just like that other night, you turn its shitty unreplaced lock, then drag your table in front of it.

The developers at New Beginnings failed to give your front door a peephole, a fact which you're glad for, because it means you're not tempted to press against the wood and peek. You listen at a distance from the door that you hope means a machete won't come slicing into your stomach from the other side. No chance in hell you're going to stand by a window, despite how nice and safe your windows are, and watch that way. After a considerable amount of time, minutes ticking by in your head, you hear the gravel crunch once, twice. The sound of breathing behind the door, faint but there, then another shifting crunch, and nothing else.

When you finally back away from the door, Heracles looks up at you and wags his tail, jowls falling back into a perfectly happy smile. Jesus. This dog will be the death of you yet.

The sofa is your bed for the night, your actual bed all but abandoned at this point. You curl against the plush arm and lay your head down, but you're too tense to even think about sleep. What the hell was that? He was going to kill you, he had you pinned to the ground, forcing you to be aware of just how breakable all your limbs are. He threw that machete just a breath away from your head! But, for the second time, you are coming out of an encounter with a half-mythical local monster no worse for wear. Your body hurts, and you know you'll be more bruise than person in the morning, but you're not dead. How many people can claim that?

You stroke a hand down Heracles' back, comforted by his unconscious weight sprawled across your legs. How many people can also claim that Jason Voorhees found their dog in the woods and brought that dog back unharmed? Never mind that you were trying to get Heracles away from him in the first place, purposefully driving him to the trees…the question still stands. Not to mention how many people have successfully bargained with the man.

Exhaustion gets the better of you after hours of this. It's a blink-and-wake sleep, where one second you're bathed in the nebulous safety of your cabin, blink, then you're being licked awake Heracles. Sun pours in through the windows, burns your tired eyes, and you flail a bit in confusion before conscious thought kicks back in.

Routine. Get up, check the locks, feed Heracles, feed yourself. Admit that you need to go to the store and actually grocery shop—what's a little more credit card debt. Change out of these dusty clothes, you slept in yours last night, and do a thorough self-inspection in the mirror after a shower. Bruises on your upper arms, purple and ugly and painful. Bruises on your spine, and another on your thigh. It aches to walk, but the fact that you can is a significant win in your book.

You need to get to work, you've been half-assing it these past few days—understandably, but your supervisor is going to notice soon—but something nags at you. All that research, all that motivation from yesterday to try and make this place safe for you…that's still a viable plan. And all that hardware is still sitting out there, scattered in the dirt, assuming Jason hasn't helped himself.

You have shoes on and keys in hand before you can stop to think about it. Just a quick step outside, grab what you can, and scurry back in before anyone can stop you. Easy. "Stay right here," you instruct Heracles. "Back in a sec."

Open the door. Slip out as quickly as possible. Close the door. Perfectly to plan, and you almost don't care that you forgot your hunting knife, except something catches on your shoe and you barely avoid tripping on it. Heart pounding, you glance down accusingly and find the handle of one hardware store bag caught on the tip of your shoe, its twin standing upright next to it. That is...not how you remember it.

It's all there when you crouch to take inventory, even the receipt. You count it twice, and every door lock, key, and tool you bought is in the two bags like nothing ever happened. You know you didn't leave it all like this, but can't make your brain reconcile the memory to the evidence right in front of you.

Maybe movement catches your peripheral, maybe it's just a sense, but you look up and see him there, standing very still in the treeline. An imposing, ragged creature, watching you just as much as you're watching him. You stand, a prey animal caught in the sights of a predator, and no claws to protect you.

"I see you, Jason."

#jason voorhees/reader #jason voorhees x you #jason voorhees/female reader #jason voorhees x reader #slasher x reader #jason throwing your machete at people you want to talk to is bad manners. come on man.#sorry for giving reader a music degree I'm living vicariously through her

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x-heesy · 2 years ago

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Gif mood board 🏄‍♀️

ThanX L0rd 4 Latino G@ngst@ Rap:

Includes control

Well if you look for me, you find me

I don't live in the store and I don't wait for you to come

Just for you to learn

You run into me, clown with clothes

Don't be so calm that it's your turn soon

I bring you between eyes and I bring them red

The devil is loose among all the madmen

Stop and understand what suits you

Do not lie to me, do not peel your teeth

Do you understand me, Mendes? I don't know why you don't understand

That, at this moment, you do not surprise me

Fed up, I am! that your conscience does not leave you right

You don't know what I have on my mind

It is somewhat difficult, because short current

Burning, burning and fist to the forehead

Smoke rising and it's not enough

Do you understand, Mendes? (Look into my eyes, you will see what I am)

Do you understand me, Mendes? (Look into my eyes, you will see what I am)

Do you understand me, Mendes? (Mendes, you understand, I am the control)

Do you understand, Mendes? (Look into my eyes, you will see what I am)

Do you understand me, Mendes? (Look into my eyes, you will see what I am)

Do you understand me, Mendes? (Mendes, you understand, I am the control)

Well, if I explain to you, I apply the reason for this vice

There will be no more answers, only riddles

I am still so fixed and you are on the floor

If I have to finish something, surely I choose you

I bring you to mind, only suddenly

Don't play with me, I'll thunder your forehead

Crazy and crazy are many, little by little

Say hello to all, keep all

It's not easy standing on Earth

With all this crazy there is no way

To explain to you why I jump every time I hear the rhythm

That enters the roof and wheels I apply to you

Do you understand, Mendes? (Look into my eyes, you will see what I am)

Do you understand me, Mendes? (Look into my eyes, you will see what I am)

Do you understand me, Mendes? (Mendes, you understand, I am the control)

Do you understand me, Mendes? (Look into my eyes, you will see what I am)

Do you understand me, Mendes? (Mendes, you understand, I am the control)

(The control, the control, the control, the control)

The moment lends itself for the tide to rise

The ship goes up and has no leash

That stops the ball, the blood that flows

Now get ready, you already have a fight

and it won't stop

This fucking rhythm won't control me

I'm sick of this noise, I'm done with you

And don't ask me, because I no longer explain

Disco that you listen to the room respect the flower

Look into my eyes, you will see what I am

If I come from time to time marking the sound

Mendes, you understand, I am the control