Photographer

I was just finishing my cigarette when Jason finally appeared. I tossed the butt into an old, rusty instant coffee can next to me and leaned on the porch railing, watching as he parked next to us, turning off the engine of his rumbling F150. The afternoon sun glinted off his dirty, cracked windshield, so I couldn't quite get a good look at him yet, only a blurry, awkward figure behind the wheel.

He stepped out of the truck and turned to face the cabin we'd rented. I couldn't see his eyes behind the hockey mask, but I felt his gaze land on me as he picked up the machete from the passenger seat.