Camp Crystal Lake reopens with glossy brochures and drones skimming mirror‑still water. Then the generator coughs, the PA hisses, and the woods start listening. The cut snaps through archery lanes and bunks: a target already occupied, a canoe drifting back without paddles, showers hissing to life one by one.

A true‑crime livestream glitches into a countdown; a deputy’s map drips rain where the next body will fall. Sound design weaponizes quiet—chain rattle, dock nails ticking, the wet whisper of a machete leaving wood—while lightning turns the treeline into a flipbook of silhouettes.

Set‑pieces bite: a boathouse door nailed from the outside, a sleeping‑bag slam in strobe, a pier chase where every plank answers with a groan. Last sting: bubbles rise, the mask breaks the surface, and the camera tips as the bell rope swings with no wind.