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 My Short Slender Man Story

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Posts : 74
Current Win Points : 4
Join date : 2012-09-19
Age : 25
Location : Hong Kong, Australia

My Short Slender Man Story Empty
PostSubject: My Short Slender Man Story   My Short Slender Man Story EmptyThu Feb 21, 2013 4:32 am

I'm so sorry if this is in the wrong place. But I think this is right.
Okay, so in my Gothic Horror class at school, we were asked to right a short (you guessed it) Gothic Horror Story.
So I decided to write one, about our faceless friend. I would appreciate any feedback you guys have about it. Just please keep in mind that I am not a particularly good writer, or even enjoy writing much(Not to mention i'm one of the younger members here).
I just worked quite hard on it, so I wanted to share. It's not really the traditional Slender man, or the modern one. More of an abstract take on him. Here it is:

It was a clear, yet
bitterly cold evening in that dull, remote little town he hated so much. With a
sigh, he pulled on his jacket, and glanced at the bags he had packed, ready to
go. He had at first been overjoyed to hear that his grandfather’s will stated
he would inherit the old house, in the old town, in the middle of nowhere. But
looking out the small window into the dark street and pine trees beyond, he
wished he could be anywhere else. Still though, he picked up his keys, locked
the faded wooden door he had been meaning to repaint, and set off down the dark

John was never a city
person. He had lived in a small, cramped apartment, dozens of stories above the
loud busy street below. At the time when he had heard the news of his grandfather’s
death, he was struggling to make sense of his life. He had, for the previous
few months, been unable to secure work for very long. Time and time again he
had been fired because of strange incidents. These incidents left John feeling confused,
paranoid and miserable. After these incidents John would end up in hospital,
showing symptoms of shock and amnesia. People had asked him, but John could
never remember exactly what had happened to him beforehand. He was never
injured, just found in whatever place he happened to be working at the time,
scribbling sketches all over the walls, and babbling nonsensically about some
kind of ‘monster’. He was subsequently fired, the employers couldn’t afford to
keep a guy who obviously had mental issues, and was prone to property damaging
attacks. But John didn’t give up. He switched from business to business, but
his attacks continued to worsen. Then came the day. The day John would never
forget. He had woken up in hospital one Monday evening, with a throbbing head
and a terrible migraine. He sighed. He had kept his current job for more than
two months, but he was sure he had suffered another attack, and would be asked
to leave. “Good, you’re awake. The police want to see you now Mr Hillston”, the
Nurse had said to him. All standard stuff, John had thought. But what the
police told him still haunts him to this day. “Your co-worker, Mr Redford, was
killed this morning”, the officer said gravely, “We want to ask you a few

next few weeks were torture for John. Mr Redford was found dead on the scene,
but it was an immensely odd death. Murder was the first suspicion, but there
were no obvious signs of a struggle. John was the main suspect, however was
soon acquitted because of the sheer lack of evidence against him. Mr Redford,
or Richard as John had known him, had somehow had his organs removed, and
replaced again in plastic bags. And yet there was no sign of an incision on his
body. The police were completely baffled; there was absolutely nothing to work
with. John, the only witness, could tell them only one thing. “There was a
man!” John insisted, almost pleaded. “He was tall. He wore a business suit…”

“Is there anything
else you can tell us, Mr Hillston? Facial features perhaps?” John hesitated,
his mind working frantically. He took a deep breath, “No, I can’t remember his
face.” It was half the truth. John had seen the man’s face, but it… no. John
refused to even think about it. A man had died, and John himself had suffered
amnesia, and a host of other conditions. It was not unlikely that he had had

hallucinations as well. But that blank, yet staring face haunted his dreams for
many weeks to come.

The following few
months were the longest in John’s life. He didn’t look for any more work. Even
though it was irrational, he blamed himself for Richards’ gruesome end. He just
sat idle in his apartment, seldom leaving, except for food. He kept the door
locked, the windows he covered in newspaper. He was slowly driving himself
insane from boredom and loneliness. “As if I’m not mental enough already.” John
thought to himself miserably. He was going down a dark road. So when he learned
that he had inherited his grandfather’s old house in the mountains, he refused
to believe it. After spending so long alone in his apartment, he had begun to
forget about the outside world, and that it could affect him. But his disbelief
soon turned into delight. He could start again, a new life. John packed his
things, and moved into the isolated little town. For the first time in ages,
John was happy. It didn’t last.

After a month in that
terrible town they called Osthaven, John had had enough. It was not as if the
people or the places there were horrible. The neighbours were friendly enough,
and the view off the mountain where the town was situated was amazing. John
just had a feeling, a constant feeling that something dreadful was about to
happen. Paranoia had taken hold of him. John couldn’t convince himself that it
was all in his head, no matter how hard he tried. “It’s all mind games!” he
repeated to himself firmly, “There is nothing wrong.” Occasionally this sense
of paranoia he had worsened violently, in short and debilitating panic attacks.
They all had one thing in common. John would suddenly feel like something was watching
him, waiting, always just out of sight. He started having nightmares again, of
the day Mr Redford died…

Of course John had no
proof that something was really stalking him, but he couldn’t shake the
feeling. He also believed that the nightmares were linked. “Not everything
that’s happened is in my head.” John thought, trying to rationalise his fear.
“Something killed Richard.”

John made his decision. He was going to leave again. Where he would go and what
he would do, he had no idea. He just had to leave. Both for his own safety and
for the safety of friends he had made in that old town. That is why he was
walking down that old dark road on that frigid night. At the end of the road
was an old mansion, as old as Osthaven itself. John had been working as a
gardener there. Incidentally, he had filled the position that his grandfather
had kept until just a short time ago. The old castle was inhabited by a rich
family, and a few of their servants. The family’s descendants had lived in the
town since its construction more than a century ago. John hadn’t spoken to any
of them very much, but his initial impression was that they were fairly dull,
uninspiring people. The servants were nice though. One in particular, Mr
Bakerson, had helped John in the garden on several occasions. He had also told
John about his grandfather, something John was eager to hear about, since he
knew very little about his grandfather. Mr Bakerson believed that he was
suffering dementia in the months leading up to his death. “Apparently mental
illness ran in the family.” John thought.

“Your grandfather had also constantly muttered
things referring to a monster.” Mr Bakerson had said quietly. “He seemed to
fear it greatly…” This seemed extremely ominous to John, but he didn’t like to
think about it. His grandfather was dead, even if this was connected to his
attacks, or the death of Richard, he couldn’t ask him about it.

The reason John was
heading to the castle now was so that he could resign. He walked quickly, as it
was starting to get quite dark. He wondered whether he should just head back;
deal with everything in the morning. He sighed; he really wanted to get it out
of the way, lest he change his mind. But it was really dark; in fact the castle
residents probably wouldn’t take too kindly to a visitor at this hour. There’s
always tomorrow. As he turned around however, he saw something that made every
nerve in his body burn with fear. Some two hundred metres down the road was a
man. It was the man from John’s nightmares. It was no man though, no man was
that tall, that thin. John started to panic; he could feel his heart beating
faster and faster. It felt as if it would burst out of his chest. Nausea took
hold of him, he wanted to throw up, run, and scream his head off. But he
couldn’t move a muscle. All he could do was stare in silent horror at the
monstrosity before him. That thing was a silhouette before the streetlight that
it stood next to. As John watched on in horror, the creature, the nightmare,
began contorting. Its body began to stretch sickeningly until its ghastly arms
sunk below its knees. Meanwhile it was growing so tall that its head was level
with the top of the 15 foot streetlamp beside it, which sent a shower of sparks
across the creatures towering figure, before quickly going out. John was so
terrified, he began to wonder if it was possible to really be scared to death.
He hoped so. A heavy fog had drifted into that small town, and with the
streetlamp’s light gone, John looked at the creatures face. He wanted to know
what his killer looked like. But when his eyes finally met the thing’s face, he
wished he had never looked. A terrible, high pitched scream came bellowing out
from that creature, that made John wish he could tear his eardrums out of his
head. He had no need, they burst like water balloons, and John was filled with
unimaginable pain. He could feel hot, thick blood dripping down his face and
neck. He remained rooted to the spot however. Tears began to pour from his
eyes, as that terrible, evil thing down the road twisted its inhuman arms around
in a slow ark. They landed with a heavy thud on the ground in front of it, and
then it charged. It ran down the road with an insect-like gait, like some
enormous, revolting praying mantis made of shadows. As it came closer and
closer, John closed his eyes, but its face remained, as if planted in his mind.
The last thing John thought, before that thing reached him, was of its face.
That face. How can it be completely blank, featureless, yet stare into his very
soul? John had no answer. He stood for a second more, and then thought no more.
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My Short Slender Man Story
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