Several weeks ago I had a dream in which I had an extremely personal encounter with a man whom I assume to be slenderman. I had a radically different dream about him once, long before I had heard of him and Marble Hornets and everything else to which he is said to be related, but I digress--that's a dream for another submission, and while it may be much more important of a story to tell, this is fresher in my mind and provides a lot of insight into what he's all about.I've never been the most superstitious person, but I enjoy frightening myself with stories, movies and pictures wherever possible. Slender man's aesthetic and all of theories revolving around him are much more appealing to me than the idea that he may exist, and while I'm not entirely discrediting it, I'm not entirely sure that I want to believe in him. I've watched Marble Hornets two or three times, (usually late at night,) and read constantly about the culture that revolves around him, and it's safe to say that his legacy is a fascinating and unforgettable part of contemporary popular culture. Although what we know about him isn't very popular, yet, I have a hunch that at some point slender man is going to be as feared by primary school students as Bloody Mary and her spooky predecessors.
The dream I had about Slenderman this time around wasn't nearly static and clear enough for me to tell of every sordid detail, but I'm certain that the dream started out in my friend's kitchen. We were standing against the island and drinking soda and she mumbled, "He's here," face suddenly blanched white and eyes wide with fear. I looked out the screen door and saw him approaching, his gait surprisingly quick in spite of his rigid movement and great size.
Upon his face, in spite of his lack of features, there was a very particular grin--nonexistent though his mouth was, I could see that grin clearly, unmatched in evil by anything I've ever seen in person, and even trying to recall how vivid it was makes me uneasy. I looked at him and found myself unable to look away as he approached the screen door--I thought about running away through the back door, but I found myself instead walking right up to him and opening the door.
Everything snapped to black, as though I had walked into that silly suit of his, and I awoke in what appeared to be an office. Another friend of mine entered, along with a couple of people with whom I'm not on very good terms, and they announced (quite formally) that they were going to kill me. I jumped up from the couch I was laying on and backed into the corner. At that moment, they backed away, frightened by something I couldn't see, and ran away. I left the office, finding myself in a familiar place, and found my way home easily.
When I opened the door to my room, I was greeted by Slenderman, no expression upon his face this time around and torso bent forward slightly so he wouldn't hit his head on the ceiling. I was frightened, naturally, but I again walked toward him; in response, he circled around me, his impossibly thin arms wrapping around me and his head touching the back of my neck as his legs bent, and in my head I heard a faint sound which seemed both devoid of life and full of a conglomeration of different voices all at once. "Suppose," he said, "that I were to intrude upon your life, and chase you to the ends of the world."
"Are you going to do that?" My own voice trembled in my throat as I fought to find better words to express myself. I wanted to tell him that he was the scum of the earth, and that he had no good reason to hunt me or my loved ones, but he seemed to sense that in me as we stood together in the dark and cold.
"Haven't I?" He stepped back and stood up as straight as possible, his head touching the ceiling as I was given space. Holding back a scream, I turned to face him and fell back onto my bed. I yanked the blanket over me and forced back tears as he continued talking. "I can be anywhere at any time, and there are hundreds of other people with whom I interact daily--""So you fucking--"
"--pick you as well, yes." I swallowed the lump in my throat and continued staring, my eyelids shocked open and unwilling to close. "I have no reason to hurt you, however--you aren't hunting me, you don't seek to eradicate me, and your fear is beneficial. Even if it eventually stops, there wouldn't be any sense in killing you." I had no words to say. Tears spilling over, I continued watching him. "I will be with you constantly, until whatever power that is higher than even me sucks the very last breath of life out of you. Even then, I will be with you. From now until the day you die, whether you can see me or not, I will be right behind you, breathing down your neck, and watching you--think about this whenever you're in bed with a man or showering, will you? Think of me. And, by all means, if you ever need anything, I'll be glad to assist you--I'm not antagonizing you in any way other than being defiant in light of your wish for me to go away."
That smile rippled beneath his pasty white skin, again, sending chills down my spine, and he disappeared into the darkness.
"I know what you're thinking, though," his voice still echoed. "Why in the world would you want to see a demon like me?"
Monday, January 3, 2011
THIS IS THE BEGINNING OF THE END
In November of 2009, I had a dream which was much different than a recent one. This one is important because I didn't know who Slendy was prior to September of this year; this is a very important piece of information, seeing as dreaming about him is an indication that he’s following you, but more important yet are the details of this dream. I had a dream in December of 2010 in which cher et adorable Slenderman professed some sort of twisted interest in me, (a sort of interest that's affectionate in some respects and protective/instinctive in others.) While I was put at ease by this, my dream of him last year created quite a stir, especially because I had never even heard the words 'slender' and 'man' used in the same sentence in such a bizarre context. Regardless of the dream's meaning, now, I'll share it with you all, here; it may be of some use to you.
It started in the town next to mine, which is known for horse racing all throughout the country – I live in suburbia, so it isn’t a particularly rural town, but there’s a motel in one part of it which is fairly secluded. I found myself standing in the grayness on the front lawn of that roach motel, looking around, and behind me there was a mist which rolled in from the stables across the road like low-lying waves. As I looked into it I recognized it as ‘the haze’—although I had never heard of such a thing, I accepted that as what it was and didn’t think any more of it. It was ominous and threatening and I wanted to get away from it in spite of my curiosity, so I walked away from it, right up to the motel. I swung its heavy doors open and walked inside; feeling safe for a moment in spite of its trashed appearance and lack of inhabitants, I leaned against the wall and rested. When the haze followed me in, I panicked and ran down the hall, to the last door after all of the individual rooms. I was aware that it was the basement, but in my frightened state I couldn’t do much more than run as far away from that mist as possible. I swung open the great scratched door and found myself peering into near-darkness—a single lightbulb hung from barbed wire above an old wooden staircase, and the dusty floor at the bottom of the stairs was clearly visible. I ran down, pulling the door behind me, and found myself in a huge room nearly twice the size of the little motel. Four large pillars supported the building on either side, and rusted meat hooks hung all around the perimeter of the room. It was cold, very cold, and the haze filled the room. I looked up the stairs desperately, hoping that perhaps the mist didn’t follow me in, but it was steadily seeping through the crack beneath the door, so I sighed a sigh of defeat and stepped into the mist.
Suddenly, an ice cream cart faded into the center of the room, one of the aluminum carts which must have been popular decades ago, and with it a glass display case and a cleanly trimmed slender man. He stood there with his hand in an old bucket of chlorine and seemed to be toying with metal deep inside of it; noticing me, he looked up, his expressionless face grinning yet again, and I felt something wrap around my neck and yank me up to the cart. My face smashed against the thick glass, and I managed to open my eyes to look—I wish I hadn’t, because the vividness and morbidity of what it held still gives me chills when I dare try and recall. Blood filled the cart almost a third of the way, thick, sinewy organs shredded across jagged knives and razors jutting from the floor of the cart, and a few partial limbs floated, decaying and baring bones covered in different colors. I felt myself being yanked once more, and soon my face was pressed against the scratched cutting board on the cart's aluminum counter. He wanted to give me one good look, and I could feel it in the way he forced me down. It was as though he wanted to make haste in his practise, for he quickly drew a blade from the depths of the chlorine bucket and ran the knife gently against the back of my neck, drawing a thin line of blood from my dun skin as the dust settled in at an alarming rate. I heard his sleeve move as he drew his arm up high above his head, steadying the blade, and there was nothing more as it came all the way down.
It started in the town next to mine, which is known for horse racing all throughout the country – I live in suburbia, so it isn’t a particularly rural town, but there’s a motel in one part of it which is fairly secluded. I found myself standing in the grayness on the front lawn of that roach motel, looking around, and behind me there was a mist which rolled in from the stables across the road like low-lying waves. As I looked into it I recognized it as ‘the haze’—although I had never heard of such a thing, I accepted that as what it was and didn’t think any more of it. It was ominous and threatening and I wanted to get away from it in spite of my curiosity, so I walked away from it, right up to the motel. I swung its heavy doors open and walked inside; feeling safe for a moment in spite of its trashed appearance and lack of inhabitants, I leaned against the wall and rested. When the haze followed me in, I panicked and ran down the hall, to the last door after all of the individual rooms. I was aware that it was the basement, but in my frightened state I couldn’t do much more than run as far away from that mist as possible. I swung open the great scratched door and found myself peering into near-darkness—a single lightbulb hung from barbed wire above an old wooden staircase, and the dusty floor at the bottom of the stairs was clearly visible. I ran down, pulling the door behind me, and found myself in a huge room nearly twice the size of the little motel. Four large pillars supported the building on either side, and rusted meat hooks hung all around the perimeter of the room. It was cold, very cold, and the haze filled the room. I looked up the stairs desperately, hoping that perhaps the mist didn’t follow me in, but it was steadily seeping through the crack beneath the door, so I sighed a sigh of defeat and stepped into the mist.
Suddenly, an ice cream cart faded into the center of the room, one of the aluminum carts which must have been popular decades ago, and with it a glass display case and a cleanly trimmed slender man. He stood there with his hand in an old bucket of chlorine and seemed to be toying with metal deep inside of it; noticing me, he looked up, his expressionless face grinning yet again, and I felt something wrap around my neck and yank me up to the cart. My face smashed against the thick glass, and I managed to open my eyes to look—I wish I hadn’t, because the vividness and morbidity of what it held still gives me chills when I dare try and recall. Blood filled the cart almost a third of the way, thick, sinewy organs shredded across jagged knives and razors jutting from the floor of the cart, and a few partial limbs floated, decaying and baring bones covered in different colors. I felt myself being yanked once more, and soon my face was pressed against the scratched cutting board on the cart's aluminum counter. He wanted to give me one good look, and I could feel it in the way he forced me down. It was as though he wanted to make haste in his practise, for he quickly drew a blade from the depths of the chlorine bucket and ran the knife gently against the back of my neck, drawing a thin line of blood from my dun skin as the dust settled in at an alarming rate. I heard his sleeve move as he drew his arm up high above his head, steadying the blade, and there was nothing more as it came all the way down.
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