Title Page 10 AMAZING SLENDERMAN STORIES by Jack Goldstein and Jimmy Russell Publisher Information Published in 2013 by Andrews UK Limited www.andrewsuk.com The rights of Jack Goldstein and Jimmy Russell to be identified as the Authors of this Work have been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 Copyright © 2013 Jimmy Russell and Jack Goldstein All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. Introduction Just before Jack Goldstein and Jimmy Russell published their last book about Slenderman, 101 Amazing Slenderman Facts, they were both found dead in suspicious circumstances. The book was published in their memories. What was not known at the time however was that two packages were making their way through the Royal Mail service. One was from Jimmy and addressed to Jack, the other from Jack addressed to Jimmy. Both packages contained worrying documents detailing the history of Slenderman, and including some terrifying stories. This grisly collection of documents is offered to the reader in the hope they can make some sense of the killings, as well as finding out further information regarding the slim being. Proceed with caution. Dedication To Jack & Jimmy, always in our hearts. In Which Jimmy Russell Meets His Demise Jimmy locked the heavy front door behind him and hurried upstairs, the screams still fresh in his memory. How can this be real? He thought as he bounded up the staircase two steps at a time. Just thirty minutes earlier he’d been giving an evening lecture at the Royal Academy of Literature - a lecture about Mythological Evolution and Memetic Darwinism. As Jimmy hurried into the master bedroom of his rural cottage he firmly thumped the heavy wooden door shut. Luckily for him, the ancient house the Academy has lodged him in hadn’t been updated in centuries - each door felt like it weighed close to a ton and fixed itself closed with heavy iron bolts - even the wallpaper looked firm and ancient and was probably chosen by Oliver Cromwell himself. The door ground across the floor as it slid into place, an obvious sign that its weight was winning the battle of gravity against the large iron hinges. Below the door a distinct arc had been worked in the wooden floor of the bedroom, a sign indicating decades of this door’s passage between open and shut. As the iron bolt slid home, its high-pitched squeak reminded Jimmy of the horrors he’d witnessed that evening. Far off into the wooded distance that separated his cottage from the main Academy campus, Jimmy heard a chilling guttural wail - a sound like no other, almost like that of a crying baby, but overflowing with fury and madness. The sound caused Jimmy to start - as he instinctively backed away from the door he allowed the evening’s events to wash over him. *** At 6:00pm sharp Jimmy was just starting his university talk on Mythological Evolution. Jimmy had been travelling the country giving talks on this subject and had enjoyed a great deal of success; Jimmy was a successful writer and his papers are printed in many academic journals. “One of the great mysteries of mythology is the seemingly spontaneous and simultaneous appearance of characters in many places across the globe.” he began, and it was true too. Dragons, the phoenix and werewolves all appear simultaneously throughout mythology, in the legends of countries which never had any contact with another. “One theory is that through Memetic Darwinism, somehow these characters are part of the human genetic psyche - they are psychically linked to our evolution as human beings. Quite literally, we all imagine them at the same time.” The crowd looked uninterested but he knew the reason they were here. “Take this Slenderman for instance” Jimmy began and he saw the audience physically stiffen at the mentioning of the name. “The Slenderman is as real as dragons or werewolves. He is a figment of our collective imagination but the circumstances of his conception are fascinating. Over the last two years, Slenderman has been spotted in as far and varied places as it is possible to imagine and his memetic imagery is so strong we have begun to notice him in ancient mythology as well, seemingly hidden in plain sight. This is not proof that Slenderman does or has ever existed however; have you ever noticed that once you learn a new word, you will often hear that very word said on the same day you learn it? That’s not some spooky psychic experience; it’s just the way the brain works. Now that the human consciousness is looking for Slenderman we are starting to see him everywhere.” As Jimmy was talking, his slide show was cycling grainy photographs of Slender sightings and ancient artworks depicting the thin murderers from ancient mythology. The university crowd - mostly young hipsters and student types - were watching the slideshow whilst Jimmy’s words weaved over them. “People often ask me if I believe in the Slenderman. My answer is usually whether or not they believe in unicorns. These creatures appear throughout history not as historical fact, but as allegorical manifestations of the zeitgeist. Our collective human psyche has constructed this Slenderman to describe the conditions we are living in, to better describe how us as a race feel deep down. The Slenderman isn’t real at...” “I’ve seen Slenderman!” called out a young man in the audience “I saw the Slenderman three weeks ago whilst I was camping in the woods.” The young man jumped out of his seat and turned away from Jimmy to better face the crowd. “Don’t believe this guy’s clever words! We know Slender is real!” Jimmy tried to calm the situation by explaining “Many people claim to have sighted Slenderman. Also, many people claim to have seen Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster. If we go looking for things, no matter how unlikely, we are likely to see them. However these supposed monsters invariably turn out to be wellington boots or washing-up liquid bottles cleverly lit or photographed at speed.” “LIAR!” called out the now-agitated student “If Slenderman isn’t real, then he couldn’t have killed my brother Jed! We were camping in the woods three weeks ago, telling ghost stories. Jed gave me this to read -” and the young man held up a tired piece of paper, yellowed and frayed at the edges as if taken from some centuries-old tome. “This is an incantation for summoning Slenderman, taken from the personal memoirs of Archduke Aleister Symcote, the man who claimed to have summoned and subsequently trapped Slenderman many centuries ago. If Slenderman isn’t real then you’ll have no trouble reading this!” At that Jimmy grew angry. Not only had this student rudely interrupted his lecture but now he was suggesting Jimmy was a coward. “Your story is a fabrication. You are nothing more than a troublemaker, trying to gatecrash my lecture and sully my reputation as a scholar. You can get out and anyone who thinks this lunatic is telling the truth can leave too.” The student wasn’t paying attention to Jimmy any more - he was fixated by the image projected onto the screen behind Jimmy. A photograph of Slenderman projected onto the white wall, depicting Slender tucked into the background of an otherwise happy scene; a happy family on a day out, a family day trip maybe. The image was sullied by the grotesque shadow behind them, coalescing into the twisted form of the Slenderman. As the young man stood fixated with this image, he began to recount the poem he held in his hand: “Silently creeping, leaping in the dark Slenderman can hear the fear in your heart. Breathlessly wheezing, freezing to the bone, Stone cold surrender, call the Slenderman home. Sliendé, Sliendé, Sliendé…... As the final words rang out from the man, the hallway became deathly cold and the auditorium lights began to flicker. Members of the crowd became unsettled as several of them could swear they just witnessed the still photograph of Slenderman move. Did he just shift? The lights went out entirely. The audience yelped as one as the room was plunged into darkness, only to be bathed in light once more as the lights flickered back into life. A guilty laugh rose from the crowd for falling so quickly into panic. As the eyes of the audience turned once more toward Jimmy and his slide show, nearly every member of the crowd felt their hearts skip a beat when they realised the photo projected onto the wall no longer had Slenderman in it. The family were still there; only the half- formed image of Slenderman was gone entirely. Only the gurgling noise drew their attention toward the young man who’d recently interrupted the university lecture. The young student who had previously disrupted proceedings was hunched over and making the most awful sucking sound. The young man spun around in surprise and revealed his gory fate; blood oozed from three wicked gouges in his body. One across his throat, cutting his jugular vein, windpipe and scoring deep into his shoulder; one coursing from his left armpit, across his sternum and slicing into his ribs on his right hand side and the third scoring into his abdomen, slicing his belly and revealing the innards within. The crowd screamed maniacally and as a single unit of panic they all rushed for the auditorium doors. But it was too late - too late did they realise that Slenderman was amidst their ranks; Jimmy could see perfectly well from behind his lectern. He watched, frozen to the spot in horror as this slim monstrosity tore through members of the audience as if they were nothing but sheets of paper. As Jimmy watched in shock, the slender menace preyed upon these poor folk, flaying them limb from limb and revelling in the bloodshed. The crowd’s shrieks of terror, their muffled cries of agony and the eager shrill of their predator proved too much and before long, Jimmy rustled himself free from the fear and made for the exit. *** Fresh panic coursed through Jimmy’s veins as he sprinted from the building. As he flew terrified across the University grounds, he could see all manner of atrocities being played out in a macabre shadow play in the green moonlight; as the denizens of the University spilled from the auditorium with the willowy menace at the heart of the crowd, visceral scenes of slaughter were cast in shadow across the many buildings of the university. Jimmy bolted for the only safety he could imagine - his University boarding house. Jimmy locked the heavy front door behind him and hurried upstairs, the screams still fresh in his memory. How can this be real? he thought as he bounded up the staircase two steps at a time. Sliding home the heavy bolt on his bedroom door Jimmy happened to glance out of how window - the grisly shadow play was continuing across the lawns of the University and the hapless screams echoed deep into the wilds of the night. As his gaze drew across the wet evening grass, Jimmy caught sight of a terrible shape in the trees around his home. A calm, still figure of about seven or eight feet stood motionless, staring right up at him. An eyeless face peered coolly through the trees. Jimmy blinked and the figure was gone. Was it real? Am I seeing things? thought Jimmy as he firmly drew his curtains. At that motion all sound seemed to disappear. No more screaming, only the memory of those fearful noises remained. Not only that, but there were none of the sounds Jimmy expected to hear from this rural part of the country; no hooting of an evening owl, no barking of foxes in the darkness and not even the howling of wind in the trees. The silence was almost deafening until the calm was broken by the slow creaking of Jimmy’s wooden stairs. As the inexorable approach of a figure on the staircase continued Jimmy’s heart began to seethe in panic. His heart was beating so fast it felt as though it were burning a hole in his chest. The creaking grew nearer and Jimmy’s poor heart beat all the faster - Jimmy was certain he would pass out, his blood was now racing so fast he could hear the swishing of his vital fluid in his ears. As the creaking gave way to dragging footsteps outside his door Jimmy knew that the Slenderman was on his landing. A heavy thump thundered on his bedroom door followed by a sawing drag as violent talons were drawn against the wood. Jimmy watched in horror as his door began to rattle; gently at first but building to a ferocious crescendo the door was fiendishly banging in the frame, the sturdy iron hinges clattering under the strain. As the door’s unearthly banging continued, the noise was incredible and Jimmy could see the door’s screws unwinding themselves by some unseen, unearthly force. As the they finally unwound all the way and fell to the floor, the banging ceased. Dust settled gently and for a second there was silence. The heavy oak door fell inward into Jimmy’s room as blinding, unnatural light spilled into the room behind it. A spindly figure stood bathed in this sickly light, bent slightly at the hip like a distorted willow tree. The figure lunged into the room with the finesse of a ballet dancer. The last thing Jimmy saw was a mouthless countenance smiling with glee as two spear-like hands were effortlessly slipped between his ribs. *** Jimmy Russell’s body was never found, but a heart and a volume of blood, found by detectives in his bedroom where he was presumed to have died, were confirmed by DNA testing to belong to him. To this day, nobody can answer how or why the heart and the blood were inside a hundred-year old glass bottle, or how Jimmy’s fingerprints were on both the bottle and the cork with which it was sealed. Slenderman in the Bible Dear Jimmy, I think I’m getting somewhere with my Slenderman research. What I have found is worrying, however it is fascinating nonetheless. Do you remember that for our book 101 Amazing Slenderman Facts we discovered sightings of Slenderman throughout history? Well, old friend, I have found what I believe to be the very origin of the Slenderman in a text read by millions of people since it was written thousands of years ago. Yes, I believe that the Bible itself describes how Slenderman came to be the scourge of the world, the terrible being, the consumer of souls. Everything I explain now is true, and you can refer to the bible - even see the exact wording of the text I quote - to see if you reach the same conclusion as I do. I have referenced the ‘Good News Translation’ as it is the clearest to understand, having been parsed into modern English. If you don’t have a copy on your shelf, you can reference it here: http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Job+17&version=GNT The Book of Job is one of the most famous texts in the Old Testament. It tells of how a prosperous man is put in front of God, with Satan suggesting he is only pious and religious because he is rich. Satan suggests that if God took away the trappings of the wealthy, Job would not worship Him any more. So, God begins to take away his goods... and Job still worships Him. God kills his family... and Job still worships Him. God allows Satan to smite him with boils and scratch his skin with broken pottery... but still he worships Him. Eventually, God restores him to full health, gives him a new family and makes him twice as rich as he was before. However, if one reads the verses carefully, I believe that it tells of how Job’s soul - the bitter, angry part which wanted to curse God - was wrenched from him and became a being of its own. God had pushed him too far, and what God restored was just a husk, an empty shell. One only has to look at the words used in the book of Job to see this; we shall start with Job’s physical transformation into Slenderman. He says to God: My grief has almost made me blind; my arms and legs are as thin as shadows. Job 17:7 This quite obviously speaks for itself. I need not explain how closely this is a description of the faceless, slim terror we all fear. But it does not stop there: I know I remain in darkness Job 17:12 This is clearly describing Job’s realisation that he understands his fate; that because of his hateful resentment of God, his soul will be sentenced to eternity in the world of the dead, the world of the vile, the world of the putrid. In fact Job further stresses this point by proclaiming: My only hope is the world of the dead, where I will lie down to sleep in the dark. Job 17:13 The next quote - again referencing ‘hope’ - has two meanings in my opinion. The first is that Job himself has no chance of sanctuary when he is condemned to this ‘world of the dead’, but also I think it may also refer to his future victims! What do you think? Hope will not go with me when I go down to the world of the dead. Job 17:16 The Bible then starts a narrative not from Job, but from a ‘friend’ named Bildad. My understanding is that Bildad is seeing this origin of Slenderman happen before his very eyes, and is a clever man. He knows of the terror that awaits the world, and is telling us of what is to come. He warns: All around them terror is waiting Job 18:11 He also suggests what may happen to the victims of this awful new entity: A deadly disease spreads over their bodies and causes their arms and legs to rot. Job 18:13 I think that the picture should now be clear to you. The truth is that God lost to Satan. God thought that Job would worship him no matter what, but after all the punishment, Job gave in and hated God. His soul became twisted, his anger overcame his faith, and his mind was tainted by Satan’s pure evil. God, not wanting to admit defeat, separated Job’s soul from his body and banished it to the world of the dead. He restored the body of Job, to save face amongst his other worshippers. However, the world of the dead is Satan’s dominion, and therefore Satan allowed Job’s soul to take on a physical form again, a reflection of how it was when it was ripped from the flesh it once had. This form was of something more akin to a monster than a man; a thin, skeletal figure, arms as slender as shadows... a blind, featureless entity destined to offer no hope to those it met. One of the most shocking passages is Job’s curse to God, where he tells the world how he will use his powers for nefarious purposes: I swear by the living Almighty God, who refuses me justice and makes my life bitter: as long as God gives me breath, my lips will never say anything evil, my tongue will never tell a lie. Job 27:1-2 It is clear that Job was asking Satan to remove his tongue and lips as a God would not allow them to be used for evil purposes. Once the transformation was complete, Satan released this slender man into to the world to consume other bodies and souls in retribution for the punishment that God had suffered upon it. As the bible says: This is the fate of wicked people, the fate that God assigns to them. Job 20:29 The book even speaks of the horror of Slender sickness: It has grown so dark that you cannot see, and a flood overwhelms you. Job 22:11 Have I convinced you? Do you now see what I see? The most shocking discovery in my opinion is how closely Slenderman is connected to Satan. He is one of his direct minions, an entity to do his bidding on earth. A presence condemned to wander our lands for eternity, seeking out souls to devour and flesh to consume. I believe that because of this, there is no reasoning with Slenderman, as he himself has no reason; he is purely and simply a gamble between good and evil which went terribly, terribly wrong. Yours, in fear, Jack Another Letter to Jimmy Dear Jimmy, Are you sure we’re doing the right thing by investigating Slenderman further? When we collaborated on our last project, we managed to gather a host of information from a range of historical sources. Our research took us on a two-year trip across the world, visiting academic libraries and reading those ancient texts. I particularly enjoyed journeying with you to remote German medieval churches to search through their parish archives in the hope of finding some reference to Der Grossman. However I am worried that our latest effort may be a step too far. Finding those who have had first-hand encounters with Slenderman is nigh-on impossible, and those with experience of his work are so often too scared to tell me what I do not already know. I am also rather concerned for our safety. Some unusual things have happened in the last few weeks. I’ll update you on what I have found, but I will leave the final decision on whether or not to progress with you. Firstly I am very worried about a poem I have come across. The document was discovered in an unmarked tomb in a church in Kent which was bombed by the Luftwaffe - the force of the blast exploded the tomb, the walls of which were an incredible three feet thick. The poem was all that was inside. I have included it in this letter to you for your analysis. I believe it is related to Slenderman, as the description fits him perfectly. But why was what seems like such an innocent poem interred like that? My darkest fear is that anyone who reads it will suffer the fate it describes. This troubles me. Secondly, I managed to interview a very old man; he was ninety-six years of age. His grandfather was a policeman in Victorian London. The man told me a story which his grandfather told him as a young boy; he swears it is true, and that I am the only one to whom he has ever told it. He was almost on his death bed; after he told it to me in full, he said some words which disturbed me: “Ah, now you have the burden. It’ll come for me, now I have let its secret pass, just like it came for my Grandpap”. One of the staff from the nursing home wrote to tell me that the poor man killed himself the very next day by stabbing himself through his back with what appeared to be a broken wedge of an old truncheon. The third thing I have found is a letter of resignation from Captain Marriott of the British Army. It is not a pleasant read, and I fear the man encountered Slenderman before writing it. The paper itself stinks of death, and I no longer want it in my possession - please do not return it to me after reading it. There is a fourth document for you to consider. Do you remember the recent mine collapse in Chile? It was in the news - it had a good ending due to the fact that every single miner was rescued. Well I have found what purports to be a fictional account of the happenings of that time. However something is bugging me about the document. As with the others I have included in this bundle for you, every single fact checks out. I believe this to be the real story of what happened to those men, and it terrifies me so. Lastly, I have in fact been warned off researching Slenderman further by a policeman no less. His letter is enclosed for your consideration. I cannot read it to the end, as the details contained in the first few paragraphs have already haunted my nightmares. So, Jimmy, I ask you this. Is it right for us to continue? Perhaps we should stop our research and burn everything we have. If our previous publication has caused so many deaths, what would the next one do? Is it right to let innocent people die just because they read the terrifying information we publish? What scared me most is that people don’t realise just how serious - and deadly - knowledge of Slenderman can be. An ancient Mayan belief ran such that if you drew a picture of a God, it would create a portal for it to enter the real world, especially if accompanied by some text referencing the deity. And yet I see today a member of the deviantArt community - GroovyByDawn - has painted a very accurate depiction of Slenderman, complete with some text from that ancient poem we discovered. Do people not see how dangerous this is? Jimmy, as ever, the decision is in your hands. Call me a coward but I am too scared to even decide whether to continue or not. Perhaps Slenderman will hunt and kill me if I inform people of his evil - or perhaps he will slaughter me should I stop! My life is in your hands, friend. Yours sincerely, Jack You and I A poem found in a tomb of a bombed-out church You walk home in the dark. I cannot see Yet I am watching you. You know I am following you. I cannot smell Yet your scent reeks of fear. You are alone in your house. I cannot be happy Yet your solitude pleases me. You lie asleep in your bed. I cannot hear Yet I listen to your every breath. You awake to my touch. I cannot speak Yet I tell you what awaits. You realise I have you now. I cannot feel emotion Yet I pity you. You search for a way out of your nightmare. I cannot tell the future Yet I know you won’t escape me. You scream as I disembowel you. I cannot taste Yet your organs are exquisite morsels. You wonder when the pain will end. I cannot cry Yet my tears are of joy. You try to bargain with me. I cannot smile Yet my laughter is the only sound you hear. You beg me to stop. I cannot. Struck Again A story told to Jack first hand by the grandchild of a London policeman Catherine was walking the streets again. In her part of London it was one way to make a living. Sometimes men were nice to her, sometimes they were cruel. But they all paid, and that was what counted. She got more business at night, especially when the local pubs kicked out drunk patrons after their final gin of the evening. She always got the money first - sometimes they feel asleep and that was a bonus. Tonight’s moon was waxing gibbous, offering a little more light to enhance the dull flicker of the solitary gas lamp which shone on the entrance to the alleyway where Catherine was standing. She looked pretty, younger than her twenty-five years would suggest. A man in working clothes walked past. “Alright darling? Only tuppence for you!” He shook his head and hurried on his way. As his footsteps disappeared into the distance, an eerie silence descended around Catherine. She didn’t frighten easily, but she had a strange feeling about tonight. The fog - which was getting thicker by the minute - didn’t help. It was a real London ‘pea- souper’, with a yellow hue and almost tangible in its consistency. Catherine heard a distant clock strike the half hour. If no-one accepted her proposals in the next twenty minutes or so she would call it a night. She’d barely earned enough for tomorrow’s food, but she knew when to quit. A coin was pressed into Catherine’s hand. From behind her there was a whisper. “Don’t turn around. Just stand there for me.” Catherine held the coin up to her face. It was thrice what she would normally get off a punter, especially at this time of night. Well, she thought, I’m game for that kind of money. She stood still. She could smell this one quite badly. The contrast of his filthy fug against her freshly-splashed lavender was palpable. But most of them hadn’t a care for hygiene; mud, grease, oil - it was all the same to her. She continued to stand still. “Ere, love, how long are we gonna do this before the action eh?” There was a small pause and then the whisper again. “The action begins now.” Catherine screamed as she felt something cut across her belly. She looked down and saw her intestines begin to fall out. Long, slim hands reached around her and pulled them out further. One hand then reached up to her face and scratched at it. There was so much pain now that Catherine knew she had little chance of surviving. But she was a fighter. She chose her moment and turned around. The sight that greeted her was worse than the pain in her abdomen however: a man dressed in full evening wear, so tall that she could not see his face, his arms and legs long and thin, unnaturally so. The smell became more intense, more foul - worse than the gutters of her street with their decomposing animals, rats and sewerage. It made no sense to Catherine. She had done nothing wrong - certainly nothing other than plying her trade, which surely even a man of this modern age could not disagree with? With her last breath she managed to utter a final word. “Why?” The slender figure stooped its head towards her. It was featureless, yet still a mask of utter terror. “Because.” It whispered. *** PC Edward Watkins turned the corner and saw what he thought might be a drunk lying on the floor. Approaching it with some caution (you could never be too careful; these ne’er-do-wells will fight you even though you’re a policeman) he readied his whistle should he need to blow it for backup. As he got closer he realised this was no drunk. He could see the blood gushing out of what was now a clearly female form. He could now see the slashes on her face, and that her torso had almost been ripped in two. Entrails spilled out of the still warm but lifeless corpse. He blew his whistle. “Come quick, come quick. Jack the Ripper has struck again!” A Resignation Letter This letter was found many years ago in an envelope addressed to a Major R Ponsonby of the British Army. Dear Sir, It is with regret that I must offer the immediate resignation of my commission. I can no longer face battle, not after the terrors I have seen. You may feel that any officer would have seen everything on the battlefield by the time he reached my rank; this is of course true. However, it is that which I have seen off the battlefield which leads me to question my sanity. As a responsible man I cannot allow myself to command others when I cannot be sure that what I see is real. With this in mind, I am retiring to my country house in Buckinghamshire and am praying that I can be brought back to full health, and the visions of death which plague my dreams can be laid to rest. I will explain below what I have witnessed, and once I have done so will never speak of it again. I trust that as a man of God you will accept that I swear under oath for the truth of this entire episode. As you may know, my company had been reduced to just fourteen men by the French; I am ashamed to say that we could not overcome their vastly superior numbers. Flanked on one side by cavalry and with the column advancing, we chose to rapidly retreat to the west. The woods offered cover, under which we could tend to the wounded and perhaps ready ourselves for a second attack. As we entered the woods, we were surprised as to just how quickly the light faded. The sun must have still be high in the sky, yet very few tendrils of its warmth or brightness made it to through the trees and bracken in which we now found ourselves. We were confident that the enemy would not find us however, and set up a small fire to sterilise the surgical instruments which we would need to tend to Sergeant Cooper’s leg - and to cook what we could forage for sustenance. After an hour or so, with Cooper bandaged up and three rabbits in the flames, we began to discuss our plans. All of a sudden, there was a moan from further into the woods. Our man Sugden who was on guard duty instantly questioned “Friend or Foe?”. There was no reply. Yet we saw the shape of a tall man approach. Knowing that no man of that height was under my command, I ordered Sugden to shoot. He did so, yet the form continued to approach. As it got closer, I realised it could be no mortal man, being roughly fourteen feet tall and slim as a skeleton. Sugden fired again yet the creature still proceeded towards us. My other men readied their ammunition and also bore musket on that thing but it just did not stop. Suddenly it brought one arm round in a swipe, and took out three of my men. I can still picture it now, how their bodies were sliced cleanly in twain, their screams continuing even as the blood gushed out of their severed torsos. It reached out a finger and touched another of my men on his chest, as if it was pointing towards his heart. The man, Garrett, dropped dead like a stone. Still the remaining troops fired, still to no avail. One man jumped directly in front of the beast, pointing his weapon at its smooth, featureless visage. The thing just cocked its head to one side, almost inquisitively, and the man dropped his weapon and held his hands up to his throat, as if to remove something that was choking him. I knew there was no saving him. And I feared there was no sanctuary for any of us. I was almost right. None of the men survived. It took them in a myriad of ways, some swiftly, some a little slower; one - sergeant Cooper - was parted from this world by a deft flick of the very scalpel that had not half an hour ago removed a musketball from his leg. As you may have guessed, I was literally petrified with fear. I could only watch as my men were struck down in turn. The thing finally approached me, leaned down and whispered something into my ear. It sounded like “I have had my fill. For now”. I was so terrified I passed out. On waking, I looked around me to see the mutilated bodies of my men. The forest floor was red with blood. I thought back to what had happened and surmised that most likely I had dreamt about the beast. No doubt a small scouting party of French soldiers had found us and killed all the men. I had only avoided their butchery by being asleep and each Frenchman believing another had done away with me. However, sir, the nightmares continue. I am not of fit mind or body to fight on the battlefield, and an officer is no use if he is not facing the enemy. I therefore reiterate my desire to resign my commission and spend the rest of my days praying for my fallen men and wishing vengeance on the French troops that could have committed such a heinous act. Ever you servant, Captain James. T. Marriott. Further research into the British Army’s historical archives shows that Captain Marriott never made it to his country house in Buckinghamshire. On the ship transporting him from Calais to Dover he was found dead in his cabin, believed to have committed suicide by carving a deep ‘S’ into his own throat. The weapon he used was never found. Los 33 The truth about the Chilean mine collapse Deep in the Atacama desert, in the troubled 121-year old San José copper- gold mine, Luis Gomez was using his state-of-the art drilling equipment to get deep into a bed which promised an extraordinarily rich seam of gold. It was uncanny; almost supernatural - Luis just knew this was going to be a profitable mineral vein, and hopefully that would mean a small bonus. Luis was the leader of a team of thirty-two men (including himself). Each one of them had specialist skills. Each one of them had families for whom they were earning a decent and honest living. Each one knew how dangerous the job could be. Since the year 2000, an average of more than thirty people a year had died in mining accidents in the country, and although not one man would admit it in public, each one prayed to whatever god they believed in each and every morning, asking - nay, begging it would not be their turn to face tragedy that day. Sadly, not a single one of the multitude of gods were listening that day. As Luis was drilling with cautious optimism, his equipment suddenly fused. He swore. Calling for his second-in-command, Mario Avalos, to bring a bright light, he went to investigate. On closer inspection it appeared that he had drilled into something a great deal tougher than he had been anticipating. Sometimes this would indicate that wonderfully dense veins of mineral ore were close; other times it could be an indication that it was time to end this shaft and start construction on another one. But Luis had his feeling. There was a method to coping with these harder portions of rock. One should drill and chip away at the softer rock around it, prop the shaft ceiling up with numerous steel poles, and then use explosives to crack and shatter the harder rock face. Of course, each explosion would carry with it a risk of tunnel collapse - but the owners of the mind were struggling financially, and if Luis didn’t take that risk, he would be disciplined, maybe even fired. So with this in mind, Luis and Mario together, using the backup drill, attacked the softer rock. *** It was strange. A few hours later they had drilled to the left, to the right and even above what appeared to be a lozenge of hard rock some fifteen feet tall, yet just three feet wide and four feet deep. What was stranger was that it was not made of anything native to the geology of Chile. It was immensely dark in colour, a black so deep that it seemed to swallow the light from Luis and Mario’s rig. They could of course now just move their equipment around it and continue with the rock behind. But Luis was a miner, and miners are always curious where strange rock is concerned. Knowing there were men in his team with great experience, Luis called every single one over. Thirty-two men were now closely examining this tall, thin structure. One, Yonni Henriquez, suddenly called out. “Ey, Luis - here! There’s writing!” Luis walked over and inspected what Yonni had seen. It was clearly writing, but not like any Luis had seen before in his life. It had been etched into the rock, perhaps once quite deeply, but it had now been smoothed over by the ravages of time - and maybe the recent drilling and scraping. But no-one could figure out what it said. It was more akin to hieroglyphics than a written language of today. The most repeated picture was one of a thin skeletal figure, always followed by a circle with a cross going through it. “Perhaps it’s a warning” said Mario. “Against what?” Luis answered. “Against trying to find out what is inside. I don’t like anything about this. I think there’s something inside, and if someone has gone to this much trouble to seal it up in this rock which none of us have seen anything like before... well, I think it should stay there.” “Ha! Scared of the bogeyman, Mario?” asked Yonni. “Don’t be stupid man, I’m just saying you know, when you come from a mining family, you hear stories from the old folk.” “What like?” “Well in the old days there was no automated machinery. There was just men with pickaxes. Each man would be responsible for a tunnel of their own, barely big enough for them to crawl through. My grandfather said that sometimes - especially if he was one of the last to finish of a day - he would hear noises coming from within the rock. Cries, screams, whatever. He said it was ghosts from the dawn of human evolution.” “Oh Mario, you don’t believe in that kind of thing, do you?” “Don’t we all? Do you pray at the start of every day, and give thanks at the end of it?” “Well yes, but...” “All I am saying is that we should be cautious.” But caution was not on the mind of Ariel Barrios. He was a huge, bear of a man. Yet in certain areas he could be extremely delicate. One of these was explosives. “Let’s blow it open” said Ariel. “You think you can?” asked Luis. “Of course, I’ve never been beaten by an explosives challenge yet. Let’s crack that mother right down the middle.” *** And so, after surprisingly little debate, Ariel placed his explosives. The men retreated to a safe distance, and all that was left for him to do was activate the electronic fuse. He did so. And that was when the disaster began. The blast reverberated around the shaft, and - by a million-to-one chance - was at the exact frequency that was required to set off a chain reaction of small but significant rock movements which ended with the collapse of the main access shaft. The thirty-two men were now trapped seven hundred metres below the surface of the earth, with no way to return. At least one thing had gone right however - the large block of dark matter was cleft cleanly in two. Whatever had been inside what turned out to have been a hollow block however was no longer there. Luis radioed up to the control room almost a kilometre above him. “Guys, we’re trapped”. *** It did not take long for the news story to go global. The men had enough provisions to keep them alive for a number of weeks, but how would they get out? Many governments came together to offer a variety of theories for rescue attempts. News channels across the world showed countless CGI reconstructions of the blast and how the various rescue proposals stacked up against each other. In the end it was decided to dig a new shaft, just wide enough for a one-man capsule to be sent down and back up - the men being brought back up one by one. The project however would take time. The 32 men had enough food and drink to last them 3 months - but would they remain sane trapped underground for that long? *** After 69 days, the men were brought to the surface. The event was televised across the world. The miners’ friends and family were there to greet them at the surface. As each man surfaced, loved ones hugged and kissed him, glad that he had made it back to safety. However, one man - a tall, thin gentleman, surprisingly well dressed having been stuck underground for so long - met with no happy relatives. Hunched over, he stepped out of the capsule, walked away from the crowds and disappeared into a nearby forest. It almost went unnoticed, such was the clamour and joy from the others. One man however, Lawrence Fenix had noticed. Lawrence was the man who had masterminded the rescue attempt. The disappearance of the man greatly disturbed him. And so, after the jubilant celebrations, he replayed and replayed the video of the event, sitting in his dark office. On the fifth time he had watched the whole thing through, hairs began to rise on the back of his neck. He picked up the phone to the Chilean minister for mining. “Sir, I think we may have a problem.” “How can there be a problem?” said the minister. “Everything went as expected!”. “Not everything.” replied Lawrence. “Watch the footage again. You remember how many men were trapped down there?” “Of course - thirty two.” “Well, thirty-three came up.” From Scotland Yard This letter was found in the package Jack sent to Jimmy From the desk of Detective Chief Inspector D.G. Rossman Scotland Yard, London Dear Mr Goldstein, I write to you with two requests. The first is that you stop your publishers from selling your book 101 Amazing Slenderman Facts. The second is that you cease any investigations you are currently conducting into the being you call Slenderman. As an officer of the law I should not need to justify my requests, however I have learned from my colleagues that previous requests from more junior policemen have gone unheeded and therefore I shall explain myself. Take note however: this information is confidential and I stress that you are not to share it with others. I wish you to stop sales of your book because I believe it has led to the deaths of no fewer than thirty-six individuals. They include people from all walks of life - an eleven year old girl is the youngest victim, a seventy-two year old man the oldest. I also demand you stop your investigations into this being for your own safety. In each case of death I have identified as part of a certain pattern (and I have travelled the world to do so), there are certain common factors. You will see as I describe some of the cases what these links are. A thirteen year old boy was found by his parents with his throat slit in his bath. The water he was sitting in was claret in colour; a massive contrast with the pallid skin of the child. No surprise as almost all of the blood in his body had drained into the tub. He had a number of other cuts on his body - one under each of his armpits, one deep into his left calf, and a further one on his right eyeball. There may have been one on his left, however we could not find it - the socket was empty. The pathologist was certain that the wound to the throat was the first incision made. The child had placed his father’s shaving mirror in front of him, and held in his hand a copy of the book 101 Amazing Slenderman Facts. It was open at a page which claims a certain verse, read whilst looking into a mirror, will summon this ‘Slenderman’. A series of symbols were etched deeply into the glass of the mirror, none of which have yet been deciphered. When the child’s father lifted him out of the bath (having broken down the locked door after realising that three hours was a long time for bathing), the boy let out a final scream - until that point he had miraculously been alive. But that scream proved to be his final action in this mortal world. As the investigating officer, I concluded that a madman had entered - and left - the bathroom by the window. Soon afterwards however, I was called to another case in the area. A twenty-one year old female student was found by her classmates in her room at university. The girl’s head was slumped onto her desk, in front of a laptop. The friends who found her lifted her head up and were shocked to see that her mouth was wide open in a silent scream - yet her tongue was missing. More worryingly, the poor girl’s teeth had been replaced with fingernails and toenails. When the terrified attendees checked her hands and feet, teeth had been crudely wedged into the tender skin where the nails should have been. Next to the girl was a Kindle, which when re-awakened was open at the page of your book 101 Amazing Slenderman Facts at the point whereby the reader is informed how to summon Slenderman. When her closest friend accidentally brushed a key on her laptop, the screensaver disappeared and the student’s room could be seen - it was quite simply a live webcam view, the camera on the laptop pointing to where the poor girl was slumped dead. At the top of the window displaying the webcam feed was a number of symbols which our computer experts confirm are not ASCII characters and our language experts do not know what they mean. Entering the details of these two heinous crimes onto the police database, the system confirmed that there were other cases which had similar factors. I therefore travelled to Oxford, where I met with a senior figure from Thames Valley police. He told me of a recent case he had been involved in. A Sixteen year old boy had been found dead in his girlfriend’s bedroom. Technically he was sitting facing the window, although this was only because his head had been removed and placed backwards on his neck. The body was facing his girlfriend’s mirrored wardrobe. The paramedics who attended the scene accidentally knocked the boy’s head off the torso as it was not secured by any means other than dry, encrusted blood. Looking into the gaping neck cavity, they noticed something unusual - the body was filled entirely with marbles and sand. On opening the wardrobe, all the clothes had been removed, save for a number of stockings which were left hanging. In each stocking was a body part - but where the body has two of some vital organs, only one was found - one kidney, one lung and so on. Scrawled in blood on the shelf below the dripping packages were a number of symbols, none of which were recognised as being part of a known language either modern or ancient. In the boy’s hand was a book - 101 Amazing Slenderman Facts, open at a page which detailed how one might summon Slenderman. I am sure you are now getting the picture. However I shall describe one more of these terrible crime scenes to you. The officer in Oxford told me he had spoken with an officer McKinnon in New York. I thus flew out to meet our friends across the Atlantic. This is what I was subsequently told... A forty-three year old woman was found dead in a hideous state in her upmarket New York apartment. She was sitting at her make-up counter - or at least most of her was. Her husband (who found her sitting rigidly and was trying to revive her) grabbed her hand, which turned out to be not an entire hand - each finger had been replaced with lipstick. Dreading the inevitable, the man opened the top drawer, but was surprised to that in the lipstick tubes sitting there find (after trembling terribly whilst twisting one clockwise) was what appeared to be thin strips of tender, bloodied steak. His mind back to the task of saving his wife, he laid her on the floor, deciding to give the kiss of life. As he opened her mouth however, an awful sight presented itself. The lady’s four fingers had been crudely stitched together and fashioned into a tongue. This did of course explain what was in the lipstick tubes. Nothing could save her sadly, she was already dead. Written on her mirror - in a fetching deep ruby shade - was a series of strange symbols which even trips by the local investigator to the national library did not explain. Of course, next to where the woman had been sitting was an eBook app on her iPad, displaying a page of your book 101 Amazing Slenderman Facts which explained how one could summon the entity known as Slenderman. I cannot explain these events. I have described four of them to you however, and I am sure you will agree that this series of tragedies must stop. I do not believe in the paranormal, and I cannot accept the notion that if I look into a mirror - such as the one here in my office - and say the words “Slenderman, Slenderman, give me a man to slender” out loud (as I just have to prove it is nothing but a silly game) then some twisted being will appear and So I stress to you, dear sir, that you must continue your investigations, and ensure more people read your book. It would be a terrible tragedy if the ancient knowledge contained within its pages was not appreciated by a wider audience. Yours in eternity, D. Grossman Hearts are Filled with Blood Solomon Rosenblatt was a good cop. Sure, he was often too rough but he grew up on the Lower East Side and to survive there you had to be tough. Being tough was what got Sol into the police force in the first place, and being tough earned him his promotion to Detective after he brought down Irving “Boss” Angel back in ’92. In those days Sol’s strong hands and keen determination earned him a strong respect with his brothers on the force and an equally important fear amongst the criminal fraternity. These days Officer Rosenblatt was working undercover, infiltrating the Hester Street Assembly’s drug-trafficking organisation. Rosenblatt had spent eighteen months infiltrating the gang’s infrastructure; starting at the lowest level, working odd-jobs for the street pushers Sol had worked his way up the organisation and had now secured a job working in the main drug factory on the south end of Hester Street, a building known as The Ballroom. Within three weeks Rosenblatt had identified the four top- ranking officials within the Hester Street Assembly and had even glimpsed their leader once or twice - an impeccably-dressed gangster who everyone on the street referred to as “The Baker”, most likely due to the vast quantities of drugs that his organisation had been cooking up over the years. The Baker was a man whose movements were hard to predict. Often and without warning he would descend onto the drug facility to check how production was going or to call a mob meeting with his four lieutenants. A few times Sol had been lucky enough to eavesdrop on some of their conversations and had passed the snippets of information he’d gleaned onto his partner in the force and together they were making headway into fighting the war against these organised criminals. The Baker’s movements were starting to become more regular, the organisations methods were becoming clear and due to his involvement within it, Sol Rosenblatt was close to breaking the case of his life. One afternoon not three weeks ago Sol was called into the office of Eddie Russ, one of the Baker’s highest-ranking officers. Russ was a sweaty, obese man; his skin was yellow and greasy which reminded Sol of the wallpaper inside a ratty Chinese takeaway. “Good to see you, Dicky” rumbled Eddie. Rosenblatt was using a fake name - too many criminals know the name Sol Rosenblatt, so instead he chose the name Richard Beekman. “How do you do, Mr. Russ” replied Sol. “Dicky, please - call me Eddie” said Russ, leaning forward and offering Sol a chair with his enormous, sweaty hand. As Sol sat down he could see Eddie’s forehead was wet with beads of sweat and his shirt was displaying hallmark sweat patches round the neck and under Russ’ flabby arms. “We got a job for you tonight, Dicky. The Boss wants two truckloads delivered to the docks at midnight tonight. We’re loadin’ up a boat to deliver our goods up North. I chose you to manage the job - The Baker has been watching you and he thinks you’re showing real potential.” After the meeting, Sol quietly rang his partner and tipped him off to the late-night delivery. This would be a good bust - the police would raid the docks, confiscate the drugs and arrest all the gang-members present. Sol would “escape” the scene and report back to Eddie Russ that the cops were tipped off. The raid would set the Hester Street operation back months and would cost thousands of dollars - something which would hurt the entire underworld. Midnight. As the trucks rolled lazily into the moonlit docks a sharp chill in the air made Sol shudder. He’d never much been a night-owl but tonight the darkness lay especially heavily on him. The night was especially quiet; not a sound of movement from anywhere. Even the sea and the wind seemed to want to keep quiet, which disturbed him no end. Sol and the various members of the Hester Street Assembly began to open the trucks and make a start at offloading the cargo. No dock staff approached, no smugglers appeared from anywhere. The grim stillness was starting to frighten Sol; his criminal companions seemed to be preternaturally quiet themselves, offloading their crates in almost silence. No seagulls cawing, no dock bells ringing and even the idling trucks themselves seemed noiseless. With no sign of either smugglers or his backup unit Rosenblatt began to feel his heart beating with anticipation. As the unnatural muteness and near pitch-black atmosphere surrounded him, Rosenblatt was convinced he could hear his heart pumping in his chest. At first he heard a low swelling as his heart pushed blood languidly around his body but as the quiet grew and the light faded the sound built to a thumping noise, a thunderous clump ringing in his ears with each successive beat. Sol began to fade, to feel faint beyond compare. As the thudding swell of his heartbeat filled his ears, his vision began to fade to the purest black. At the edges of his eyesight Sol experienced the blackness of infinite nothingness - blacker than the blackest night times negative infinity. Blind and deafened by the sickening sound of his roaring heartbeat Sol passed out, perhaps for hours. Rosenblatt opened his eyes sleepily, woken by a weak voice murmuring “Dick... Dick...” As he opened his eyes, Sol was greeted with a scene of utter solitude. His compatriots were all missing and a sickly smell filled the air. The faint voice called again, the words dancing in the night air like buoys bobbing in an inky sea. Following the sound to its source Sol found the smell to grow stronger. It was a smell he recognised, sweet as nectar but sharp and metallic at the same time. The coppery smell burned at Sol’s nostrils as he traversed the dockyard to a warehouse door, left slightly agape. A faint light burned within and for the third time Sol heard the feeble whisper of his taken name. “Dick...” whispered the voice. “Help me”. As Rosenblatt pushed open the door he immediately located all of his compatriots and the missing members of the Hester Street Assembly. All were piled up on the warehouse floor like old oily rags, their clothes torn and dirty and every one of them was soaking with perspiration - they looked as though they’d been trawled up in the latest fishing catch, as if they’d been underwater for weeks and had just been hauled up in a net and dumped on the warehouse floor. Their skin was translucent white and their eyes had all faded to milky cataracts. These men weren’t dead however; Sol could see they were all moving, faint breaths and grim moans came out of the men’s mouths and one would occasionally stir, gently rustling like a wet leaf. Some of the men had deep puncture wounds in their torsos, many of the men were leaking blood like old cars leak oil. As Sol bent down to look at the face of one of the men, a great shape loomed over him from behind the stack of groaning flesh. Sol hadn’t notice the figure before but it must have been hunched over one of the victims. The creature was hideous; a great tall beast, taller than any man but painfully thin. Its distended limbs were knobbled and gnarled like the boughs of an ancient tree and its stature was broken and painful-looking. The great thin creature had awful claws at the end of its slender arms, with each digit encrusted with dried blood and viscera. Its face -if you could even call it that - was smooth and featureless; the skin itself milky white and flawless save for a cruel splash of gore where a normal man’s mouth would be. As the malevolent figure bore down on Sol he instinctively drew his service pistol and held his weapon in front of him. He tried to call a warning to the beast but no sounds would leave his mouth. Again the foul silence that had plagued him before was entwining him in its wicked coils. This fetid brute had some kind of control over him, he felt inflicted with a kind of sickness, the likes of which he’d never felt. In panic, Sol loosed a single round from his pistol, the projectile’s path staying true and penetrating deeply into the supernatural assailant. Where the bullet hit home, a painful hole tore through the monster, only to flow outward with thick black ichor and re-seal itself. Sol Rosenblatt fell backwards, his head spinning from a combination of the shock brought on by this slender monstrosity and the sickness he felt in its presence. As he lay on the warehouse floor, the evil shape slithered over to him and impended above him like an enormous tarantula encircling its prey. The un-man cocked its faceless head to one side; curiously studying Sol as he lay suffering on the wooden deck then began to linger inwards with its evil un-expression. Flushed with panic Sol tried to call out “No, no no!” but the words sounded distant, like faint howling heard on the wind. Sol tried his best to scream at the monster but his voice sounded a thousand miles away. The creature placed its wicked talons onto Sol’s shoulders and effortlessly pushed them through his flesh; pressing past his collarbone deep into his shoulder, Sol felt the indescribable agony as the monster’s fingers seared through him. Flickering images cascaded through his mind - hundreds of murder victims, this monster’s victims, in their last moments. Dozens of screams, gallons of blood and through it all a sensation of purest hatred; an outpouring of wrath and fury. This beast lives for slaughter, massacring anybody it pleases, and it did please this brute. “P... P... Please, stop!” yelled Rosenblatt, desperate for the creature to halt its torture. “I’ll do anything, just please stop this!”
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