Hunting Slenderman

[dont_turn_around]

In the mist and fog and silence, there is a cave. There is darkness within darkness there and nothing more and the faint whiff of something ... not right.

But there's a drawing stuck to the rocks that frame the opening, a childish grouping of trees and a tall, thin man, with the words TAMAN SHUD.

Here is the end.

"I think we should go here," says Jack.

Comments

[nerves_of_ice]

All is quiet in the halls of the dead.

Or those who are the nearest thing to it in this place, anyway.

[dont_turn_around]

What's this? What's this?

Something is waiting for him.

Something young and tender.

[nerves_of_ice]

Something sealed, coffin-like, within a human-sized solid bar ...

... of chocolate.

(Bucky Barnes has never heard of carbonite, and wouldn't know who Han Solo was if you asked him, but it doesn't matter. His kidnappers are perfectly well aware of such things, and long ago made their own arrangements for such matters.)

[dont_turn_around]

Oh. Oh. The joy. The hunger that gnaws.

This is like the days of old. Always the best. Always the strongest. Always the most cherished.

He is nearly dancing with anticipation at such a feast.

[nerves_of_ice]

As with any gift, of course, this one is well-wrapped.

(STRENGTH. PROTECTION. BENEDICTION.)

Maybe more so than most of those that have been presented to this creature in days of yore.

[dont_turn_around]

What's this? What's this?

Drawing closer, touching the encasement with his fingers, with his tentacles, with his vision.

What's this? What's this?

[v_knidh8er]

There's a quiet, well oiled, click of metal on metal from behind where Slenderman has manifested himself.

"There ain't no rest for the wicked
Money don't grow on trees
We got bills to pay
We got Mouths to feed
And there ain't nothin' in this world for free."

His voice is thinner than normal, and there's a reedy quality that isn't usually there. Probably due to what ever caused the little orange man's arm to be in a sling.

Whatever it is, it doesn't stop him from using that very same shoulder to prop up the butt of a rifle, it's muzzle trained on Slenderman's center of mass.

"We know we can't slow down,
We can't hold back,
Though you know, I wish we could.
No there ain't no rest for the wicked,
Until we close our eyes for good."

[dont_turn_around]

Turning.

Gazing.

There's no earthly way of knowing
Which direction they are going!
There's no knowing where they're rowing,
Or which way they river's flowing!
Not a speck of light is showing,
So the danger must be growing,
For the rowers keep on rowing,
And they're certainly not showing
Any signs that they are slowing...

Ring any bells?

[v_knidh8er]

The Loompa known only as Hat, pales.

His green eyes widen.

There's a spot on his check, just to the side of where the gun presses to his body, where a spot of red appears, and blooms hot and sticky.

His breathing goes ragged, and just before his world goes fuzzy then dark, he sees the shape before him shift and change.

From a man in a black suit, to a man in a purple one, to something with sharp teeth and glowing red eyes.
No. No! Not knids! Anything but knids!

[dont_turn_around]

Sniffs.

Amateur.

[nerves_of_ice]

It's the click of the rifle that penetrates his artificially-induced sleep, reaching him at a level deep within his subconscious.



The tip of one finger twitches, and a low, barely-audible groan echoes through the cave chamber.

[dont_turn_around]

Oh.

Yes.


The sacrifice.

[nerves_of_ice]

The sound subsides quickly enough, and there are no signs of further movement, save for his twitching hand.

[dont_turn_around]

He's still trying to discern what the encasement is made of. It looks like wood, but smells like ... children.

Oh, the succulent tender flesh that awaits him...

[nerves_of_ice]

After a few more seconds, the reflexive motion of someone trying to squeeze a trigger ceases. The subject--

(Sergeant 32557. Barnes, James Buchanan)

--lies at rest, perfectly still and silent once again.