Friday, July 15, 2011


God this post has been hard to write. I’ve been building up to it for a long while, trying to get in the right mindset to recount this, but…Well.
Cognitive psychology places great reliance on schema theory when trying to understand how we perceive our world. Schemata are…I think of them as the structural framework for inferential understanding of the world around us, and a tool for categorisation and organisation of knowledge. For instance…say a small child had a pet dog…a Jack Russell, perhaps. This child develops an understanding of what a dog is according to what they know: It has four legs, quite small, so on and so forth.

Then, say, the child sees a beagle and through her previous understanding of what a dog is, assimilates this new dog into her definition and expands the framework of what a dog can be.

Then, say, the child sees a cat. The cat also fits her understanding of what a dog is, so when she is told that this is an entirely different sort of animal, she adjusts her schema for what a dog is, and creates a new mental framework to understand this concept of ‘cat’.

These are the building blocks of how we as humans, understand and interact with our reality. It is how we make assumptions, and use previous information to approach new problems: even if something has not been encountered previously, by consulting previous frameworks, one may infer a solution to this problem.

But what happens to a man when something completely incongruent with his pre-existing schemata is thrust upon him? What happens when there is no frame of reference for what he encounters in the slightest? A new schemata is created, but what if the features by which he must associate to this new anomaly are just as incongruent with his understanding of the world?

He can try to reject this new information. Repress it. Shove it away, devise alternate, contrived explanations for what occurred. He can be unable to reconcile his mind and his reality and (though this term always strikes me as so unintuitive-ly vague and useless considering our current understanding of the process by which one develops mental illness, according to the diathesis-stress model) ‘go insane’.

Or he can make some tough calls, adjust his way of thinking, and after a while…after a long, long while…he can accept the reality of his situation.

Though none of this went through my mind as I sat there with my shut-down ears, as the room got darker and darker.

The first thing I noticed was the window shaking. It wasn’t obvious at first, in fact; I’m surprised I noticed it when I did. It shook as the sky outside darkened, moody clouds swirling overhead and the faintest idea of a sunrise behind, bathing the room in scarcely burning incandescent yellow. I closed my eyes for a moment, but found that the near-total sensory deprivation was uncomfortable, so I re-opened them and watched the clouds for longer, spinning and curling hypnotically in the glow, as the window shuddered, then liquidated, droplets of glass playing with the yellow light and sparkling as they rained down to the floor, splattering onto the hardwood floor, shattering and sprinkling.

The door slammed open, and two of the masked men entered, walking in from the golden light, looking for all the world as if they were walking through honey. The snakelike ropes were ripped away from me, hissing away in protest as I was grabbed, not un-gently, by both arms and frogmarched out the door, onto a…rather anticlimactic porch area. I appeared to be in a rather cozy beach house, in one of many rooms overlooking the choppy sea, which swirled and got more violent, a mirror image of the black clouds above.

He was there, with his red, weeping eyes, though something looked somewhat different. He had rejected his hood in favour of a rather wide, straight brimmed hat, and his face looked…fuller…real-er? No, it was still a mask, white and imposing, but it seemed as if it had melded with his skin, ceramic tissue, almost, but not quite human.

Needless to say, I did not feel particularly at ease. The Crying Man continued to speak, pointing up at the clouds and tapping my head with a…playful? finger . I flinched slightly from this gesture, and he stopped speaking, tilting his head curiously. I pointed to my ears and shrugged. He took this in stride, clicking his fingers and whispering something to one of the other masked men (his face looked oddly…full of expression as well.) He left, only to return moments later with a notepad and pen, which he wrote on and showed me.

“Look, He is coming."

Their leader pointed once again to the sky, and I looked. There wasn’t much to see, just swirling, billowing clouds, preparing themselves to release rain…god, they were black, and the golden light disappeared leaving only dank, insidious grey, and one section, just a bit off the beach, seemed darker than the rest…

”The Storm.”

He kept scribbling, as I glanced back up at the sky, tendrils of deep black creeping and spiralling through the rest of the clouds, spreading and infecting like a cancer, sprouting more of that solid black in a rough approximation of a circle around the original pupil. It looked for all the world like a bloodshot eye, looking down, staring at us, as we stared back with fear and anticipation. I did not know what was to come, but my imagination was working overtime. The Crying Man tapped me on the shoulder, and pointed to his pad.

”He comes with the wind.”

The pupil began to seep blackness, at first what looked like a mere drop, then more until it began to gush inky shadow into the ocean, as the breeze from the ocean whipped up into a gale-force storm, carrying the ocean spray. I tasted salt, and my eyes stung, as the black rift in the sky drained of its shadow. I watched, transfixed, my mind screaming, but my mouth was not responding, instead opting to hang open in dumbfounded curiosity. The sky was lighter now, with the shadowy miasma collecting on the surface of the water, yet the hole in the clouds still remained, an ugly, swirling rift, with tiny dots of piercing white staring from the mists beyond.


I didn’t have time to process it any further before the clouds closed in and consumed it, a distant memory, as if a dream.

It was deathly cold, I remember that. Like brazing a blizzard, as the wind hit us unrelentingly, carrying about half the ocean with it. And the wind only got rougher and rougher, so much so that I physically had to crouch down, trying to minimize my surface area to avoid having the warmth sapped right out of me. I was shivering, practically convulsing as the masked men followed my lead, sitting down and watching the show through their protection. I closed my eyes, not seeing, not hearing, just feeling, like I was being drowned, beaten, frozen…

After what felt like a couple of hours, or a couple of seconds (time seemed to not pass the way it generally did…well, it did pass, but it passed completely separate to the reality we were placed in. Temporal reality was a memory, a reminiscence of what should, and generally did, matter, completely trivialized in the face of that boiling blackness on the shoreline), the wind cut off, as if someone up on high had flicked a switch. I suddenly felt very warm, though as I opened my eyes, I could not figure out why. The wind had stopped, and had been replaced instead by a thick fog, sitting dense in the air, immutable as a boulder.

All I could see was the porch the four of us were standing on, and that shapeless tar, floating to shore on a perfectly still tide, right on the far edge of the mist, beyond which there was nothing. It was still almost featureless, just pure, deepest black, shimmering velvet.

And then it changed.

The inky liquid writhed and bucked, separating and congealing into a mass of flailing cilia, which wrapped and twirled around each other chaotically, into stringy, solidifying tentacles which spiralled upwards and upwards, some growing spindly and spider-like, others fattening and lapping at the sand like jet-black tongues. I looked around at my captors and saw one of the subordinates trying to keep the other restrained, who was trying to claw his way out. Their leader looked on with his arms crossed. After a struggle, he stamped heavily onto the other man’s foot and broke free, flinging himself across the balcony and landing on his knees in the sand, scrambling up and running full pelt towards the amorphous mass. The Crying Man wheeled on me. I could tell he was saying something to me, but I did not know what. He looked around for the pad of paper and wrote in short, abrupt lettering.

”I am in control.”

And his body language certainly made him seem so, standing strong and turning to watch as his worker reached the blackness, the rising tentacles welcoming him in a loving embrace. He ripped off his mask, and I saw sandy gold hair and blue eyes for a brief moment, before he was entirely concealed from view, and the tentacles ground in tighter, occasionally popping as something broke on the inside, and red began to ooze from the gaps between them and drip into the shallow water, staining the damp sand…

I feel sick now, but I felt a hell of a lot worse back then. But I couldn’t move, all I could do was watch.

The tentacles rolled in on themselves, changing, melding together, frothing the maroon tides as they twisted upwards into a vague cylinder, as the crunching sound continued, turning into a sound like nails on a chalkboard, curling up to about nine feet above the water.

My sense of hearing had faded in again, and I wanted it gone.

Flicking, tasting the air like a sea anemone, as the sludge floating on the ocean was all but assimilated. Then with a sickening slurp, from the centre of the cylinder emerged a small white, calcified bump, a single, glowing white tooth of bone, except it was no tooth, it was a head…

And then He stood before us, in all His glory, swathed in a black cloak.

He’s here.

And I don’t know what to do.

I ran. I did not know where I was going, but I ran down the beach, tears of fear in my eyes as I tried to get somewhere, anywhere but here.

The Crying Man watched, but did not move.

His head was stationary as a chitinous white emerged from his chest and his cloak grew more streamlined, a mimicry of that which the masked leader wore.

The kid’s mask floated into shore, covered in sand and watery blood.

Nobody touched it.

Nobody did anything.

The winds were completely calm.

Friday, June 17, 2011


I woke up, my muscles screaming with tension, my mouth dry and salty with caked blood, sounds of the ocean rushing through my ears. I was in a small white room with Spartan decorating: a window overlooking a dirty little beach and a single wooden chair, which naturally, I was strapped to. I tried to stand up, but my legs were tucked neatly between the seat and the bracing support between the two front legs, each one individually tied. I’m…moderately lithe, but I’m no Houdini, and these guys had really thought this out: I didn’t bother trying to escape. Call it learned helplessness: I felt like one of Seligman and Maier’s dogs, trapped in a harness, waiting for the shock. Apparently this thought manifested itself in action; I could hear myself whimper a little. Shut up, that’s not going to help either. I looked around the room further, noting only one piece of decoration: a single artist’s easel with a white canvas and…that symbol on it, from the basement all that time ago. Though it was a little different this time. I made the connection: It was the Crying Man’s eye. Big Brother is watching.

I contemplated my available actions, and decided that there was no point waiting around: this was an inescapable situation. At least on my own. So I tried to change it up a little. Let’s see if he really IS watching.

I shifted my weight forward in the chair a little, prepared myself, then flung my body back, knocking the chair clean over and knocking my head on the hard wood floor: a clatter on the outside, but in my mind it sounded like a sickening ‘crunch’. Ignoring the beating pain, I swung around to the left, trying to prop myself up on one side, facing the eye. I didn’t have a master plan here, I just wanted to test my boundaries. I eventually manage, and found that while my legs were still securely bound, I could slip one shoulder back down through the ropes, and then the other, until they were constricting my neck. I tried to pull my arms away, but this pulled the ropes around my neck tighter, like a noose, until I couldn’t breathe particularly clearly. I laughed a little at my own ineptitude, but then the laughter slipped away as it dawned on me that I was seriously in trouble, in this tangle of rope; if I moved my arms any more, I’d run the risk of cutting off breathing entirely…

Then the masked men came in, practically barging their way through the door with their shoulders. My fucking saviours. They grabbed the ropes around my neck and pulled my chair to its feet, de-restricting my airways at the same time. The ropes on my arms slipped off. I coughed briefly, then winked at the painting of the eye. Not that I expected it to wink back or anything, I was just glad my theory had panned out, but realized that the conclusions I could make from my test…were just as troubling. He wants you alive.

Why does he want you alive?

”Doctor, if you cannot be conscious for more than a minute without trying to kill yourself, are you certain you should be a practicing counsellor?” That cold feminine voice was back. I looked up, massaging my throat, and there he was, business suit looking rather immaculate. “What friend ties another friend up?” I asked, defiance clear in my eyes despite my rampant headache and my mouth tasting like shit. “Curious way of showing your friendship, buddy.”
”I apologise, it was for your own protection. The driver hates you very much, it is not your fault. Roël can be silly sometimes, he is young. He does not speak much anymore, otherwise I would make him say sorry.” I blinked, having not heard that name in a long while. “When did Roël stop speaking?”

”Oh, sometime around his initiation. The first one we’ve ever had in this city, in fact. He made…a sacrifice, shall we say? Jason and himself were our first fresh recruits.”

Another familiar name. Troubling. I didn’t speak.

”You are wondering why you are here, yes?”
”Do you have unicorn magic? However could you have guessed that?” I tried to be the sarcastic wall, though that might not have turned out as well as I could have hoped.
”Doctor, there are things beyond the mind. Beyond your mind, beyond my mind. Slivers of another reality, manifest in our world. Another, darker reality, one which none of us could possibly comprehend, let alone exist in a semi-natural state.”
”We still talking about unicorns here? I really hope we are.” I was trying to cut down all his melodramatic posturing, and my mind was still a little off, I make no apologies for any of my actions.

Not that it did any good.

”I posit that you already know about some of these…slivers, so to speak. You have done enough research into it, judging from your little blog. Change your password sometime, by the way. ‘bandura7’, while elegant, was easy to guess.”
“We were talking about slivers, not my internet security.” I consciously put on a poker face, reticent. Let’s play a game, you fuck. “You are talking about those blogs?”
”Yes, yes. These, incidents shall we say, these anomalies in our dimension…while each possessing some similarity, always have an element of difference to them. A mouth. Different clothing. Different, modus operandi. Different symbolism. Why is that?”
”Dramatic licence, I suppose.”
”You’ve hit the nail on the head, haven’t you Rivers? Dramatic licence.” He clapped politely, his hooded head still staring intently at me. “…You have a headache, do you not?'”
”I suppose.”
”Get the good Doctor some asprin.” He clicked, and one of his masked men left the room, only to come back a few moments later with two white pills and a glass of water. I took them both from him gladly, and took the pills.

Not likely. I watched Marble Hornets, didn’t I? I stashed them beneath my tongue, and took a long drink of water. I only planned to take a sip, but it made my mouth feel so much cleaner, hydrating and cooling my throbbing tongue, so I finished the entire glass. I passed it back to the masked servant and wiped my mouth, spitting out the pills into my hand as it glided past.

”I will then posit to you a new theory. Soon, the Storm will come. We have been awaiting it since the New Year. Our events have been set in motion long ago, and now…He comes with the wind.” The Crying Man motioned towards the window, at the darkening sky. “Our reality and His will draw close, just for a second…long enough for a sliver of an idea to emerge. And emerge it will, unformed and fluid. Our perception will solidify it…And because of the rituals we have put in place, the storm will bypass us. We will be in control.”
”Patient’s thought patterns move along lines rather than through logical flow; he is under the delusion that he is a supervillain summoning a dark God into the world. Schizophrenia? I believe so.”
”Psychoanalyse me all you want, doctor. When the house shakes and distorts by His power…you will see the truth in my words.”
”I doubt it.”
”The bigger the skeptic, the stronger the shift in perception when they are proved to be well and truly out of their depth.” He tapped me on the head softly, and then left the room, once again leaving me alone.

I settled down and waited. No matter what happened…the swiftness of the response meant I would not be able to escape until they wanted me to. I looked down at the pills in my hand, noting that they were most definitely not asprin. They looked more like a brand of dopamine antagonists I had had prescribed to a patient of mine a few years back, though I was hardly going to taste-test them and find out. I threw them to the floor in disgust.

And the sky darkened just a bit more

and the sounds of the ocean slipped away, leaving only silence.

Deafening, screeching silence.

I cleared my throat, if only to give myself something to hear.


I tapped my ears experimentally…my sense of hearing had completely faded away.

Sigmund Freud, during his clinical work in Vienna at the turn of the century, found a common theme running throughout many of his patients. In the socially repressed Viennese, 19th century society, he had patients come to him with seemingly biological symptoms, with no apparent biological causes. It had been known as ‘hysteria’ since before Christ, but it wasn’t until Freud that a connection was made between these apparently physical symptoms, and the mind. He called it ‘conversion disorder’, due to his theoretical reasoning that these physical symptoms were not organic at all: but were, in fact, anxieties, distresses and unfulfilled drives converted and manifest in physical symptoms: ‘switching off’ a part of the physical body to protect it from this overarching, repressed anxiety.

I’m not the biggest believer in everything Freud did, and all of his theories, but for the life of me, considering what came next, I can only assume my swirling, dark Id was preparing itself for what was to come, discarding the senses which I would not need, distorting my hearing because what I would be hearing otherwise was just too unfathomable to accept.

Thursday, June 16, 2011


It’s a strange feeling, that horrible realization, of that one simple fact.
You are being followed.
You try to forget it, you provide every logical counter-argument you possibly can. You’re jumpy. You had a rough couple of days. Get home, have a nice glass of vino, just calm down.
Yet still it persists, the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end, a shiver of fear goes down your spine, your pace quickens. And suddenly it doesn’t matter whether it’s real or not, every innocent noise, every twig snapping, every breeze of wind disturbing the trees, takes on a sinister unnaturalness. Your senses get clearer, alert, ready, waiting for any sign of danger so you can fight or flee.

And on the 15th of April, that night…I wish I’d fled faster.

The day started normally enough. None of the doom and gloom I’ve been alluding to since my, reluctant hiatus ended. It was a brisk Spring day, as they generally are, with the light reflected in the misty dew on the ground as I walked from my apartment over to the precinct. I generally do like to walk, rather than drive; it’s not too long away, and in this instant gratification world…we need more times where we can just unwind, put one foot in front of the other, and relax. (Plus, gas prices these days, what up? Yes, as always, I am bringing you the best in topical humor; you should hear what I have to say about airline food, it’s a doozy.) It was a bright day, and…well, I find myself always drawn back to remembering that walk to work on that day, it was just so…naive. And free. The last moment I can remember like that. Uncomplicated, expected…normal.

Normality flew out the window with the client I had waiting at my desk when I walked into the PD, however. “You forgotten about me, mate?”
I had not forgotten about him, the journalist: Mister Lance Franklin. Since our last meeting, we had been keeping online correspondence, e-mails and Skype mostly, revolving around a compiled article regarding the Slender Man Mythos. We had....mostly worked out our differences, though to be honest, this was because he had decided to stop baiting me, and had decided he needed my help. While at the start, I was…less than approving of his original idea: a scathing appraisal of the police department for not looking at the generic signallers of the Mythos, after our minor disagreement around this (as arguments on the internet tend to pan out, I was called a ‘fascist’ and I retaliated with something along the lines of “you anarchic, convict fuck”) we decided that we could work together on something purely to bring attention to the stories as an emerging frontier in new media; an entirely communal concept, loosely banded together as a cohesive whole.

“No, I haven’t forgotten about you. I’ve got the research you asked for right here.” I reached into my desk (shooing him out of my chair in the process, directing him sharply to the couch) and pulled out a manila folder with a fair amount of writing analysing the conventions of the genre. I’d show it to you guys, but you’ve already seen it: I lifted the vast majority of it directly from my blog posts, cut out any sensitive information, and compiled it under the rough guise of a thesis. It pays to recycle. And it’s not ‘re-using’ so to speak, it’s about being efficient. “I trust this will serve your purposes, Lance.”

”Lance? We’re on first name privileges now, Matthew?” The journalist’s eyes widened, and he mimed a melodramatic faint, face down on my couch. “This is the happiest day of my life.” Except at this point, he was still becoming familiar with my cushions, so it came across more as “’S iv meh ‘appies ‘ay o’ I ‘ive.”
“Names aren’t important, it’s how one distinguishes the time to use which name. First names, last names, nicknames, impersonal references…choosing to use any one of these says something about the relationship. Us, considering we are now working as equals in the same field, are most definitely on first name privileges.” I replied, as he sat himself up and looked at me incredulously. “Is that some honest-to-god homebrew psychology I hear? You just make this shit up as you go along, don’t you mate, or do they actually teach you fluff like that in shrink school?”
“Yes, I make it all up. You caught me. That’s also how I got through all my assignments, my Masters and my Doctorate. What, have you never been to university?”
He laughed, accepting my sarcasm with a wave of his hand. “Well, I’m glad to have this information. I’ve done some asking around, going to do a couple of online interviews with some of these blogger college students, so on and so forth. With your talentless hack Arts degree analysis and my immense skill at writing, this could be a damn good article. I mean, it’s hardly front page material, it doesn’t offer the incisive social commentary and exposé on police inaction that it COULD have, but hey, we’ll get a page. Maybe after the funnies.” I smiled, letting the insults wash past me. “So, when do we talk about my payment?” I didn’t hold out much hope for this, nor did I care that much; I hadn’t done much work for this, and it wasn’t as if I was strapped for cash.

“I’ll see what I can work out for this article, and any other followup studies you and I may compile on in the future. Seriously though, mate: thanks for this, I’d be buggered without your help,” he said, earnestly of all things, standing up and moving to the door with the folder. I was taken-aback, though I managed to keep that under lock and key. “You’re welcome, Mr. Franklin. Anything else I could help you with? Perhaps we can get a start on treating that vibrant narcissistic personality disorder that you’ve got going on there, though I will warn you, you’re going to be on the clock for that. Gotta put food on the table, don’t you know?” He grinned his trademark beam again, (the kind that made you feel dirty just to witness), and tapped two fingers on the door before turning the handle. It made a satisfying wooden, ‘thock-thock’ sound. “She’ll be right, mate. Seeya around!”

Once he left, the room went back to normal for a grand total of ten minutes. I spent this time contemplating whether or not a psychologist should have his walls painted the dull orange that mine were. By the time I had come to a completely biased conclusion (yes, yes we should), it was time for my first appointment of the day, who I thought was Detective Morrow, but no, Detective White came bursting through my door on the hour. “Can I help you, ma’am?” I asked sardonically, earning myself a dirty gaze for my troubles. “Detective Morrow’s sick. I thought I might get my appointment out of the way now so I can get back to doing work around people who aren’t a massive smartass with a degree and a douchy face.”
What is it about my non-professional relationships and this wise-cracking war of words I always seem to get myself into? Putting on some facade of urbane cruelty, to distance yourself from the fact you might actually care about people. Do I inspire this in people? I don’t know how to feel about that. It does make for interesting conversations, though.
”Because I can definitely handle you this early in the morning. Least you could’ve done would be to buy me a coffee.” I retorted, sitting at my desk and looking for a pencil. White paced the room for a moment in silence, then spoke up. “I’m fine, Doc: clear me and I’ll let you get back to staring at your walls.”

I wondered how she knew I was doing that, but I also noticed a tinge of something in her voice; a throaty catch, quite subtle, but definitely there, and not usual. “I could do that, or you could tell me why you’re so eager to get out of here.” I glanced upwards, to see what sort of a reaction that would garner.
Jess bit her lip for a moment, then sort of fell into the couch. “I’m worried, okay? I’m worried, and I’m annoyed. And it’s because of that case. How the fuck could I not be annoyed? That bastard’s gone quiet, he could be in fucking Florida sipping on a piña colada in the sun. And the world will still be spinning. He’ll get away with it, just like that.”
”That’s not the way the world works.” I said, talking out of my ass as I walked over to the couch, sitting next to Jess. She wasn’t talking to me as a psychologist, she was talking to me as a friend. She didn’t want analysis, she wanted someone to go through this with. “People get theirs. It’s karma, really. One day, he’ll slip up; he’s clearly got some choice antisocial tendencies, and now he has a taste for it. He’ll slip up, and someone will nab him.” Or so we could hope. It worried me too, but…The world will still be spinning, as she said.

“God, I hope you’re right, Matt. I really do.” She paused to think for a couple of moments, before apparently driving it from her mind, and brightening up slightly. “We still on for dinner tonight?”
”Absolutely! I’ll grab my car and drive past your place at 7. We’ll grab sushi.”
”Hey, at least I’m a healthy pussy.”
”Are you sure you’re a dude, Rivers?”
”Want to find out?”
She punched me, I flinched a little, and we both laughed. Life goes on.


It was 6:30PM. Not even that late, the sun was barely down. I pulled my coat around me further. It was a cold dusk, and I smelled rain on the approach. Down the main road for a while, then a left, cutting through a local park. Well, what passed as a ‘park’ in my neighbourhood. It was barely a nature strip, it was roughly 50% tree, and 25% pathway. High walls on one side, interrupted periodically by gates into the houses beyond, extending down a long, long path to the middle of suburbia. The sounds of traffic lessened and lessened as I walked down the path, leaving only my footsteps and the wind. That rustling, murderous wind, setting my nerves on edge. I focused on the sound of my own breath, willing myself to calm down. It’s nothing, you’re projecting your own insecurities onto the world around you.

I heard a shuffle behind me, and almost gave myself whiplash to see who it was. Nobody, just some kid. Alabaster skin, a backpack and a hoodie, which he was in the process of pulling up to protect himself from the wind. Yet my mind was still screaming for respite. I turned around and deliberately slowed my pace, breathing rhythmically, pushing the fear from my mind.

Then I heard the rusty ‘squeak’ of a gate in front of me, and the fear came flooding back. Another person walked out from one of the archways on the side of the path and started walking in the same direction as me, a fair distance in front. Nothing to worry about, he didn’t even take a second glance at you. You’re a fully grown man for God’s sake. Is Jess right? Did you lose your balls somewhere?

It was only when I heard a second gate open, behind me, that I started to give my mind some credit. A man wearing a hoodie, completely concealing his face emerged from the shadows, walking briskly towards me, brushing past the kid. I started walking briskly forward, trying to catch up with the guy in front of me, but suddenly he turned around, face completely covered in a neutral white mask, personalized only with red circles encapsulating his eyes. I faltered in my pace, felt a shot of adrenaline course through my system, weighed up the situation, and broke into a dash, making a beeline for the guy in the mask. I don’t think he suspected I would choose ‘fight’ over ‘flight’, so he wasn’t prepared for the shoulder barge I gave him, knocking him over with a satisfying ‘thump’. He was far from beaten, though, and swung around, grabbing my leg and pulling me down to the ground with him. I bit my tongue as I went down and my jaw cracked on the pavement, feeling salty blood fill my mouth. “Bastard,” I spat, kicking him in the side of his head with my free foot, once, twice, finally causing him to let go with a groan of pain.

However, by this time, the other one…no, the other two had caught up to me. It was all I could do to scramble to my feet as they reached down to grab me. I managed to dodge their grasp and unleashed a swift, yet clumsy kick in one of their general directions. It connected with their side, though it didn’t seem to make a persuasive argument: He shrugged it off as his friend tried to flank me. I was having none of that, though, and spun around, sprinting like I had rarely had the occasion to before. I was expecting them to shout something, anything, but our chase scene was silent but for the pounding of our feet, and the rabid beating of my heart in my ears. If I get to the end of the path, I’m on a suburban street. Hardly the most cinematic location to have a merry old chase, but damnit, it’s wider than this death trap, I might even be able to hide.

I saw the end of the path, and I gunned it, only managing to slow down halfway onto the middle of the road. There were no cars coming…no wait, there. A Lexus SUV, the noble explorer of the suburban jungle, coming down the road. Comforting. That’s probably the best chance I’m going to have. I made the international signal for “I need a fucking ride” with my thumb, and praised the goodness of humanity as the driver slowed down. I looked behind me, my pursuers (all three of them, as it were) were a ways off, still pelting towards me. I couldn’t waste any time. I pulled open the passenger seat door and jumped in. “Thank you so much these three fucking PSYCHOS are out there and can you please drive drive DRIVE” I blurted as we moved off, and the doors locked, and I put my seatbelt on, and I wondered why the driver of the vehicle looked so terrified…


And then I wondered who was in the back seat. I turned to look over my shoulder at the cougher and felt my heart sink. A particularly well-dressed man, wearing a retro style pinstripe suit, looking for all the world like a Mafia Don if it was not for the odd hooded cape he was wearing, and the porcelain white mask he wore on his face. The mouth was covered with a strange little black box, which looked far too intricate and technological to have been a part of the simple mask, which had two tiny little red lines extending down from his eyeholes (which appeared entirely blank in this light), wavering like a heartbeat, then petering out.

Crying blood. I had seen this mask before.

“Good evening, Doctor.” The voice I heard was, not a man’s voice. I surmised that the black box was a vocoder of some description. It was cool, electronic and quite feminine-sounding.
“…Good evening.” I said warily.
”We have much to talk about, you do realise.”
”I very much doubt that.”
She…he, tutted, indicating the negative quite emphatically. “Look…we got off on the wrong foot. The pile of organs thing, the concussion…It was all very distasteful, and I did not intend for you to see that. Here, let’s be friends. Some call me The Crying Man.” He offered a hand to shake. I took it warily and shook as firm as I could manage in a surreal situation like this. “Good, we are now friends.” He said. “Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for you and the driver.”

I felt a cold, metallic sting on my neck, heard an electronic ‘buzz’, then my nervous system exploded into the pain of a million volts flowing through my system. I convulsed back into an upright position, quite possibly actually giving myself whiplash this time, and shuddered uncontrollably, my teeth clamping onto my tongue again, losing control of several bodily functions which I do not care to describe. As this happened, my seat was slowly being lowered back into a lying down position, until for the second time, I felt my vision fade as I looked up at The Crying Man, who was coolly appreciating the scene. “Don’t want you to hurt yourself sitting up so uncomfortably. And I wish you hadn’t done that, these are very nice seats. But we are friends, and friends look out for each other, do we not? I will pay for the seat, you just go to sleep, it’s all going to be fine…”

But I was well on the way already. To sleep, perchance to dream.

Friday, June 10, 2011

Under New Management.

“I need a cigarette.”
“Not in the fucking office you don’t, Doctor.” Jess was growing her hair out since we left the force. It suited her, but while we’re nominally working, I would never say it to her. Not to mention our uneasy friendship was becoming more and more strained now that our checkups and stakeouts had advanced to a 24/7 ‘job’. Well, the job of living under the same roof.

I should probably explain, but…Christ it’s a long story. Don’t worry, you’ll hear it eventually. After our, exit from the precinct, we pooled resources, sold off assets and set up office in the same building. It was a sensible decision, considering we’d both just left our regular, state paid jobs for the perils and pitfalls of self-employment…not to mention in our particular services. A licenced psychology practitioner across what we described as a ‘hall’ (but could also be described as an indoor alleyway or a maintenance tunnel, depending on how kind we were feeling in the morning) from an unlicensed private detective. (well, ‘security investigator’. Who takes Private Eyes seriously these days, it just conjures up the image of a chap smoking a pipe in a funny hat.) I’m good at my job, but the location was not ideal, and I’d had to call in a damn load of favors from my college buddies to get any clientele in. Thankfully, I have a friend based out of Kandahar Province at the moment, who is sending the returned PTSD cases my way for ‘follow-up checks’. It’s similar to the old work, but I won’t talk too much about that except perhaps in passing: This blog was once a way to deal with the stress of what I do at work, but now, it’s about what I do in my free time.

Jess’ business is going…surprisingly well too. Monetarily at least. It’s a far cry from police work, or the illustrious cases of Holmes or Poirot. Hell, it’s a far cry from Marlowe and Sam Spade, too, though marginally more seedy. We don’t get any Maltese Falcons there; the largest market for the, ‘security investigation’ business these days is spited divorcees, looking for anything they can use against their once loved ones in court. It’s a type of justice, or so I tell her, but it’s not what she wants to be doing, and not what she should be doing. But it pays the bills, better than police work on most occasions. And who knows, it’s early days yet, she might find a case that appeals to her.
But for now, the case that appeals to her is our case, which started…god, it’s not even two months ago. It feels like fucking years.

Anyhow. I’ve, digressed somewhat.

“Well maybe if you would’ve let us get a place with a balcony, I wouldn’t have to smoke in the office.”
“Well maybe if you didn’t get yourself a shiny new addiction during your little crazy time, I wouldn’t have to bitch you out!”

It was a fair point, but with the events that happened to us, both of us picked up some bad habits to cope, and we both knew it. I would bring to light the minibar full of Russian Standard which Jess had insisted on, but I didn’t want to escalate this into a full-scale civil dispute. Which I wouldn’t win. Jess still had her gun, and all I had was my charming good looks and modest personality. I excused myself and went across to my own office, opening a window and letting a chill breeze sweep through, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. It reminded me of that day, looking out into the sunset and seeing only burning, boiling death, and feeling only revulsion, utter, surging revulsion.

The killings hadn’t stopped. The, ‘Slender Killings’. They’d paused for a moment, just a blink of an eye, comparatively. And then one day, they began again.

And that time, that day, I was there to see it.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

Shifting Situations.

Have you ever had that feeling, right after you wake up, be it after a good dream or…well, more commonly, after a terrible nightmare…where you’re not sure if it has quite ended? The twilight zone of the unconscious, where the swirling Id sublimates its insecurities, its unspeakable desires, into visions and hallucinations which plague you even when the birds are singing, the trees are mildly shaking off the morning dew in the calm breeze, and all you can do is lie there, stuck in a moment, paralysed with fear, regret, and the ineffable horror that is your own mind, churning like a whirlwind, going on and on and on until you feel sick to your stomach and the bile rises and you clench your eyes because it’s all you can do and the lights flicker and the curtains waft and the room spins so cold so cold and the Storm approaches...

I’ve been living for days at a time in that twilight zone lately, and nothing seems to help.

…I should backtrack, and explain what has happened, what…kept me from updates on my situation, the situation of…that case, the situation of Detective White…Well, Jessamyn White.
I will say now, though…neither myself, nor her, are at the Precinct anymore, as advisors or otherwise. Due to… extenuating circumstances. Completely, horrifyingly out of our control, fragile Man that we as a species are. Fragile, cruel Man, and fragile, cruel me.

It…was a decision I made, to leave the police’s employment. I still don’t know how I feel about it. But on the bright side, my conscience is now clear regarding talking about the Slender Man intrigue…and believe me, there is much to discuss about that. The past month has been…eventful, to put things mildly.

Stay tuned. It’s full steam ahead from here on in.

Monday, April 11, 2011


I'd love to say that there has been some massive breakthrough in our case. That suddenly, these pieces, these murders, have led to something tangible, a conviction, a result...hell. A name. Something. ANYTHING. But it hasn't. It doesn't. Not all the time. Our single hair from the church has been pulling blanks. Aspen's done all she can with it, run it through every database, run for trace chemical samples, and nothing leads us anywhere. All we know is, we're looking for a black haired chap, with no prior convictions. It actually does fit with my hypothesis earlier...We might not be looking for anyone notorious. Just some loner kid, some sorry bastard who's snapped. 
Detective White and I have been talking the case only very irregularly...and both of us are concerned the trail's gone cold. Hell...I think even the Captain knows it has. She's been moved onto another case, leaving this one on a temporary hiatus. Our meetings have gone back to the typical doctor/client routine, the regular checkups, the ritual monotony of a real job.

We're much closer nowadays, though, and she's no longer the uptight angry girl she was at the start of this case. We are...oh, screw it. We're friends.
I don't know why that seems so abnormal to me, but it is: I've always been on the fringes in the force. Nobody really wants to hang out after-hours with their shrink, and I've accepted that. I've never been lonely or anything like that, because I've always seen it as just work. The life I lead, to fund my real life. But I guess being on the other side of the fence, seeing what they do, has made me realize, it's more than just a job, for them. It has to be. And while there is a certain balance to be had, that can't be achieved by cutting the lives of those you help, away from living for yourself. You begin to live for those people.
I think Detective White has taken that to an extreme. Her personal life revolves around her work life, and is intimately connected. Despite acting cool and aloof to her compatriots at the force, she cares deeply about every life that comes into contact with hers, the widows, the orphans, the lovers left bereaved. And I think that gets to her so much that she can't see her life as being important in the face of that loss. She is consumed by the want to re-establish an equilibrium. 
So I'm...helping her help herself, I guess. 
I blew off one of my regular social occasions with my old college friends the other night to go on what I described to them as an...urgent intervention with a key patient of mine.
In reality? I took Jess to the movies. We saw 'Just Go With It', which was...odd for me, I haven't seen an Adam Sandler film since Happy Gilmore, and I swear, that man does not age. I thought he was kind of a man-child back then, too. Me and Jess didn't watch much of the movie; we got in late, and spent most of it wondering aloud to each other what happened to Jennifer Aniston's career since Friends ended, and eventually came to the consensus: "Nothing."
Don't go see 'Just Go With It'. Just by the way. It's pretty bad.
It was a fun night, really. We grabbed a bite to eat after that at a sushi train near the station, and just talked. Work didn't come into the conversation all night, and it was... therapeutic for me. And for her. I guess. I don't know. I hope it was, anyway. She didn't have that look of...imperativeness about her, she just seemed like...herself, with no obligation to the community. She even laughed, her eyes catching the light and shining it back at her surroundings with a twinkle of vivid, green life as she did it…God, I’m getting carried away here. I’m clearly much lonelier than I thought I was, if I wax poetic about a single moment at a seedy sushi joint.

She did look stunning, though.

…I think this might be the first…actual blog post of this entire venture. No work, no intrigue…just a lovely night with a lovely lady. And…after my, experiences in the field, it seems we share some of the same…quirks. We were walking back to my car down a dimly lit sidestreet.

”Thanks for inviting me out tonight, Matt. It’s been a long time.”
”Oh, same here, same here. Last time I went to see a movie…Hell, I don’t even remember it.”
”Last time I went with my niece, the 3D glasses were these green and red paper thingies.”
”…And what are they now?”
”I don’t see ANY movies, let alone 3D ones.”
”Oh good, there’s someone out there who’s as boring as me!”
”Oh, come now, you’re not boring. Anything but.”

The conversation lapsed for a few seconds, just long enough for both of us to hear the wind blowing through the trees, and a soft but unmistakable third set of footsteps directly behind us.

A chill went down my spine, my pulse quickened. I smelled flesh, decomposing, squirming. I saw his face, the man who did this, the blood streaming from his eyes, as I looked up at him, powerless, helpless, as the bile rose up in my chest and the tears welling up from my screaming eyes, the ammonia stabbing, tearing, scouring…

Me and the detective whirled around simultaneously, eyes wide and teeth clenched…only to see nothing there. Nobody. He’d disappeared. He’d never been there in the first place. I experimentally tapped my foot on the pavement, hearing the sound echo back with a sense of relief. I smiled ruefully. “We’ve been too tightly wound lately.”
She grinned playfully, her hair in her face. “We have the right to be paranoid.”

”I suppose we do.”

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

His Children Gather, Part 3.

I don’t think the children understood the gravity of what had occurred. They were all very young, the other members of that Sunday school. The oldest would’ve been about 11. The oldest of the, others was about the same age.

Sometimes I think I don’t quite understand the gravity of the situation, myself. I feel like I should be tearing out my hair, sobbing, screaming at the world. Making some sort of a gesture, something to let those who’ve passed know that I care. Not only the most recent death…All of them. Those we’ve named, those we’ve found, those who have vanished without a trace.

All I have is this dull ache in the corners of my consciousness, this knowledge that there is something inherently wrong with the world. And I don’t know if I’ll ever escape from that knowledge. I look back to last year and think about how naïve I was. How little I knew about the other side of the fence, the people who I spent my days diagnosing and treating. Now, I know fully well that there is no fence. People are fragile; it’s one of the hallmark traits of humanity. Fragility, yet resilience in the face of that.

These children, all of them, they were taken before their time. And the only thing I could do about it, was try my best to make sense of it.

The day following the investigation of the crime scene, I’d organized to speak to several other members of the church group, with their parent’s consent. Not many of them were very willing speakers; particularly the older ones, who had enough of a grasp on the situation.

The youngest one however: Timmy Malone. 6 years of age. A blond, sunny little kid…he didn’t understand, and in that, he became the most useful part of my investigation. I’m not the best with children, and I was not altogether there, but it didn’t seem to matter. He spoke a lot.

“So, tell me about your Sunday school.”
”My teacher is Mister Smith. He is nice and smiles a lot and talks about God.”
”What about the kids in your class?”
”There are a lot of people! There is John, and Samir, and…”
”Has there been anything strange about your lessons?”
”No!” That would’ve been far too easy. Of course.

”Tell me about the church.”
”It’s really big! The windows have all the colors of the rainbow, and at lunchtime, the bell goes ‘bonnng’…The Crying Man says that a monster lives up there and rings the bell, but I think he just saw that on TV.”

From the mouth of babes.

”Who is the Crying Man?”
”He lives at the church. He doesn’t like the sun, he says it hurts his eyes. Did you know that it’s a biiiig ball of fire a million miles away? The Crying Man told me that! He said it was another world, one with a lot of little boys and girls that have been very bad.”
”I don’t think that’s true…What else has the Crying Man told you?”
”The Crying Man is really nice, but he is very upset. People don’t like them, and he doesn’t like them. He wants them to all drown.”
”In forty days and forty nights of rain! Like the story of Noah. Mister Smith told us about that. I think the Crying Man heard him. He hears a lot of things in the church. He told me that Samir and Michael were saying bad things about me when I was outside playing with Heidi and Mark. He said I shouldn’t be friends with them anymore.”
”…Has the Crying Man ever hurt you, or touched you in a way that made you feel uncomfortable?” Standard procedure, which I fell back on while I was trying to process what I was hearing.
”He’s really nice! He wouldn’t hurt any good boys or girls, he said. He said only the bad ones would drown, and the good ones would be able to come with him when he went to talk to Jesus.”
”Has Mister Smith ever heard about the Crying Man?”
”No, the Crying Man told me to never talk to Mister Smith about him, otherwise he would have to go live somewhere else! And mommy and daddy couldn’t know, because they would tell Mister Smith. Promise you won’t tell him, Mister Doctor! Please?”
”Why didn’t you tell me this when I asked if something strange was going on at your church?”
”He’s not strange, the Crying Man says everyone else is strange. He wears a mask to stop them making fun of him.”

I didn’t tell “Mister Smith”, but I did tell the police department who requested his utmost cooperation in whatever they had to do.

And so, in layman’s terms…we raided the church. Under cover of darkness, a group of Homicide detectives burst in through the doors and scoured the building with flashlights. And it was only when we made it up to the bell tower that we found something. Forensics later pushed that something up to ‘something, a straight, black hair and a fingerprint’. It wasn’t much, at least, not for the police, but even just the piece of paper gave me renewed hope, and…something in my mind clicked just looking at it. Rather, what was written on it.


This isn’t a game for the police. This is a game between us and them.

I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII, VIII, IX, X. Ready or not, here I come.

Friday, March 18, 2011

His Children Gather, Part 2

Actions never occur in a vacuum. There’s always someone watching, someone perceiving. Someone they impact on. Otherwise, can we really call them actions? I suppose a way to explain it is through the old “If a tree falls in a forest and nobody is around, does it make a sound” question.

What I’m trying to say is…someone heard. And someone told the world.

”’Police Appreciation Slender With Church Children Massacre’, by Lance Franklin. What do you think, Doc? Too subtle?”

Fucking journalists. I’d just got back from four hours with the bereaved families (which will not be discussed), and that prick springs this shit on me. I…snapped a little. 

“Look, buddy, I’m not sure how things work back in motherfucking Britain, but here, we have a sense of goddamn propriety and sensitivity when it comes to tragedies like this. Your little pun is cute, but for fuck’s sake, do you get off on shit like this? Does seeing a maniac jump around disembowling people make you hard? And did you really think that making a sweet little joke about dead children is going to get you a page that someone will actually read? The fact that you’re standing here, hoping, waiting for someone else to get hurt, sickens me. You plain fucking disgust me. And I’d appreciate it if you’d get out of my face.”

His smile didn’t even waver. “I’m actually Australian.”
”Fuck off.”
I tried to push past him, but he stood firm, his face taking on an oddly curious look. “You’re certainly experiencing a veritable flood of emotion right now, aren’t you, Matt? I…am sorry we got off on the wrong foot, and I’m sorry for you, because we actually have something to talk about. You and I are the only ones who know what is truly going on here. That this killer is clearly basing his work off an original. Forget what those other papers are calling it. ‘The Fishmonger’. ‘The Mad Surgeon’. You and I both know that we are looking at ‘The Slender Man’.”

I nodded, too drained to even make an attempt to walk away. Lance Franklin was a charismatic kind of guy, even though I found him absolutely distasteful. “Sure, yes. That is what a lot of my research is about; using the Slender Man Mythos to provide some form of warning as to what we will have to deal with.” I sighed, making no attempts to move.
“A noble cause. And what do the police think of your theory?”
”That it has merit, but that traditional police techniques will be necessary as well.”
”Do you have any suspects?”
”Yes, I do.”
”…But you’re not going to tell me them.”
”Of course not, you’re a journalist.”
”I know. I’ve got to fly, Mr. Rivers, but I have some research into the Mythos of my own that I’ve been doing, so would I be able to contact you further down the line to compile? I won’t even mention it in the context of this case, we’re talking pure literature appreciation here.”
”Why not? Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go sit down.”

And I did. I sat, and I watched the police mill by. And thought about all the people we’ve lost, and how little progress all my 'literature appreciation’ had made towards catching the criminal. I wasn’t in the best of headspaces at the time, due to the lack of reward for the work I’d been doing. All I’d received in thanks was a concussion and sleepless nights.

Little did I know at the time, my work was about to pay off.

Thursday, March 17, 2011

His Children Gather, Part 1

I promised myself I would not leave this seat until I updated people on what was going on.
But why am I updating you anyway? Why do I feel this compulsion?
Is it a narcissistic desire to document my life, due perhaps to negligible perception of my own self-worth? Perhaps.
Is it a civic duty? We all deserve to know what is going on in our world...the good and the bad. Possibly.

I've been sitting here wondering for the last half hour, 'why am I sitting here, talking to people I don't even know, about events which don't involve them? Especially after being on hiatus for so long. I shouldn't be.

I's a defence mechanism. By narrating these events, to an audience, I'm somehow making them...less real. Making them just another chapter. It's like that one quote from the Blair Witch Project I posted...couldn't have been too much more than a month ago.

But I'm steadily realising just how relevant it is, even outside of the Mythos.

Since I last updated properly...I've been working fairly steadily. Not on the case. On my clinical duties, and on my own personal research. Occasionally I delved into the Mythos again, but that was more out of personal interest than any attempt to develop the background of this case. In fact, I had a bit of a post developed… I remember the exact moment that particular piece of work got put down, in favour of...something else entirely.

I'd just got into work for the morning, though I didn't have an appointment until 2PM that afternoon. I'll be honest, this...Slender Man case simply wasn't a prominent feature of my work before then. Since I looked at the crime scene again...I've been a bit spooked. I've been focusing on clinical assessments, and consulting on other cases. My actual job. None of this crime drama bullshit that I seem to be heading towards.

Then, Detective White walked through my door, oddly subdued. And polite. That set the warning sirens off immediately. “Look, Rivers, I know you’re busy. And that you didn’t want to get involved in this case again. But I think I can change your mind. And I think you SHOULD change your mind.”
”And why is that?”

Detective White closed the blinds of my office before crashing down on the couch, clearly exhausted…mentally or physically didn’t seem to matter, it had come to the point where it was both, regardless. “Because I need your help. I need someone, anyone who can use this to bring this fucker down. I need someone who can rationalize this and say it was all part of a greater plan. And I…I kind of need someone to be at the crime scene with me.”

”What is…’this’?” I asked, strangely horrified. It wasn’t like White to request companionship so openly, and…honestly. That she needed it, rather than wanted to freak out the wimpy psychologist.

”Will you help?”, was her response, looking up at me with those brilliant green eyes for just a moment, before looking away.
I didn’t want to. But I couldn’t turn down such an open request; psychologically speaking, turning her down would close her off again, and it’d be months before I could regain that trust.

More importantly, she was my friend.

And that’s how I found myself standing outside of a church, with the bodies of five children arranged, extending, like petals from a flower, out from a solitary, dying yew tree in the middle. Weighed down with the swarm of black bags, looking like a murder of crows from the distance. The police were bustling around me, scrutinizing the area for evidence, but everything seemed silent. All I could hear was the beating of my own heart in my ears, and Dr. Aspen’s assessment of the crime scene. Her coldly professional demeanour was slipping as well. I don’t think I can blame her for that. I don’t think I can blame anyone for that.

“They died in about one to two minutes. Longitudinal incisions along the neck, severing the internal and external jugular veins, and in most cases, the carotid artery. Three out of five cases were also heavily drugged; we found evidence of intravenous delivery of an opiate on their arms. They wouldn’t have felt a thing, I think. The, jagged cuts on this child’s neck though, indicates a struggle, and it looks like he took two tries to…” Dr. Aspen took a deep breath in, and composed herself. “The organ harvesting procedure appears to have gone smoothly, and quickly. We’re getting the crime scene photos and then taking them into, the lab.”

I nodded. “Do we know who they are? Have their parents been informed?”
“They went to the Sunday school at this church. They were supposed to be on a camp for the weekend. We’re getting the parent’s contact details now.” Aspen said, pulling off her latex gloves and brushing her hair out of her eyes. “I don’t envy the person who needs to inform the parents.”

“I’ll call them in.” I don’t know why I volunteered for it. I guess I felt I’d be able to provide the most sensitivity. And in a situation like this, I felt everyone had enough on their plates.

I’ve been trying so hard to write this update, but the words just haven’t been coming out. It feels like such a weight off my chest to be able to finally share this…I’ve been troubled.

I’ll speak more later.

Friday, February 25, 2011

Through The Loop.

This is another short update; in fact, it's less of an update and more of a...compilation.

Yes, my Tumblr was hacked. No, I don't know who it was.

More interesting for my readers at home, however; the mysterious gentleman who took over my account for a few days, appears to be playing some sort of game.

First round of the game appears to be "Hide and Go Seek", where he posted a picture of...well, I haven't quite been able to figure that out yet. My followers on Tumblr have since informed me that in the (I'm not particularly great with how technology works; I can use it perfectly fine, but damned if I can understand it), was a code built out of a series of triplets, consisting of a large Roman numeral, an Arabic numeral, and a small Roman numeral.

If you want to see this code, it has been posted (presumably in its original form) at my Tumblr. If you do not trust that version of it, then you can probably locate the file embedded in the picture.

The reason I didn't notice this gentleman on my Tumblr? Simple fact of the matter, I wasn't here. Work has been running all of us ragged, and none of us are too sure what to think. Hell...some of the shit that's happened this week, we're not sure we want to think about at all.

I appreciate everyone's patience with these updates, might need to wait a little bit longer. I just don't feel comfortable discussing some of the events of the last few days just yet; once my headspace improves, I will keep you posted.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

Return to Sender.

It's been a crazy week, and I come back and find...that.
I've done the usual. Changed passwords and the like, but...I'm troubled. I'm...apparently far deeper into this than I ever thought possible. Than I ever wanted to be.

I can't tell the police. I've placed myself in a very...grey area regarding confidentially by writing this blog.

I should just delete it. Cut my losses and get out before I lose my job. That would solve at least one of my problems.

...I'm in over my head. I need to go calm down.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

The Crime Scene.

I've been putting this post off for a long time, mostly because some of the contents of it are...well, I'm not quite sure how to deal with it. But Theo's house has been thoroughly investigated since that night, and I'm finally feeling comfortable enough with my mindspace that I can look at the evidence objectively.

First of all, outside. Three pairs of unidentified footprints were found in Theo's backyard. One of them came from fairly heavy duty boots; possibly army surplus. One was unidentifiable as any particularly recognizable sort of shoe. The third came from a pair of fairly dressy shoes, which would not look out of place with the assumed profile of our killer; wearing an expensive suit.

...Sadly for the paranormal enthusiasts, that particular pair of dressy shoes is now sitting in my apartment, after I took them off that night. The crime lab is unaware of my presence at the crime scene at any point in time. Detective Morrow was informed, and potentially Captain Hernandez; I'm not honestly sure who knows about the reason for my sick leave, and frankly, I don't want to think about it too hard myself.

The pile of organs was promptly analyzed before it decomposed too much. The majority of them belonged to an unfortunate member of the bovine population, but...mixed in (for want of a more respectful term), was a human brain and heart, the owner of which is currently unidentified. We're keeping an eye out for missing persons, but there's not exactly much to ID the victim on; we're hoping that the body will show up (though 'hoping' is not the word I would generally apply to a situation involving a brain missing a body...This isn't exactly a general situation.) The bags the organs were presumably carried in with have no fingerprints, but the same dress shoe from outside left an imprint in one of the intestines.

Downstairs, however, is where the most evidence of substance seems to be located.

First of all, that painting on the ground. I have read a great many of these blogs, and I don't believe I have seen anything like that in any of them. I do however, get a prickling feeling that I have seen that symbol before. Unlike the horrifying chaos upstairs, this symbol appears to have been created quite neatly, almost clinically. It appears to have been measured out precisely, and patiently. This seems far more in-character with the almost surgical nature of the first two murders we encountered.

Thoughts on the symbol itself...Color choices are consistent with those already explored in the Mythos. The wave extending from the seems to me to be a stylized representation of the reading off an electrocardiogram; a single heartbeat, then asystole. Rather dire, I suppose.

What is most interesting, however, is the piece of paper found within the semicircle. Though it is fairly hard to see from the picture of the symbol; there are four streams of red liquid extending out symmetrically from the piece of paper in the middle.

Three guesses what the red liquid is. We have not yet identified whose blood that was. It does not match up with any of the evidence we have so far; another victim?

Dr. Aspen told me (with much glee) that the piece of paper in the blood was unable to be released for assessment. I was, however, allowed to have a brief look at it. The blood had soaked into much of the paper, however, there was still a phrase that could be made out.

"THE FIRST VOW." Extending from the outskirts of the page were several of the same insidious tentacles that pervaded Theo's notebook, and in the top right hand corner, a "V" was clearly visible.

...It's getting late, and I'm wrecked. Which beats being unable to sleep by a long shot. I'm going to catch a couple of hours rest before I need to be up for work.

Saturday, February 12, 2011

First Thoughts.

...I'll be honest, not much. I've looked through the notebook several times and am noticing some trends.

There's also some stuff that I just plain haven't encountered in any of my research into the Mythos.

Pages 20, 21 and 22 appear to be as a single instance, as do pages 18 and 19.

The reason I stopped where I did, was because from that point onward, the art style changes...entirely. I still don't know what to think about that. Or the Roman numerals throughout the book. Or...anything.

I can't concentrate. This is a stupid time to be awake. I've been up since about 4, after sleeping at 1. Just...couldn't sleep for longer. I've...well, I've been having dreams. I'm aware that this is a hallmark of these Slender stories, but I can assure you, it's nothing I hadn't expected. I just, relive that moment, where I'm looking up at that face. Porcelain white with arrogant abysses of eyes, crying blood as my vision fades around the edges. He leans over me, and...does he say something? No, he snorts. A single "Hah." Derisive in the face of my horror.

I'm going to make myself a coffee, then head in for work. I need something to take my mind off this.

Monday, February 7, 2011

The Night Shift.

I haven't posted in a long time. And I don't think I can finish this post in one go, either. I have my reasons, certainly. First, and least importantly, my paperwork from my clinicals has been catching up with me. The time I've spent on this murderer (dubbed the Fishmonger or the Mad Surgeon, depending on which papers you read. Thankfully, Franklin's 'theory' hasn't been picked up by many of the major news networks.) has been cutting into my free time both at the office and at home, as much as I loathe to give it that credit. 

On the upside, I...believe I wouldn't be too wrong if I were to say I am somewhat of an expert in the Mythos that help formulate this killer's methods. I've read the origins of the character, I've seen the creative directions it has been taken in, I've noted the subtle differences in each blog's character, whether it's the Operator of Marble Hornets or the Wicked Gentleman of Hiking Fiend, or the many Slendermen of Breaker (I have read a LOT, good and bad.) I've seen what he does, and every so often, something still gives me chills (though I will be honest, those moments are few and far between. One is inevitably desensitized to a tall businessman watching from the treeline.)

So please understand that, when I describe what happened when I took Jess up on her offer to keep her company on the night shift, I am not speaking from a position of ignorance.

Detective White knocked on my door at about 9:45 that night. I opened the door to a rather more casual looking girl to the harsh, up and coming detective who so terrorized the precinct.

"What, you're wearing a suit on a stakeout? You want the kid to think you're with the fucking Bureau? You're a bit of an idiot, aren't you?" 
Well, she was still in casual clothes. That counts for something.
"I forgot to change after work."
"Well, whatever, we need to get there, NOW, to take over from Officer Madison. I'm driving."

I will not speak about the drive there. She was driving at...the speed that suited her, I said some things I shouldn't have, more loudly than I should've, and we almost crashed into a Pizza Hut.

Needless to say, when we first arrived at the house at the stroke of 10 (which was impressive considering where I live), we weren't exactly on speaking terms. She did initiate conversation after she got sick of sulking, though.

"So, what do you think? Any amazing breakthroughs you've made with your time reading teen dudes try to do horror?"
"For your information, most of the bloggers are in their 20's, and there's a fair few female bloggers. Or at least, dudes pretending to be females. And, you can try and belittle the genre as much as you like, but the fact of the matter remains that it is a group of literary works that clearly inspire our murderer. Would you be belittling it if the murders resembled say, the deadly sins of man, and I started looking into Dante's Inferno?"
"...Yes, mostly because I've seen Seven."
"...Point to you."

The night continued pretty much like that. I think I dropped off to sleep at about two, because I remember nothing between then, and when Detective White punched me in the shoulder at 3:33AM. "Something's happening."
"Look out the window."

I rolled over (we had apparently reclined the seats so we were almost lying down. I guess that provides us with more cover or something? I dunno.) and looked at the house. Only one light was on; from Theo's room. Poor guy couldn't sleep. I don't blame him; I'd be kept up by the events going down too. I could see his silhouette behind the venetian blinds, on his computer...

The lights flickered. Like a whisper through a candle. Barely noticeable.

Then, they cut out entirely, as a "SMASH" rang out through the neighborhood. A lone dog barked, breaking the night from its peaceful silence with its harsh staccato. Detective White jumped out of the car, opening the door with a fluid movement. "Look after the car," she demanded, before darting into the night.

I'm not a fighter, I'm a lover. Ah, so to speak. So when she made that demand of me, I was entirely content to follow orders from the officer. If only things were that simple. As the Detective disappeared behind the house, I watched as a shadowy figure slipped silently across the wall, right behind her. 

I'm not a fighter, but I know that fights are generally decided by who gets in the first good hit. And this...whoever they were...

I got out of the car, locking it as I left, and ran as softly as I could with my work shoes on, around the back of the house. It was deserted as I went, with tiny pieces of glass from the broken door glimmering in the moonlight. I stepped over the threshold and listened for any signs of movement, standing awkwardly in the dark kitchen, wondering desperately to myself what I thought I was doing.

You wanna be a hero, Rivers? I can see the headlines now, "Savvy Shrink Saves Damsel in Distress" Alternatively, "Stupid-Ass Psych Skinned, Detective Dead." Wanna take a spin at it, mate?

I wondered why my internal monologue sounded exactly like that goddamn reporter, before hearing slow footsteps ascending the staircase to Theo's room. I froze, standing in place for what seemed like an age, but was probably only a few minutes. I looked around the kitchen for anything I could use to defend myself; a rolling pin being the first object to come to hand. It was an odd weight to be carrying, but the heaviness comforted me enough to move through the house, with a slow 'tap tap tap' of my feet. The light was low, so I brought out my cell phone to help navigate.

Tap, tap, tap, squelch.

I looked down and was overcome with a wave of nausea, narrowly holding down my dinner. On the ground,  was...what my minimal knowledge of anatomy could identify as an intestine, snaking across the floor like a grotesque trail of yarn, leading inevitably to the main ball, hiding in the bathroom down the hall like some inhuman beast.

Garbage bags were strewn around it, slimy with the vestigial juices from what they used to contain; building blocks for the...grand construction. Organs. More organs than could possibly come out of a single human body, piled on-top of each other in a glistening, raw bastardization of the natural order. Some cleaved in two, dissected, as if this were just a macabre science lesson. I swear, they were squirming, the glistening of my cell phone light playing off them, invigorating them, giving them the power to beat, digest, consume. And the stench, oh god the stench. Ammonia and something else, something worse. I couldn't just smell it, I could feel it. My hair follicles felt like they were buzzing in protest, my pores screamed, my hands tingled.

I tried to shout, to do something, but opening my mouth only let that foulness enter my body further. I whimpered pitifully, my lungs burning, eyes tearing up unwillingly. I stumbled backwards, whispering, "What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck...", only to feel a sharp pain in the back of my head.

I dropped the rolling pin, stumbled a bit more. My vision blurred and I fell to my knees. I felt the floor swing beneath me, toppling me to my side. I blacked out, but before the darkness consumed me, I looked up, seeing a ghostly mask grinning down at me, its hollow eyes streaming tears of blood.

Nice try, mate.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

The Calm.

Business continues as normal, I suppose. I get into the office at the same time as I always have. Jess still spends most of her time in the field, so as to avoid the stony silence she receives back at the office. The routine is the same, but it all feels different. Tense. As if the world as we know it is balanced on a razor blade.

Maybe it's because Detective Morrow has been confined to a desk. Sitting in silent comprehension, occasionally typing. For such a legend with the force, it's unnatural to see him so, leashed. His forceful personality was gone, and he had become very introspective. For a man with such a passion for getting out in the field and helping people, this probation was taking its toll. He's been refusing to step a foot inside my office as of late, determined to push past this without help. Typical, I suppose: he understands the relevance of what I do, yet his sense of personal pride has been deteriorated to the extent that he feels he must go through this alone. I am, respecting his wishes, as a friend. Even so, his presence around the precinct is somehow uncomfortable.

It could be that which is setting me on edge. Or it could be that damn reporter...Freelance Franklin. (It's so corny, but that's what goes in the tagline.) He's published an article.  "Something Awful Lurks: Internet Horror Connected to Student Murders". Thankfully, he thinks he's a bigger shot than he actually is: the article was relegated to page six of the paper. Maybe an eighth of a page long. Even so, seeing "The Slender Man" in print was a disconcerting experience. Lance has been snooping around Theo's house lately, too. We've had an officer turn him away from the front door as a 'security threat'. To which he grew quite agitated, declaring this to be a 'fucking imperialistic new world order coverup', government conspiracy, First Amendment, Slendergate, yadda yadda yadda. The officer had a huge grin on his face when he returned to the precinct. Everyone loves a good old dose of crazy in their lives. That said, this guy is smart and persistent, despite his quirks. I've got a bad feeling about him.

Rachel Aspen's been coming into the precinct a lot lately, too. Always with her pseudo-intellectual babble. (maybe not the best word, she is indeed, very smart, but her high and mighty way of delivering her information indicates a clear superiority complex, perhaps drawn from self-image issues or a lack of self-worth in her adolescence.) She's taken a particular dislike to me, possibly because she sees a psychological outlook on this case as a threat to the more typical forensic sciences. Pride in one's field is...natural, however her pride seems to be taking on a competitive edge. Her clearance of the notebook pages are painfully slow, and I am beginning to suspect that she is taking a certain amount of pleasure in delaying them from passing through my hands.

That said, it might just be me being paranoid; spurred by this odd feeling of tension which has been floating around lately. I'd probably tell myself it was, if I were a patient of mine.

I guess I can't know for sure.

Friday, January 28, 2011


"I thought you'd still be up."
"Jess? Why're you awake?"
"I'm on the red-eye shift at Theo's place. On-shift until 4, I'll be a bit late into work tomorrow."
"Ouch. So...why are you calling at this hour? I wasn't sleeping or anything, but...are you bored or something?"

Yeah, I'm so smooth at this hour of the night.

"I just wanted to say, I'm really sorry about this morning. I didn't think when I brought you along to the crime scene. And it was a...bad one."
Oh, right, my, ailment. I was honestly much more pleased when she was pretending it didn't happen.
"Look, it's no problem. In fact, it was probably a good thing. My main job with the force is still counselling those who have job-related stresses. If I am in the field, logically, I will have a better understanding of what I might be dealing with. And, if...that is what you encounter in your job, I know, I guess."
"How do you feel about it?"
I laughed. "Hey, it's MY job to ask that question."
"I guess so...I'm still feeling a bit guilty about this. And I'm tired. Fucking perfect."
"Really. It doesn't matter. Why would this be making you feel so bad? So I lost my breakfast, it didn't cost me too much."
"...It's just that, I generally work solo. I don't get a chance to to work with the other detectives much, and whenever I do, it doesn't seem to go too well. I wanted to bounce ideas off you, is all. And"
"Sorry, I didn't catch that last part, the reception's a little fuzzy."
" it better now?"
"Yeah, it is."
"So...we're good, right?"
"Yeah, we're good." It was a significant breakthrough seeing Jess show any sort of emotion that wasn't just, anger. It was a nice change.

She seemed a lot happier after that. "In that case...these night shifts are ridiculously boring. Now we've decided you're no longer a desk jockey, you should come with next time around."
"Might as well. I'm up until stupid hours anyway."
"Awesome! It's a..........see........."
"You're breaking up again."


We have our work cut out for us. We got a report earlier today, about a body found near the waterfront apartments. I suspect the property values there might go down after something like this. Jessamyn informed me as I was just getting into the office for the morning, and quite bodily dragged me to the car. "I'm a psychologist, what possible use would I be at the crime scene?"
"Hey, you made your personality profiles out of the crime scene photos. Maybe going to the scene of the crime itself will help you pull something else out of this asshole."

I got what she meant, and was far too nice to correct the way she said it.

We got there, and saw the tree before anything else. A huge elm tree towered over us, bare apart from the ominous black bags that I've been seeing in the crime scene photos for the past weeks. Even as we walked from the car, to duck under the tape into the crime scene, Jess was livid. "Goddamnit, not another one. Watching Theo was supposed to stop any of this happening again. Now we've got four bodies on our hands."
"Three bodies. We have three bodies." I corrected her. That said, the search for Jason was...not going well. For all that we knew, he could have just vanished into thin air. (Well, that's an exaggeration: with our current knowledge of science and the world around us, we have indeed ruled "vanished into thin air" out as a possibility, along with "killed by an Eldritch Horror". Sorry to disappoint.)

"Actually, we've barely got more than two bodies." Dr. Aspen was making one of her rare trips out of the lab to head the crime scene forensics, apparently. The brass are clearly concerned with the graphic nature of these murders, and are devoting a, frankly, disproportionate amount of resources to nipping them in the bud. So to speak.
"What do you mean, Rachel?" That was Jess, forgetting her anger briefly to be merely curious.
"It's Dr. Aspen. I didn't spend half my life in college to get called by my first name, Detective White. Let's be professionals here. To answer your question, take a look."

The crime scene itself was still abuzz with the confusion that was the collection of evidence. The entire area was being swabbed for anything that might identify the killer...or so I thought when I walked up. It was only later on that I realized, they were far more likely to be looking for something to identify the victim. "Voilà." Aspen made a gesture that was...considering the circumstances, in particularly bad taste.

The body was burned black, as was the ground around it. What used to be recognizable as flesh was, at best, crispy, and at worst, falling off, leaving only charred bones beneath. The skin bubbled at some parts, tore at others, exposing muscles and tendons. The body's chest had caved in, the ribs smashed. There were no organs, naturally. The body was seated, placidly, with crossed legs, in the lotus position. It was almost peaceful, apart from the skeletal face. The victim's eyes and nose were three black cavities, while their toothless mouth gaped open wide; as if screaming for mercy, to a torturous God (or Demon) who did not heed their cries. Or simply did not act.

Yeah, I threw up.

Dr. Aspen sighed exasperatedly. I knew, even though my watery vision was staring at what was once a fairly nice breakfast, now unfortunately spread across the concrete, that she was rolling her eyes. Jess was a little nicer. She ignored it. "So, what have you got from the body so far?"

"Victim is female, about five foot seven. Facial indicators point to Caucasian."
"What face?"
"I'm looking at the underlying bone structure of the face, not the facial 'features', per se."
"Do we have an age? Cause of death?"
"Excuse me, Detective, this is science, not magic. I'll take the body back to my lab once the crime scene photos are done, macerate the flesh from the bones, then see what I can get."

I had stood up at this point, and wiped my mouth with a tissue that one of the officers on-scene were nice enough to bring me. "First time seeing a dead body?" He asked sympathetically.
"First time seeing one up close, char-grilled and screaming." I was determined to remain a respectable member of the team, so I got right to work. "Completely different body staging. This is in a position of meditation."

"Looks like the Vietnamese monk."
"I agree; the Buddhist self-immolations in Saigon, pre-Vietnam War, were staged exactly like this, as a method of protest...I don't think we're looking at self-immolation, though, unless she cut out her own organs and hung them up in the tree." I was still feeling sick, but I soldiered on. "The victim is sitting at the bottom of a tree...Once again, seems to link to Buddhist teachings: Siddhartha Gautama, the first Buddha, sat much like this underneath a fig tree, when he achieved enlightenment."
"Well, she was certainly enlightened, alright." I looked at Jessamyn with a mixture of horror and curiosity in my eyes. All that callous remark needed was a pair of sunglasses and a The Who song playing over it to be almost comical, though the grim look on her face betrayed much more. The dehumanization of the bodies made the reality of the situation that much more bearable for her.
"Perhaps the killer has just as disgusting a sense of humor as you, Detective White." She smiled wanly at that.

"Perhaps so."

"He's still using vaguely religious iconography...but this time, it's less of a position of devotion, and more...a position of knowledge."
"Doctor Rivers, that is pure conjecture. You're fictionalizing this. How is that even relevant?" Aspen clearly took offense to my brainstorming. I did nothing but shrug. "It means his method is changing. And with a changing method, means a changing thought process underneath."

I ducked out of the crime scene, taking a couple moments to myself, closing my eyes, calming my thoughts. I don't suppose there is anything that can prepare you for your first encounter with an actual body. The smell, the knowledge that, that...thing, in front of you, was once a living, breathing human. With hopes. Aspirations. Family, friends. A heart, a mind, a soul.

All of those had been taken away from that poor husk of a person sitting in front of me.

"How good's the weather today?"
I opened my eyes, to find myself face to face with Lance "Free" Franklin, that journalist from when Morrow got booted from the case. Not again. 

"Yeah, it's just great, buddy."
"So, this is another of those killings, ay? Connected to the disappearance of Jason Sanders?"
"No comment."
"Oh, come on mate, we're old friends now. Well then, would you be able to tell me about how these murders are connected to the, 'Slender Man'? I think that's what the kids are calling him."

I froze. That was, not a good detail to be getting out to the press. "I don't know where you would hear about a connection like that."
"The kid, Theo, goes to a university. Of course he'd have friends there who'd heard about his problems. And blimey, they are SOME problems, aren't they? Big, scary guy in a black suit with tentacles, stalking kids? The police are not commenting? This story just writes itself. Don't suppose you've had any big bad boys from the Military coming in and telling you what to think? Seen anything strange in the skies lately?"

I didn't even dignify any of that with a verbal response. All he needed was one finger.

He got the picture. "Fine, fine, I'll just go for a walk around here, if you don't mind. Until we meet again, mate. Oh, and trust me: we will meet again."

And he was off. Just like that. I looked at him go, and muttered to myself.


Friday, January 21, 2011


Jess barged into my office today (well, I suppose yesterday. I really should sleep more than I do) holding a bundle of paper, wearing thin latex gloves. "We found something."

I was...less pleased with that than you might've thought: I was currently with a patient. He (his name is not relevant) turned around, leaning over the back of the couch with a steely glint in his eyes. "Excuse me, Detective White: you can wait." That was him, not me. I was a little slow on the uptake, and didn't really want to get involved. Particularly not when Jess' eyes matched my patients. The only words that went through my mind were Oh God, prepare for impact. 
"I'm sorry, Mr. [REDACTED], but I'm trying to do my job here, something I'm fairly sure you should be doing instead of wasting working hours talking about your feelings! So, how about, I leave, give you two minutes to finish bawling your eyes out to Dr. Shrink over here, and I'll come back with a glass of water and some concrete pills so you can harden the FUCK up, you goddamn prick!" She lifted her foot up and brought her heel down on the arm of the couch (earning a wince from me: that was good leather, and it came out of my salary), before exiting, slamming the door behind her.

Yeah, I don't think it would be breaching patient confidentiality too much if I were to say that Jess has some unresolved anger issues underneath her belt.

Funnily enough, though, he didn't feel much like continuing the session, so we wrapped things up, and he left just as Jess came back in, still fuming. "Can you believe the nerve of that guy?"
"Not in the slightest. Want to sit down?"

We both sat on the couch (which was thankfully unscuffed), and she dropped the papers in front of me. Photocopies of all these little drawings in tiny squares, which I recognized as a film storyboard. "Jason's place. We just got these ones back from Forensics. I told Dr. Aspen that you needed them."
"And she gave them to you?"
"Actually, she said they were still being tested. These are just the pieces of the diary which are done, she's still got an entire book down there. Not all of it's in one piece, either, it's all been torn up and..."
"So, this is what Jason wrote before he went missing?"
"No, get this...It's not Jason's writing. It's Theo's. And, the best part?"
"The final entry is the day AFTER Jason disappeared. One day after the house was put under lockdown."
"What does that even MEAN?"
"I don't know." She grinned. "But this is evidence. Actual, physical evidence. I can do something with this. You want in?"

"Anything to get me off the computer for a change. I'm sick of reading forum posts."

I'm going to be uploading these diary pages as we finish with them. They and my musically aligned posts, will be available on my Tumblr account, along with anything else...unconventional. My more traditional posts will be available here.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Playing Catchup.

I'd do introductions again, but...well, I don't particularly feel too enthusiastic about going back over stuff I've already said, particularly not...currently. I've got work to do. Far, far too much work. Therefore, if I might direct all newcomers to . I may archive all those posts here when I have the time.