Chapter 1: WITH GREAT POWER
Chapter Text
The smell of paint hung heavy in the air as a [h/c]-haired woman stared dully at the large, blank canvas in front of them, sitting on a burgundy stool as light cascaded in from giant windows on the right.
Grey sheets, splattered with multitudes of colors, sat underneath the canvas and stool. This place was used often or had been used, as most of the paint was old and dry, and only the smell remained which clung to [name]'s clothes. They were baggy, used often for painting, as they were just as splattered with paint as the sheets, only lesser in amount due to the fact she wore a brown apron to protect the majority of the cloth.
There were no paints today though. Only a fresh, clean brush, and a stumped artist.
A sigh left her lips as she tilted her head to one side, then the other. Being stuck like this wasn't uncommon for an artist, but for someone who made money off this kind of work, it wasn't great for her case.
Sometimes she'd think, why'd I even become an artist in the first place? Then other times, I love my job. Her paintings on walls of exhibits and bought by artists and enjoyers of her work alike... It filled her with pride.
So why did burnout have to hit so hard like this? The former was hitting her hard, and during a time when art was very popular these days. Her manager had called countless times over the week, pleading for something to be sent out to the hall to be sold. She even begged [name] to take commissions which she declined. She never found enjoyment in painting something specific for someone else. If that was greedy, so be it, she was greedy.
[name] remembered the look on her manager's face when [name] told her this, a small, amused grin spreading to her lips as her eyes gazed through the canvas. Those were times when [name] was filled with inspiration and aptitude nobody else had seen in a young artist like her.
Yet, look at her now.
Another sigh left her as she tossed the brush in her right hand to the side rather than placing it in the basket, the object clattering near the edge of the sheets where a combination of dark and light blues swirled together, creating a nice, ocean-like pattern. The wave became dirty green mixed with muddy brown until it was swirling at the center of her easel in a dark mass. She spun on her stool, back facing the large canvas, and slipped off, taking a few steps away, filling her nose with air and old paint.
She turned her head, looking at the large, slanted windows. There were three of them, all looking out at her backyard. A small pool accompanied fake grass, all surrounded by a large, stone wall, blocking off any unathletic intruders or wandering eyes.
It wasn't like [name] needed the extra amenities, she lived alone.
It was lonely living alone, but [name] was used to lonely.
The sun was just barely shining through the windows, the rays dappled by the trees that blocked the sight of [name]'s home. It was probably an hour past twelve; so she was there for about an hour, thinking of what to paint.
God, she was hungry. [name] also didn't feel like leaving the house today either, so she'll probably order something; even though it was much more expensive that way.
[name] undid the knot she tied behind her back and then lifted her painting apron up and over, shaking her head to loosen the strands of hair that would get caught on the cloth before hanging it on the nail right next to the door. She then grabbed her phone which had been sitting on the table next to the same door and pushed it open, walking out into the quiet hall.
Her home wasn't that big. The biggest room had to be her art room, the one she was just in. The smallest was, surprisingly, her bedroom; which was also the messiest.
[name] scrolled through her phone, walking out into her living room before flopping back-first onto her couch. She decided on a place that would give her enough food to last until dinner; that way she didn't have to worry about making anything tonight.
After hitting order, [name] sat up a bit further so she was no longer lying lopsided. Her free hand came up to wipe up across her forehead and back over her hair.
"Holy shit," she muttered, her brows furrowing, yet her lips were turned upwards, almost disgusted. Disgusted with herself. Yeah, this was bad.
Conveniently, her phone rang right in her hand, the familiar, yet annoying, tune of her manager's personal ringtone filling the empty room. [name] sat up, smoothed down her hair, then answered.
"Afternoon," she greeted, wincing slightly at the slight crack in her voice.
"Any progress, [name]?" She could hear the sound of chattering in the background. It was barely audible, so [name] assumed she was in a place of business or public with very little people nearby.
[name] chuckled, that quiet laugh trailing off and into silence, that silence lasting a few seconds longer than she would've liked, "same place I was a few days ago," she admitted, because if [name] said she gained some progress, Katlyn, her manager, would probably come over herself and check up on said progress.
Katlyn wasn't happy, and she made that known with an audible sigh. There was no anger behind it, more disappointment than anything. [name] knew this; this was normal.
"[name]... I think it's about time we-..you, take up some commissions."
"You already know how I feel about that," [name] snapped back, but inhaled quickly to collect herself, then tried again, "you already know what I said... I'm sorry, but I think I'd be in a worse place if someone told me what to do rather than if it came naturally."
The other end was quiet. This call felt like a repeat from last week, where Katlyn would recommend commissions and [name] would disagree, and then the two of them would sit in silence before one of them finally said something. Which was usually Katlyn.
"Then I need you to get it together, [name]," again, her voice wasn't angry, but it was as if she was talking to a child in elementary school, "try something new. Go outside and people-watch, step out of your comfort-zone. I'm doing my best to accommodate your requests, but if this keeps up..."
If this keeps up...? [name] wanted to ask, press for more, to know what Katlyn was really thinking. The two of them were never vulnerable with each other, which may have been a problem in some people's eyes, but it never caused any issues.
"I got it," [name] sighed, "I'll...I'll get it done. Before the end of this month, I promise."
As she said this, [name] quickly swiped out of the phone call, while keeping on the line, and to her calendar app. Oh. The end of the month was only ten days away.
It was Katlyn's turn to sigh now, "alright. Call me if you need anything and... Yeah. Good luck, [name]." A few more seconds of silence between them before her manager ended the call.
[name] hadn't realized it, but she was sweating. Her baggy shirt was sticking to her collar and right below her breast. She pulled at it with one hand, airing it out. Then, she opened up one hellish app; Twitter. [name] didn't have a big online presence, most of that was handled by Katlyn, most pictures showed off her finished projects and other small things. [name] also had a side account for herself, but it had nothing to do with her as an artist.
There wasn't much to see very often on her feed, most things shown to her were random accounts she didn't even follow, but what the algorithm thought she'd like. Sure, some of them were interesting, like art pieces both physical and digital (she dabbled in digital before, but physical was more her medium), videos too, mostly about animals (but she would never get one, they took up too much time).
The doom scrolling went on and on, and she thumbed right by a picture, dark with mute colors. She paused, scrolling back up, and peered at it closely. To most, it was a regular image, but there was something eerie about it.
There was an image, that looked like a physically taken picture; actually, it was, but edited. At first, she couldn't tell due to it looking so old and real, but the sight of the tall, inhuman creature that stood at the forest line in the background caused [name]'s eyes to widen just a tad. The colors blended this figure in well, but the appearance of it caused it to pop out of the image at the same time.
Something moved within her mind, a flicker of a thought.
You wouldn't look at this picture twice until it's right in front of you, she thought, creating the perfect description for both the image and the piece in her head. A horror right there.
Yes. Yes, this was it.
[name] looked at the image again, the comments mystifying her. Apparently, this was a well-known, fictional creature. A tale parents tell their children to keep them out of the woods. An old story in the past of children disappearing at night, their screams coming from the forests.
She stood up, marching quickly back down the hall. Her hunger remained, but inspiration was quickly blooming. It took a surprising amount of thirty minutes for her to regain that spark that fueled her mind. [name] didn't even bother tying her apron on correctly as she rushed through the door to her art room.
A collection of colors; most of them dark, black, grey, brown, forest green. The sky would be cloudy grey, a storm approaching. Her palette oval was untouched; not unlike her in times like these. She knew exactly what she wanted, and only needed to collect the small tray of paints, and it went on from there.
The room turned from a bright white to yellow. Her food had arrived already, [name] having missed the doorbell ringing twice before she finally retrieved it and placed it on the counter of her kitchen, then raced back to her canvas, an overgrown, dark forest awaiting her. It was wet, dark, and dreary. There was no light except for the grey clouds, and that creature, the one she had seen from that image, stood in the background; just barely seen.
Paint decorated her fingers and thumbs, dotted even up to her elbows. Most of it was dried by now, but her art still needed some work. Then again, it was too dark to continue; natural light worked the best, and, man, she was starving.
By now her food was cold, but she reheated it in the microwave. All was good (but it would've been better if eaten fresh). Reluctantly, [name] readied herself for bed, showering while thoughts of wonder filled her mind. That picture wasn't horrifying, just unsettling and eerie. A part of her felt the urge to go back and do more research on this... Slenderman. What an odd name for such a creepy thing.
[name] settled in bed, staring at the ceiling as the room grew darker and darker. The shapes in the dark moved and twisted, her eyes adjusting to the shadows that grew on the wall from her dresser and mirror and the coat that hung at her door. Then, she fell asleep.
[name] never dreamed; that, or she never remembered them, so when artists say that their inspiration came to them in a dream, she was envious.
But if dreams were like anything she experienced last night, [name] was no longer envious.
First of all, she was keenly away she was dreaming the moment she woke up in a building cloaked in red light; her skin and outfit all different tones of crimson. The ground sloshed around, her ankles and below covered in some sort of liquid which she was unable to tell what it was. She spent the longest time walking around this empty building, the walls rotted and broken, with no other human in sight.
Though, [name] could sense that she was not alone. There were times that she saw a glimpse of white just barely out of her vision, like a small flash or some sort of movement; even the feeling of a presence behind her, but when she turned, it was gone. That was when it grew harder and harder to walk.
She lifted her right leg above the liquid that thickened the ground and saw material clinging to her feet, draped over them, greasy and wet.
It was hair.
[name] felt her stomach churn, foot coming down as they refused to touch it. There was a taste of copper in the back of their throat, and then they coughed it up not a few seconds later. Blood dribbled from her lips, but the coughing got worse. It came to a point that [name] couldn't breathe, and then couldn't stand. She was on her hands and knees and could feel the hair in the liquid sticking and clinging to her fingers. Her stomach clenched again, cringing at the disgusting feeling until she finally woke up.
She lay there in a cold sweat for a few minutes, the taste of copper still fresh in her throat. She then got up, hurried to the bathroom, and spat it out in the sink, watching the red turn to pink until it disappeared down the drain.
[name] then turned to brighter thoughts and aimed to hurry to her work room, but she then slowed to grab something in the kitchen before returning to her canvas; the trees needed some repainting, and the overgrowth at the forefront of the art needed to be a little thicker.
Maybe... Maybe if she finished this today, she'd work on an all-red piece next. Just to appease Katlyn. Then, she could finally say, "it came to me from my dreams."
The [h/c]-haired female finally cracked a smile at the thought as she gathered the necessary colors and brushes, tied her apron, and got to work.
The sounds of an early morning filled the room, the light cold as it washed through the windows and careened toward the back of the artist as she worked meticulously away on the painting in front of her. The canvas looked dark and depressing from afar, but it was one of a kind to [name]. All because of that faceless thing hidden away between a freshly placed group of oiled trees.
[name] did a doubletake.
Her tall muse was missing. The whole reason she painted this thing was gone.
The artist laughed aloud to herself. Okay, well, it wasn't exactly missing. There was always a chance [name] just forgot to add it to the painting. She had been working on it half the day yesterday; mistakes happen.
But, wait, no, she clearly remembered painting it in. Making sure there was just enough of it seen, its body blending into the background, its figure tall and spindly; just like the branches and stems of the trees.
[name] thumbed at the bristles on the end of her brush, the paint just dry enough that it didn't smear, but just wet enough that it painted tiny marks against her skin, but grew darker each time she ran her thumb over.
It's okay. She can just paint it there again. It would be a bit more difficult than before, but she could do it.
[name] turned to the right, enough so she could reach over to to the basket and pick up a thinner brush, and paused. There was a flicker of something dark that had moved just out of her vision the moment she had seen the window. It was something she had missed. Black. A crow? A raven? Not common in her area, but it wasn't entirely impossible. She shook her head. [name] saw many things in her window, birds were always one of those things.
She retrieved the utensil, leaned forward on her stool, and began to paint slowly. There was no outline on the canvas where she had placed the creature, nothing that specified that she would paint there later. Nothing. Yet, something gnawed at the back of her mind. And she was growing frustrated.
Her nerves cooled after a few minutes. The painting was coming together after she repainted the white, faceless thing back in its original position, blending with the trees and creating a space in the back of her mind. She blotched the front of the painting with a sponge, hard enough that it left swirling marks of darkish green and brown near the bottom corners. Trees and dead leaves and cold clouds came to life, and [name] felt refreshed.
Her eyes wandered to the multitudes of paints on the table to her left, specifically the red ones, wondering if she could recreate the imagery in her dream. It was still very early, and if she started now, she'd probably be done by dinner.
Speaking of which, [name] was hungry. She had brought something from her kitchen but hadn't had the chance to eat yet.
Like yesterday, and like days before yesterday, [name] spun easily around on her stool to face the back of her art studio. Though, again, there was a flash of unusual color in front of her that clashed with the white walls. Black. Black and tall and it was right behind her just moments ago.
[name] wasn't crazy. She blinked quickly, squeezing her eyes shut tight for a few moments, then opened them. She pinched herself on her right arm, then raked her nails across her left. No, it wasn't a dream. And that...that thing was right here.
"Okay," her voice raised, trying to reach out into the depths of her home, "that isn't funny!"
Her words were met with agonizing silence and a coolness wrapped around her neck. She stood up quickly, turning to look at her painting. More specifically, at the entity she had painted just minutes ago.
Fuck.
It was gone.
[name]'s breaths began to quicken and she grabbed at the upper part of her apron, speaking in her mind, forcing herself to calm down, catch her breath, and get a grip. There were too many coincidences to say this wasn't real. How the hell could a...a fictional creature step out of a painting?
How could she make something that was supposed to scare children into something so real?
She hurried over to the table next to the door, grabbed her small snack and her phone that lay next to it, then ran out of the room. Her apron hindered her legs just a little, but [name] hadn't run this fast in her life.
Who would you call? [name] though, fumbling with her phone, dried paint on her fingertips, who would believe you? What would you say?
Katlyn. Maybe... Just maybe she'd listen. She would believe [name].
Her thumb hit call, and she watched the screen. It rang in her hand, once, twice. Then [name] hung up, ran back into the studio and toward the easel.
Coming into the room and approaching the painting, it looked rather beautiful. From an artist's viewpoint, anyone would think this was a normal painting of a stormy day in an overgrown, tall forest, minus a white blotch near the back of the painting where something was clearly missing. The source of all her inspiration after weeks of an empty canvas.
[name] grabbed the canvas, the item weighty in her hands, and then twirled it in her palms, to the back.
On the back of the canvas was something [name] had never seen before, nor did she ever touch the back of it. There was a black, circular symbol with two lines crossing into it. [name] narrowed her eyes, then her lips curled up with a snort.
A target made just for her.
Then, [name] lifted one of her legs and kicked a hole right through it.
Chapter 2: COMES GREAT FUCKERY
Chapter Text
Three days had passed. Three days of mental torture.
[name] found it wise to clean her room after the first night of seeing that thing. The shadows that crawled up her walls and flickered in the corner of her vision always looked like it was there with her. More so the coat that hung on the back of her bedroom door, but she never thought it looked like that before.
She didn't leave her house either. There were too many thoughts telling her that someone would be watching or waiting for her to leave, to ambush her when she finally snuck out of the sanctuary of her home; but [name] had never thought these things before. She was content living here, in this safe place.
There were oddities though that didn't make this place safe anymore.
The one time she had exited her front door to get the mail, by the time she came back, the door was locked. [name] kind of laughed and shook it off, and jumped her stone wall to enter through the backyard door, which, thankfully, was unlocked. Another time, she turned off the light next to her bed to go to sleep, and then in the middle of the night, she woke up and it was on. These small things should have been nothing but coincidences if not for the time she saw that faceless creature in her studio.
[name] had been coughing a lot more lately too, pulsing headaches causing her to take multiple breaks while she tried to paint that red nightmare on a large canvas. This project was sapping her of her strength, but she thought that being aware and awake was better than being asleep and vulnerable to these dreams. The majority of the painting was done by now, the scenery of the building degraded over time, broken in some places, showing off an endless sea of red. However, she painted nobody inhabiting the place.
After [name] soaked the red-hued brush in the murky water, she stretched and threw off her apron. It was midday and she was already exhausted. [name] carried herself to her bedroom, eyes heavy and limbs sore. There was no eldritch horror that could take away the exhaustion she had accumulated overtime, and she passed out.
The female didn't dream of anything but was keenly aware of being unconscious. Something was observing her while in this state, but struggling to fight back consciousness was too exhausting. She found the effort akin to her burnout and grimaced; if that was even possible in a place like this.
What place?
[name] woke up on the floor of her studio, lying on her stomach in a shirt she didn't remember changing into. Her hands were wet, and when she pushed herself up off the floor, [name] fought the urge to throw up when she spotted red coating her hands and up her forearms, yet she calmed down quickly when realizing it was just paint, a multitude of reds.
Her mind pulsed with thoughts as she looked up and around the studio where the sky was bright from an early morning. She would wake up around this time, but [name] clearly remembered hauling herself to bed. And she definitely did not remember painting on all these canvases.
There were at least nine canvases and only three on easels. All of them were painted in red paint, some in lighter hues, others darker, some a mix. Each of them was from that same dream, yet in different scenery, some scenery [name] knew for sure existed due to it being so fresh in her mind, but others just...didn't sit right with her.
Did I paint all of these?
She couldn't be the culprit, at least, she didn't want to believe she was. This wasn't bad, but to paint in her sleep was... Indeed odd.
Something rattled and vibrated the desk near the door causing her heart to race. Her eyes landed on her phone which was face down and scrambled over, still delirious. [name] sighed loudly and quickly wiped the wetness of the paint on her pants and grabbed her phone.
"Hello?" Her voice was quick, not bothering to see who was the caller until a familiar voice came from the other line.
"[name]!? Wh-why haven't you been answering my calls?!" Katlyn sounded different. Oh.
She was angry.
The momentary stutter in her voice sounded like disbelief or shock, but it was anger. [name] lifted her other hand, about to push some of her hair up and out of her face, but paused again at the sight of her hands.
"I-I just woke up, sorry, I-"
"What do you- [name]. [name], you've been avoiding my calls, and you're telling me you just woke up? You aren't just saying this because you still haven't gotten any work done, right?"
"We just talked. Three days ago." [name] furrowed her brows, lips thinning into a line as she waited for a response. Katlyn didn't hang up, but she was quiet.
"[name]. We talked last week."
Last week. Last week? No, no, it had been only three days. [name] swiped out of the call, still on the line, and opened up the calendar app. It was... The first of what should've been next month, but now this month. She stared at it, eyes darting to the year, then scrolled back and forth to the previous month and then back to this month.
"I-..." The noise that followed caused her to falter, and she cleared her throat, "I guess I lost track of time..."
The pounding of her heart was loud in her ears as she continued to stare down at the date. What happened? Her hands...her studio, everything was so surreal.
Katlyn sighed, this longer and filled with frustration, "do you at least have something ready? Anything?"
[name] looked at the many paintings in the room. All were red, bleeding, and unsettling to look at, "yeah." She didn't even know which one was her original painting, "can you come by and pick it up?"
She turned her attention a bit further up, toward the glass of the studio. Her backyard remained the same, but she no longer felt safe with the tall walls around her house and these blindless windows.
But what hope do I have when the thing that's haunting me is some unworldly being?
"Yeah. Yeah, I can. I'll be by in thirty," then, the call cut, leaving [name] alone with her thoughts. She dropped her phone back onto the desk in front of her.
[name] could give Katlyn any of these paintings, right? It didn't matter which one at this point since all of them reflected the same dream she had before. One of them that lay on the floor was particularly messy, the liquid that took up the entirety of the ground a bit more angry and bothered than what it was like in her dream. The one to the right of it was a lot more full of life, but still just a red; but it used lighter reds, on the verge of a pastel pink.
There was one on an easel that was not sat on the sheets she usually used to keep the floor from getting too dirty. It was a painting of a dark red bedroom that only held a bed, a crooked chair, and a small desk as furniture. A window sat high above the poorly made bed, a pinkish moon or sun illuminating the room as shadows enveloped the corners of the painting.
[name] would give Katlyn this one.
The artist straightened herself and hurried out to the kitchen. She wouldn't use the bathroom, which was closer to the studio, because she didn't want to stain the ceramic.
It took a while to scrub the paint from her hands and arms. By the time she was done, her arms were tingling, raw, and still lightly tinted with red. It wasn't as noticeable, but if someone looked hard enough they could tell. [name] then returned to the studio and retrieved one of the many paintings and brought it out to her kitchen, signing the back of it with her initials in Sharpie (on the outer edge of the canvas, of course). She left it next to her door for later.
[name] sat down on her couch, staring forward at the reflection on her TV. It was blurry, just like her memories of the previous week. No, it wasn't like they were blurry, she had no memories from the past week. The last thing she remembered doing was passing out in her bedroom. [name] couldn't have just forgotten either, because a part of her knew that she would've answered Katlyn's calls. Even if her manager was a bit pushy, [name] never purposefully avoided her.
"What the hell is happening?" [name] spoke to herself, leaning forward. She braced her forearms on her knees, head hanging low. Her eyes were hot with frustrated tears, but she bit back the urge to cry. She was already coming on with another headache and a scratch in her throat.
The air chimed with the sound of the doorbell, causing her heart to jolt with surprise, but then calmed quickly. Right. Katlyn said she'd come over in thirty minutes, time must've flown by.
[name] wiped hard at the edges of her eyes and cleared her throat, then pushed off quickly from her couch and to her front door, unlocking and opening it.
She realized how much of a mess she must've looked to Katlyn when her manager saw her figure in the doorway. Her brows scrunched together but released quickly, eyes darting down near [name]'s left, Katlyn's right, where the painting leaned against the wall. Katlyn's shoulders relaxed suddenly and she exhaled slowly.
"Here," the brown-haired woman handed [name] a styrofoam cup, and when she took it warmth spread across her palms, "thought you might need some."
[name] stepped back once and grabbed the back rim of the canvas with her left hand, her right holding the cup tightly, "thanks." The strong smell of vanilla coffee reached her nose and the inside of her mouth began to water.
Katlyn took a look at the painting after [name] handed it over, her expression unreadable, but she didn't say anything negative about it. Or positive. [name] wasn't an artist that stuck to a specific trend, style, or medium. She was someone who created something out of thin air and was proud of it.
"Can't say I'm not interested in what inspired this piece," Katlyn finally said, giving a soft chuckle as she one-handed it to pull out her phone after receiving a message.
[name] opened her mouth, finding her voice dry and rough, barely a whisper reaching the air. She brought the coffee up to her lips and took a long, big drink. The coffee was hotter than she thought and her face scrunched up at the temperature that scalded her tongue, but it was pleasant to her now burnt tastebuds.
"A dream," that sweet taste turned bitter as she remembered the dream, rather a nightmare. She remembered the feeling of the hair that clung to her feet as she trudged through the red, swamp-like setting. It didn't scare her, but it remained fresh in her mind.
"A dream." Katlyn repeated, staring forward, then turning her attention back down to her phone, "well, alright. I'll get going then."
Katlyn turned to leave, her car sitting at the end of the walkway down [name]'s front yard. A cold wave washed down [name]'s head down to the back of her neck as her lips parted, and she subconsciously spoke, "wait!"
She watched the woman turn, mind racing. [name] could tell her. She could tell her about the image she saw and the odd inspiration that stemmed from it, which then led to the unheard-of events. The missing piece from her original painting, that very same piece coming to life in the form of a tall, faceless entity that has been watching her and probably had been watching this exchange.
And Katlyn still looked on, waiting for [name] to speak as [name] stood there, body swaying from the threshold of her home as if she wanted to follow Katlyn out. To plead for help.
Something stung the back of her mind though, but it sounds insane, she thought. It sounds insane and she didn't know if Katlyn would even believe her.
Katlyn said her name, eyes narrowing not out of malice, but concern and confusion. [name] found it hard to breathe. It was hard to keep themselves grounded. This was not okay, Katlyn wouldn't be okay. It wasn't right.
"N-nothing, nothing, sorry," [name] forced out, the ringing in her ears lessening after she finally spoke up, "thanks for...for the coffee." [name] moved the coffee back up to her lips, taking another long drink. She couldn't feel the burn this time.
Her manager nodded slowly, turned, and walked back to her car.
[name] shut the front door and locked it quickly, staring wide-eyed and thoughtless for a while straight ahead.
That thing. That creature was watching them, listening to their entire conversation. [name] had to fight a coughing fit the entire time, the only thing she couldn't fight was the headache which was becoming more and more frequent.
[name] turned around quickly, inhaling sharply as she scanned the vicinity of her living room, looked right toward her kitchen, and then left, down the hall at her studio.
Did she leave the door to her studio open? Or did she forget? [name] had been forgetting a lot of things lately.
The [h/c]-haired woman walked slowly and carefully down the hall, her breathing loud in her ears and her heart hitting hard against her ribcage. She stepped inside the room, and then found herself weak, and fell to her knees.
A large, black mark was smeared across the center of her art room, surrounded by her red paintings, jagged lines running over each other multiple times. It was circular, with two lines crossing through each other in the circle. And in the center... In the center stood that thing. That tall being, its white face ever so slowly tilting to the side, just barely moving.
[name] breathed heavily, coughing and hacking as she slammed both palms to her ears. She leaned forward, forehead to the ground, as if she was kneeling or bowing low before a deity. She was saying something, but it was gibberish. [name] couldn't hear herself think. She couldn't hear herself speak.
It told her to stop, and [name] was silent. This thing didn't speak, it had no mouth, but it did indeed tell her to stop talking, though she couldn't stop her tears from falling or her body from trembling.
This thing was putting its words into her mind. Its needs. Its desires.
It wanted her to paint.
"Paint what? I... I-I-" Her voice trembled and shook, hands still pressed tightly to her ears as a wave of heat and pain coursed through her body. She groaned, a dizzy spell almost toppling her to the right, even further on the ground than she already was. Silent. It wanted her silent.
And she was silent.
Paint pictures of my people, it told her, the words echoing an unusual tune in her head. There were more of them. So many more.
[name] was special.
In different circumstances, [name] would've felt touched. She was given compliments often, but receiving one from an entity not of this world was an achievement of itself.
Something coiled around [name]'s left ankle. It was smooth, cold, and chilling to her bone.
It wanted her to bring them to life with her paintings. Just as she did with it.
"B-but I-" She stopped herself, remembering its command of silence. [name] lifted her head only barely off the ground, eyes hazy and teary, her cheeks wet. She stopped herself after seeing the legs of the entity still standing ominously at the center of the symbol, "I... I don't know how I did that! I just- painted!"
Her words were terrified and true. [name] was thankful that the tall creature didn't retaliate. In a way, it seemed to tolerate her to an extent.
The air went cold as [name]'s legs grew numb. Her thoughts spoke, then you will paint.
And I won't have to hurt you anymore.
[name] was about to lift her head once again, about to move just a smidge, but a sickening pain jolted her upright. CR-ACK! That cold, smooth feeling around her ankle snapped the bone, causing a shrill cry to rip from the female's throat. She curled back down, sobbing and lying on her side, doing her best not to move her left leg, but any movement caused rackets of pain to run up her spine.
The crackling in the air had disappeared halfway through [name]'s cries of agony, but her phone clattered down on the floor next to her. She dragged herself over to it and gripped it hard. It was already unlocked, a page already opened on it. It looked like some sort of story, with a picture at the top of a person in a mask. Yet, through blurry eyes, [name] swiped the page away for now and dialed for emergency services.
[name] was going to be an unwilling participant in this, but if that... Slenderman was going to break a bone every time she acted rebellious, maybe it would be best to go along. For now, at least.
Chapter 3: LIFE IS LIKE PLAYING CHESS
Chapter Text
Those three days in the hospital felt like weeks. It was hard to concentrate on anything but know that there were eyes on her at all times; both human and not.
[name] should've probably been thankful that her ankle was broken rather than her hand because one of those two limbs was more important to her career than the other.
It was in a cast now, and she limped or used crutches to get around. The first day back, Katlyn had to drive her home. She also had to give her an excuse for how she broke her ankle only ten minutes after leaving her house. [name] lied, of course, and told her that she tripped and fell, passed out for a few minutes, woke up, and it was broken. Katlyn didn't say anything after that.
The artist was now home, sitting in her studio.
Somehow, the sigil on the floor was gone. There was no residue to signify that something was drawn here before, and [name] hadn't seen the entity since then, but knew that it was watching. Somewhere.
Thankfully, there were no abnormalities in her home. Nobody had broken in, nothing had been moved or tampered with; it was all like she had left it. It made her feel good about the place she was hobbling around in—well, as good as she could be knowing that there was an otherworldly creature watching her every move.
[name] had a lot of time to think things over as well. The thoughts that were not her own, the way they forced themselves in her mind. At the time, it hurt, like a parasite making a home in a host; maybe that's what Slenderman was trying to be. A parasite to bring its people to life. These thoughts she was thinking... How could she make sure that they were her own? How could she tell?
Her phone had a page pulled up, one that she hadn't opened since Slenderman had broken her ankle. It was a story that left her mind the day she read it. It was more unsettling than memorable. A manipulative killer, able to slip out of the hands of the law on the pretext of his mind. A lonely boy when he was younger, drowned in expectations by his parents, skilled in drawing and the like, who grew up having twisted desires.
This was who it wanted her to paint?
Maybe it thought he and her would get along because both of them were artists. Except, one of them liked to paint with blood, while the other strictly painted with oils, acrylic, gouache, and watercolor. She didn't even want to get into the intricacies of how painting with blood with work and chased that thought away.
There was nothing else to do in her house while she healed. The first day she spent lounging around, growing antsy at the disappearance of her headaches. She was unbelievably sore and ate unhealthy things, chips, and ice cream from the tub because the hospital food was no good and she missed the taste of salty and sweet on her tongue.
Bitterly, she also read up on the psychopath's story, finding it silly at first, then sad, and then it made her angry. Perhaps if this was all she was to do, all their stories would make her feel this way, but [name] knew the feeling would pass, and if she wasn't killed by one of them, it would come again.
The second day, she forced herself out of bed, slowly and forgetfully. The pain in her ankle when she first set it on the floor almost caused her to topple over again. [name] downed two of the pills the doctor prescribed to ease the pain with her morning meal, then sat outside, looking again at the story. It was just a story, but it would soon become real. How would that work? If she asked that, she might as well ask how any of this worked. Why was she the one to bring these people out of her pictures? All she did was paint, so why hadn't it happened before?
[name] cried out of anxiousness, despair, and fear. Questions rattled her mind, sometimes the same, sometimes completely out of nowhere. She calmed herself after a few minutes, her eyes puffy and throat dry, and forced herself into the studio.
It was cold, and someone had lined up her finished projects against the wall to the right of the room. Katlyn, probably. She wasn't sure when Katlyn had come inside her house, but assumed it was either during the three days she was in the hospital or a time after that. It did not matter; at least Katlyn saw how hard she had (most likely) worked.
The only thing she did that day was choose a small canvas to paint on and paint the entire thing black. [name] left it at that, her left ankle itching.
On the third day, she didn't get much sleep but was determined to finish the painting. After downing a pair of pills along with a small meal, she limped back into the studio and sat down, beginning to paint what came to mind when thinking of the man. There was an image of him too; there were a lot of pieces about him, actually—most in his white mask with a red smile.
[name] spitefully painted the white shape of his mask in the center of the dark canvas, painted out the holes for the eyes, and then used red watercolor as the smile. The next day, there was a hole punched through the canvas and a thought entered her mind.
Do not paint them at face value. Paint what they represent.
She couldn't hold back the forced laugh that bubbled up from her chest and tossed the wasted canvas to the far corner of the room. [name] grabbed another canvas, the last small one in the batch she had, and threw it on the easel. This time, she switched to watercolor.
Though, before her brush hit the canvas, a spark of an idea drifted into her mind. [name] picked up the canvas and placed it on the sheets on the floor. She lowered herself with it, angling her left leg outward so it wouldn't be bothered, and hunched herself over the blank canvas. [name] allowed the black paint on her brush to grow thick, smoothing it in the center of the canvas, then added water around the edges, forcing it to spread. It looked like a burning, black hole that grew lighter as it neared the edges. It was a disgusting blot of ink.
The watercolor would need some time to set and dry, and this was only for the first layer. [name] didn't know if the entity had a deadline in mind, or if she was allowed to draw out its patience due to the injury, but then found that thought kind of silly.
[name] allowed an hour to pass for the paint to settle just enough that her next actions wouldn't ruin what she had in mind. She dipped a sponge into dark, grey-ish red, not watercolor this time, and blotted it around the edges of the faded grey, smudging it with purpose from time to time, clouding and crowding the dark at the center, then dumped the sponge into a fresh bucket of water where she'd wash and wring it later.
Since the dark splotch at the center was dried more so than the grey that surrounded it, she used a smaller brush with thin bristles and dotted a small, yellow circle amid the darkness. She had vaguely remembered a pin on most of the images of the fictional character; a smiling, yellow button. It was odd, considering this person was a killer, someone who hung their victims upside down to drain them of their blood for his twisted, artistic urges.
[name]'s stomach flipped at the thought and she set her brush aside, sitting upright. Her back cracked and popped, releasing the tension that had built up. God, she was hungry and upset.
She left her art room, back to the kitchen where she sat and ate, downing another pill as her aching foot turned into a dull pain. [name] stared at the orange bottle of pills, mindlessly counting them as the time passed for her to return and add the final touch to the painting. There was a sheen glare of the watercolor, a hint that it hadn't fully dried, but, in a way, [name] thought maybe it was better that way.
The [h/c]-haired woman mixed a dark color of red with a bit of brown, then more red, and when it was too red, she added more brown. She made sure to keep adding water, thinning the colors out more than she'd like. It didn't look like blood at all, but it was the closest she could get at the moment without spending too much time on the tedious process.
After placing the painting back on the easel, [name] began brushing large drops of crimson at the top watching them dribble down the painting. They left faint, red marks in their wake, and she added more. They cascaded down, running over the black and disappearing, soaking into the canvas. She did this repeatedly until the white of the canvas was a warm, reddish-pink, covered in dripping 'blood'.
For a few moments, [name] stared at it, waiting for it to do something. Maybe the painting would shake and begin crying, the colors dripping onto the floor and staining her already stained grey sheets even more until the paint bubbled, congealing, shaping into a fleshy human.
Nothing of the sort happened.
[name] spun slowly on the stool, turning her back to it, and slid off the chair. She grabbed her phone on the way out and locked the studio door. She then began rereading the story. A boy who murdered his entire class after he had been relentlessly bullied, then was placed into a psychiatric hospital and manipulated his doctor into believing he had been cured, when, in all reality, he had not.
There were so many Wikis and stories online about this man. Romanticizing or even humanizing him; obsessive fans that flocked to this kind of crowd, this...fandom. There was one Wikipedia called Creepypasta where many stories branched off from one another, yet they all had one thing in common; all these people were murderers of some sort.
[name] turned off her phone after falling into a rabbit hole of repeated stories, most of them sounding like rip-offs of another. Her head was swirling with names that blended together, but she could not think of one that clearly stuck out to her.
And with that, she went to bed.
[name] didn't have any dreams last night, nor any nights before that. Not since that one with the crimson, abandoned building. It classified more as a nightmare anyway.
She took two pills dry after forcing herself up and out of bed. There was no ignoring the pain that ached in her back, shoulders, and left ankle, the other two because she had been leaning over a painting on the ground rather than using her easel.
Speaking of which, [name] was only somewhat curious to see if her painting had worked. She hadn't checked on it all day yesterday and could only assume it was an overnight thing... Maybe she should install a camera? It'd be practical to install cameras around the inside and outside her house if there were to be killers spawning randomly around her neighborhood.
[name] approached the door to her studio, still drowsy. The sounds of the birds outside and the cold, morning air were slowly waking her senses.
The door had a small glass window to it, blurred, but most of the time [name] could see and recognize what was inside. What she didn't recognize this time was the shape of a humanoid sitting on the stool she used to paint. [name] looked onward, staring with wide, unblinking eyes. Her hand grazed the metal of the door handle, thumb and index finger at the small lock switch on the door, but never once turning it.
It had worked?
Her heart pounded loud and hard, and it pulsed at her ankle, sending bolts of faint pain up her leg.
All at once, [name] unlocked the door and yanked it open, causing the black-haired man who sat on her stool to turn his head. He didn't look surprised at her appearance, nor did he move from his place, they only shared a look.
"This is your studio," he commented, eyes darting to the left, where the red-painted canvases leaned against the wall, "correct?"
Her eyes followed his, and she nodded, then her eyes caught the white object in his lap. A mask, holes at the top, a red, painted smile, with two, black straps. His head dropped to his lap, then he stood up.
[name] pulled the door shut and locked it again, her heart pounding even faster now. His blurred figure moved across the room and stood a few feet away from the door. He crossed his arms, mask in his right hand.
His voice was only slightly muffled from behind the door, "I'll break the window to leave if you don't unlock the door." This worried her even more and she twisted the lock again.
He opened the door from the inside and didn't move. Neither did [name]. She could tell that he was taking in her appearance though, messy, [h/c] hair, ankle in a cast with a crutch under one arm. If he wanted to, he could probably knock [name] on her side and get away with it, she probably wouldn't mind actually because this would end terribly one way or another.
"You. You're [name] [last name], correct?" He was cold, and there was no hint of expressive emotion in his face or tone. She held his gaze and nodded. His eyes narrowed and his arms dropped.
"What a unique ability..." She heard him mumble, stepping forward, causing [name] to step once back. He moved past her, down the hall where she had come from. [name] stared into her studio and then to the right, where he had gone.
[name] followed after as fast as she could, and shouted his name, "Helen!" His real name. Using his name rather than his title was common sense for most people, but Helen, upon hearing his name, scrunched up his face and turned. He didn't say anything and only waited for [name] to speak.
The thing is, [name] didn't really have anything to say or tell him. She had only called after him because she still couldn't believe this was happening. Her painting had yet again grown two feet and began walking. But what was to become of him now? He was a fictional character that came to life... Did his story affect the real world?
"What is it. Speak." Helen's voice wavered into some sort of irritation, and [name] wavered.
"You... I mean, your story, you are real. What are you going to do? Where are you going?" He was most certainly heading for her backdoor, as that was where he was positioned closest. Helen shifted, blue eyes finding the grooves along the tile of the kitchen floor interesting for some time.
"I'll figure it out. Don't concern yourself with it," he clicked his tongue, turning his attention away and moving his body toward the backdoor, "leave me alone." Helen's front seemed to shatter as he struggled to compose himself, pulling on the backdoor that shook from the force of his pull.
[name] only took a few steps forward as she watched him step out in the backyard and walk across the grass. He stilled for a moment at the edge of the pool and looked at the water. Helen brought a hand up halfway before he dropped it back at his side and easily hopped the stone wall. [name] limped slowly to the backdoor and closed it, locking it with a nervous edge.
Helen was much...easier to deal with than she anticipated. It wasn't like she was expecting anything to happen in the first place, but she thought he'd go crazy and kill her the moment he saw her.
[name] pulled herself together and took the time to return to her studio as the anxiousness of the situation had culled all want for breakfast. Her studio had been untouched and was just as she had left it. Her stool was warm where he had sat and the painting she had made that represented him still sat on the easel, except the yellow dot at the center was gone.
The artist picked up the painting and turned it over. She let out a disbelieving laugh.
There was that symbol again, circular with two marks that crossed at the middle. [name] repressed the urge to kick the painting through like the previous one. Now that there was a more humanoid stranger around, he could do much more than just break [name]'s ankle. What if he actually liked the painting? Helen had been staring at it when she opened the door...
[name] placed the painting under the middle window in her studio. She disliked it now that she saw how much the red looked like blood than watercolor.
[name] left the room and into the kitchen. She needed to force herself to eat as the pills in her stomach were doing nothing for her ankle. And, for a while, she couldn't help but think she was going to be making meals for two.
Chapter 4: I DON'T KNOW HOW TO PLAY CHESS
Chapter Text
[name] hadn't expected to see cop cars so quickly.
Not a week had passed by before Helen started killing. First, it was someone downtown, someone random. A drunkard perhaps, because they found alcohol in his system and ruled it to be some sort of targeted fight, but when Helen came back to [name]'s house with blood on his blue vest, [name] doubted otherwise.
The second victim, or rather, victims, was a couple in their apartment. This time, he had drugged them, stripped them, and strung them up to the ceiling, then cut them in various places, allowing their blood to trickle down from their wounds and into a bucket or pan below. [name] knew all this because Helen came to her house and told her every detail after she noticed her local news broadcasting the recent event.
He brought a container full of blood to her house to use as paint.
It felt like she had an unruly pet bringing her dead animals home every night or a large, wet, dog that tracked mud in on her white carpets. [name] almost threw the pan of fried rice she was cooking on the stove at him the moment he placed it on the kitchen counter.
"Get that out of here!" She shouted, her face warm and mind racing at the sight of blood sticking to the plastic container. [name] couldn't peel her eyes away from it and her stomach lurched so she forced her attention away. Helen stared at her from behind the protective shield of his mask.
"I'm not going to keep it here," he said, voice soft, muffled, from behind it, "nobody will know."
His words never gave her comfort. They always sent shivers of cold fear down her spine, but he was always true to them and it made her feel some sort of guilt after that. Then, she remembered again, that he had killed innocent people and she was harboring a killer in her home. Feeding him. Sometimes even allowing him shelter. For whatever reason, she was growing accustomed to it.
The shock that turned to guilt turned to anger, "n-no, get it away now! Pour it down a drain or something! I-"
Helen was staring at her, and it made her stop in her firm declaration. [name] stumbled over her words and they grew quiet, unsure. His fingers drummed on the seal of the plastic.
He...he did always follow through...
[name] cooked the rest of the rice quietly and placed it on the counter next to the stove. She felt hot and disgusting and didn't want to be around the kitchen anymore. She wasn't hungry.
She went back to her bedroom where it was dark and cool and placed a chair at the handle of it. She had been doing this every night since Helen had appeared. [name] tugged off her shirt and lounge shorts and propped her ankle up around her protective barrier of pillows.
It was nice being surrounded in the dark and silence for once. Her skin that was sticky from the heat of the flame and embarrassment was beginning to cool down, surrounded by what she was aware of in her room. [name] listened closely to any sound that came from outside her room, close or not, and held her breath while doing so. Helen was quiet and rarely made a noise, only twice she could hear the clinking of silverware against a bowl. He was eating.
Her ankle began to itch and ache, causing the uncomfortableness to settle in her leg once again. [name] closed her eyes, hoping her thoughts would drown away the pain.
Helen's stories online did not disappear just because he became real and true. In fact, [name] was sure that once more details were released about the case that happened within the night, his stories would just be brought up in more strength. Perhaps others would quickly notice the relation between the murderer and the fake character. Maybe people would say that it was a fanatic trying to copy his tricks.
And who would find out that it was the actual madman himself? Bloody-fucking-Painter.
[name] opened her eyes as a short current of pain bounced up her leg, slowing at her knee. She turned her head to the bedstand to her right for her pills but then remembered she had left them out in the kitchen where Helen was. [name] didn't want to get dressed and go out there again, nor did she want to see him, so she decided the struggle with sleep was better than confronting her very real fear.
It was way past breakfast time when [name] finally awoke. Her head throbbed more than usual, and her body hurt more than just her ankle, but it was very numb.
[name] sat up slowly, but found that a struggle as well, so then laid back down, holding the side of her head with her hand as loud sounds pulsed through her ears and knocked against her head. Everything was so loud and bright and she couldn't think, but lying down was nice, her head hurt less and the world was less dizzy. She braved her eyes open slowly.
The female noticed a very loose wrap of bandages on her right arm. They started around her wrist, all the way to the bend of her elbow. Crimson stained the inside, but barely; just enough that it was clear she was wounded in some way. It took a while for it to click in her head finally and she quickly raised her left arm in alarm but found no bandages there.
She blinked quickly, eyes wide as she stared at the ceiling, trying to comprehend what was happening. Was this a dream? Her heart was pounding too loud in her ears as she turned to look back at her right arm. Even though [name] was curious to see what injury was behind the bandages, the prickles of pain that darted around underneath her skin told her everything she needed to know.
[name] sat up slowly this time, pausing every time there was a wave of lightheadedness over her temple. She just sat there, on her bed, staring forward with a look of disbelief, attempting to ignore the pain that darted up her arm and grew ever the more relevant.
It hurt.
God, it really hurt.
Again, slowly, [name] slipped her feet off the edge of her bed, untangling herself whenever the blankets tucked around her feet and constricted her movement. Her feet bumped carelessly against the chair at the side of her bed which caused her to pause. [name] didn't have a chair next to her bed. Actually, that chair had been placed at her door to keep unwanted visitors out of her room.
[name] turned her head quickly, regretting it as a strike of pain jolted through her body, but she had seen what she wanted to see. There was no longer a chair sitting at the backside of her door. If she had moved it before bed, [name] would've remembered, and she would've definitely remembered receiving an injury like this.
She grabbed onto the chair with her right hand, watching her fingers curl around the top of the furniture in a weak grip, and willed herself to stand up, her weight resting on her good ankle. A shiver ran up her spine, and she felt way too cold in the morning air.
It took [name] a full fifteen minutes to pull on a T-shirt and some comfortable pants. With two injuries in the span of a week, it had to be some sort of achievement, right? The slow wobble toward the door made her skin crawl. She didn't want to open it and face the person on the other side. She didn't want to run into anyone on her slow walk toward her front door. [name] thought about it for a moment; how could she drive herself to the nearest clinic? Her foot was a mess, and so was her mind.
Her phone, she needed her phone. Where was her phone? After scanning her room, she confirmed it wasn't where she usually would've placed it if she brought it to bed. Damn it, it was somewhere in her kitchen; or maybe in her studio.
[name] stiffened as she pressed the door inward and slowly began to open it. She felt like a child at midnight, scared of the non-existent monster that waited for her in the dark house, but this monster was very real, and [name] was no longer a child.
She opened the door wide enough to see a small sliver of her kitchen down the hall. [name] looked left, where the door to her bathroom sat on the same wall a few steps away, the one where she would occasionally spit out blood from the nightmares throughout the week. Helen couldn't possibly be lurking in her bathroom of all places, so she turned her attention away and finally stepped out of her room while steadying herself against the wall. She would pause every so often, listening close to the silence in her house, this silence only causing the beat of her heart to grow louder.
[name] spotted her phone on the kitchen counter nearest to her and limped over to it carefully. A tightness in her chest released as her left hand gripped it tightly and held it close. Then, her eyes instinctively flicked over to where Helen had been leaning against the granite of her kitchen the night before, then to the spot where he placed his canister of blood. Then, to the now empty stove where she made dinner last night; it was in the sink. At least he had the decency to clean up after himself.
God, I'm hungry. [name] thought to herself, trodding carefully into the living room, then to the left and stood close to her front door. She paused again, listening as hard as she could to any sound within the house, then unlocked her phone. She disliked bothering Katlyn so much, more so due to the fact Katlyn was going to ask questions. Yet, she had to text someone to come and pick her up; she couldn't drive herself.
After the text had been sent, she immediately unlocked the front door, stepped outside, and locked it behind her. The cool, morning air hit her skin in a refreshing wave as she stood on her front porch. The cement under her bare feet sent a new calmness under her skin and for a moment, she felt that all was well.
Then, her phone rang.
[name] clutched the device tighter in her hand and then answered it. She hadn't even greeted the other woman when Katlyn yelled, "why do you have to go to the emergency room?! Did you fall again?" On the other side of the line [name] could hear the start-up of a car's engine.
[name] sighed, shifting delicately on her good foot, "I... Uh, well, I accidentally cut myself trying to make breakfast," she lied, finding it way too easy to do so, "I wrapped it with bandages but... I think it'll need to be looked at."
It was Katlyn's turn to sigh now, and [name] could feel a pit growing in her stomach from the lack of food in her system and the fact she could lie with ease to her manager. It wasn't like she hadn't lied to people before, but lying to someone who placed so much trust in [name] felt terrible. Like she was breaking some sort of forbidden oath.
"I'll be there in a few minutes," Katlyn murmured, and the call ended.
[name] stared at the screen of her phone for a few more seconds before tapping off the call screen. She turned off her phone and stuffed it in the low pockets of her lounge pants with a big sigh. Only at this moment, [name] couldn't feel the pressure of eyes boring into her back or the scratchiness of static grabbing at her mind. She was free from the grasp of those despicable....creatures.
Only for that moment.
A threat.
That was the only solution [name] could come up with upon thinking about why Helen had cut her arm. The cut was clean and five inches long. A doctor came in, stitched it up, told [name] to apply some sort of prescription to it daily, and bandaged it after.
"Please don't get into any more accidents," Katlyn murmured upon parking in front of [name]'s house. She exited her vehicle and helped [name] out of it as well due to the injury to her foot, "honestly... If this is going to have any effect on your next piece..."
"It won't." [name] sighed in response, then remembered the many paintings in her studio. The many that she could use as a stockpile when Katlyn required new material to send to clients, "thanks, though... For driving me and...helping."
The two women walked up the pathway in a somewhat comfortable silence after, [name] pulled out her key to the house and slotted it in the lock.
Inside, just barely, she could make out the figure of someone through the blur of the glass at her front door. [name] tightened her hold on the handle of the door and turned her head quickly to Katlyn, "thanks. I got it from here."
[name] hoped Katlyn didn't notice the furrow of her brow or hear the quickening of her pulse. She began to think of different reasons why Katlyn couldn't enter her home or even see to it that [name] was able enough to get inside. She watched as Katlyn's eyes shifted to the door, then back at [name].
With a slow nod, Katlyn stepped away from [name]'s body and began walking back down the path, "take care of yourself, [name]." She waved once and then disappeared behind the driver's side of her car before getting in an driving off.
[name] stood there with bated breath, watching the road with careful eyes. What if Katlyn came back? They always do that in movies, saying they forgot something as they barge into the house at an awkward or intense moment, creating misunderstanding upon misunderstanding. Imagining Katlyn walking in on Helen and [name] did not sound like something she wanted to deal with.
[name] forced herself to open the door, spotting Helen immediately. His head was down, holding a graphite pencil in one hand and a sketchbook in the other; where he got these things, she didn't know. Yet, she did know that he knew she was there, but did not raise his head or acknowledge her.
Slowly, [name] shut the door with a soft click which sounded louder than it actually was. She began to limp her way to the right, keeping herself close to the wall, but paused.
It was a threat. Again, those words echoed in her mind and she inhaled sharply, and she was just going to let it slide?
"Hey," [name] turned now, the words falling from her lips before she could catch herself from speaking. Oh, hell, she was already this deep, why not fall a little deeper? She stepped onto the soft carpet of her living room, and then closer again. Helen had stopped drawing, yet he still did not raise his head or respond. He was waiting for her to speak.
Her brow furrowed again, lips pursing with anger, "what you did... While I was asleep? That...that's unacceptable," she hissed. [name] accidentally pressed weight on her bad foot, but instead of hurting, it just caused her anger to rise, "this is my house. I-no, you are here because of me."
Helen lifted his head and [name] felt her heart skip a beat. Her blood which was running hot from her high grew cold. It felt hard to breathe, and all the strength she was feeling began to sap away.
"I am not here because of you," his voice was steady, not soft, but not malicious, "you are just a means to an end, [name]. And we are Its playthings."
[name]'s mouth opened, his words running again and again in her mind, and then she closed her mouth with a frown. Did he mean to say that Helen was also something that the creature did not value? [name] gathered that Helen was an underling of sorts, but she did not take into consideration that if Helen went missing, or was harmed, that It wouldn't care.
"Then what about this?" She held up her arm, new bandages applied to it, snug against her skin, "cutting me in my sleep. For what? A painting?"
Helen's head shifted just barely, looking at her arm. The silence that followed only made [name] increasingly uncomfortable as he just stared without speaking.
"Do you-"
"I could use animal blood. There are plenty of stray animals and pets in this neighborhood," Helen wondered aloud as if he was simply talking about the weather, "if I cannot kill and drain victims, cannot take from someone who is living, then I suppose it will have to do..."
"N-no... No! Damn it..." [name] shook her head, stepping back a bit, "look. If you're going to...kill someone, don't do it often, especially if it's close by. And no leaving blood in tupperware in my fridge!" She couldn't believe she was giving permission to a not-so-fictional killer to kill. Especially when he had just cut her open without her knowledge.
Helen didn't say anything after that, nor did he nod, but [name] was sure he got the message. If not, she was sure she could find a way to mess with something of his; or maybe get him to do something in exchange.
"I'm leaving now if you're done." Helen muttered, voice a bit more muffled than before as he stood up and placed the sketchbook he was using on the couch. He moved quietly, steps barely audible even when he stepped onto the tile. Helen shifted into the one she knew as Bloody Painter, his figure disappearing around the corner as he left through her backdoor.
[name] flopped back onto the couch with a sigh of relief. The air was now much easier to breathe and she no longer felt the race of her heart beating painfully hard against her ribcage.
As she leaned back to soak in the cushions that enveloped her anxious body, [name]'s eyes drifted absentmindedly to the sketchbook Helen had left. It was open, the page he left open marked with darks and faded greys. [name] leaned over with a grunt, pulling on one of the corners she could reach and tugged it closer.
[name] stared down at the drawing, her eyes slowly widening in shock. For a moment, she thought it was a coincidence. The design of a blanket she had owned sitting in her bedroom looked just like the one on the page, the curve of the pillow that the woman's head sunk into; and that woman, [name] saw her when looking in a mirror, yet this woman slept soundly, face peaceful in an uninterrupted slumber. [name]'s peaceful sleep. Her comfortable bed.
Stalker. Sociopath. Killer.
There were so many words she could use to describe him, yet part of her knew that this was only little of what was to come.
Chapter 5: CRAZY?
Chapter Text
"I know a doctor."
[name]'s first mistake was trusting what Helen had to say. Knowing a doctor from Helen's position didn't exactly mean they were a sane doctor, and [name] had to sit there knowing this fact. She wanted to do some digging before painting the picture of the killer that he had in mind (both literally and figuratively).
Searching up, Creepypasta Doctor did not exactly help his case.
Doctor Smiley was the result that came up multiple times, with different images portraying the, presumably, human male. Tall, black hair, pale skin. [name] noticed many different ways people drew him; sometimes with a surgical mask, others without the mask, and with dark, red eyes instead.
[name] narrowed her eyes and tapped the Wiki page while shifting in the chair in the kitchen. There wasn't any origin on this character's page, and his whole personality screamed sadistic psychopath. The main image on the right was one she had seen while scrolling listlessly through the images of Doctor Smiley. Black, messy hair with black where the whites of his eyes were supposed to be and red irises. His doctor's uniform was decorated with a large amount of bright, red blood while he grinned like nothing was wrong.
Was this the kind of doctor she wanted lingering around her home?
If Helen was here, she'd stare at him with disappointment, but he had disappeared hours ago and she had just now looked up the doctor he was referring to.
Dr. Smiley welcomes death, and urges his patients to embrace it, [name] read, her grimace becoming all the more permanent, he lures in sick people with the promise of free treatment.
"Free treatment," [name] huffed in amusement. If only it was that simple. She scanned the rest of his short background, sighed, and turned off her phone.
That was enough worrying for today.
Yet, as [name] placed her phone on the counter, thoughts that came into her head like colors and images caused her fingers to twitch. The instinct to have a brush in her hand to portray the ideas that swarmed her was absolutely overwhelming. It didn't sit right with her, feeling this much inspiration dawn on her after reading about a doctor who tricked sick people to cut them open while they lay awake, strapped to a table.
[name] could imagine it, feeling cool metal burn against her back as a knife or scalpel pierced her belly. There was no pain in that imagination of hers, but she could feel the warmth of blood spilling from that wound, beading first, then soaking her skin.
She quickly shook free of these thoughts before they could become any darker and slowly pushed herself off of the chair and onto her feet. Outside, the orange rays of the sun seeped through the blinds that shielded the windows that looked out to her backyard. She would need more if she didn't want to be looked upon by that tall, faceless creature. [name] never knew when it was watching her, only when it was around; because the static that followed it never went away.
Speaking of which, her steps faltered when she found herself being drawn to her studio, an invisible pull tugging on her legs, harder on her injured one which forced a small, pitiful whimper from her lips. She was being suffocated by the order to come, the order to listen. To obey.
Obey.
Obey.
Obey if you don't want to be hurt. Obey if you do not want to be killed.
[name] would obey. Her steps quickened across the floor, placing too much force on her tender foot at times that caused the tears that she forced herself to keep back to fall. An invisible hand on the back of her throat now, a silent message as she yanked the door open.
Nobody was there.
She stared forward at the large windows at the end of her studio, then left and right, as if anything could hide behind the narrow space between the wall and her door. The room was illuminated in a soft orange, one that [name] would love to paint with if not dealing with her current situation.
Exhaustion, she blamed it. Exhaustion from the week she had dealing with the injuries received from the anomalies hurting her like she was a toy; easily discarded after being worn out. [name] didn't move though; that exhaustion kept her glued there for an agonizingly long time, forcing her to stare across at the windows that were way too bare for her liking.
[name] didn't see it. She couldn't catch a glimpse of a fraction of that creature's black suit or white face. It was there, she couldn't help but tell herself. Watching. Feeding thoughts into her head that made her doubt if they were even her own.
With a sharp inhale, [name] stepped back from the threshold of her studio and closed the door with a gentle thud.
Exhaustion.
She needed to sleep.
[name] still wasn't okay with Helen coming in and out of her house (somehow) without a need to knock or let her know beforehand. She kept a lock on her bedroom door now, and only she had the combination. No physical attempts were made to get into her room, thankfully, and Helen didn't seem to mind her skittish nature either.
She didn't bring up the drawing of her in that mysterious sketchbook. Helen didn't mention it either; she was sure he left it there on purpose for her to find. Humans were curious creatures.
The dip at the center of her bed held [name] with such familiarity that those worries that clouded her head slowly vanished. She no longer had to elevate her leg, only cushioned by a pillow to keep it steady during her slumber.
[name] stared up at the ceiling above, tracing the outlines she could barely make out through the dark like she always did. She allowed the silence to envelope her, this silence no longer broken by the doubts of someone lurking in her room at night. The one she knew that existed around her bubble couldn't get through a lock... Could he?
That monster definitely could. Yet, it wasn't there to keep it out; just the physical threats.
[name]'s eyes drooped, and she sighed somewhat peacefully as she was pulled into a dream.
A restless dream.
For a moment, [name] thought she was awake again; awake and moved to a separate room because her bedroom didn't have old, flickering lights. These lights buzzed in her ears, and she moved her hands to cover them, well, she tried to. She noticed two things at once. Her back was pressed hard against cold, biting metal, and her wrists were strapped to this same metal. Stuck, stuck.
[name] squirmed in place, her ankles also restrained against tight, leather straps, but she found that her head was capable of movement. On her right was an empty part of a room, chipped paint peeling off the walls and decorating the disgusting floor. On her left was a door, which was closed, and next to that door were counters and cabinets attached to the walls. They also looked old and worn, a sign of use or abandonment.
[name] turned her head back up to the ceiling above, gasping sharply as someone stood over her, looking down from just above her head. She couldn't see them before, or maybe they just weren't there before.
This...figure, they had no distinguishable features except for a white, sharp-toothed, smile. Their body was entirely pitch black, and that darkness seemed to move and shift like a scribble done by a child, as did the smile. And this smile grew wider as it registered the fear in [name]'s eyes.
[name] blinked once, and the lights went out for just a moment. Her breathing stuttered, eyes darting around in the thick darkness for any sign of movement. When they came back on, buzzing that monotone sound, the figure was on her right, looming over her stomach. Her back pressed into the metal table upon feeling a prickly warmth slide the hem of her shirt upward while something cool slid down in the opposite direction.
Then, there was pain.
It was a stinging, sharp pain that pierced just below her belly as if she had a stomach ache but ten times worse. This cold pain suddenly turned warm, then the pain dragged upward across her naval. The warmth disappeared and just became pain. She heard screaming but realized it was her own screams as she writhed and jerked on the table, finding it unbearable not being able to move or thrash around.
She could feel blood making her skin slick and warm as it flowed out of that thin line that kept growing. She could feel the object scrape against a piece of bone, the feeling akin to grinding cotton on dry teeth, or the uncomfortable sensation of a fork dragging against a plate.
[name]'s teary eyes blinked up at the figure that was causing this pain and glared at them while sobbing and shrieking. Whatever this monster was, their grin widened and their head lowered closer to [name]'s face. The pain remained, but the gaping wound no longer grew as it relished in her fear and pain. [name] heard a clinking noise all the way at the far side of the room, but couldn't bear to look as their mind throbbed, attempting to force their body into thinking this pain was all in their head; which, technically, it was. It was fake, it was a dream...
But this wasn't a dream. It didn't feel like a dream. It was real, oh, so real. And it hurt. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt.
[name] felt a tickling sensation as the hand that held the device that was cutting her open a moment before sliding along the wound. [name] nearly choked on bile as it rose to her throat and [name] craned her head back, away from the scribble-monster, away from the blood, away from the annoying, buzzing light. However, the grinning creature's other hand snatched [name]'s chin tight, moving her head up to stare at the ceiling, no, at its maniac, grinning face.
Then, its hand that was tracing the long gap it had made down [name]'s torso forced its way in. [name] let out an ear-piercing cry, her back arching off the table and then hitting it again as its hand crawled through her organs, moving them aside. It hurt and it tickled and it made her want to throw up; but she kept swallowing the bitterness that rose in her throat once again, refusing to drown in her own puke.
And, again, the creature paused. [name] heaved and gulped down greedy amounts of air in this stale, disgusting room. Her intestines weren't where they were supposed to be, air was tickling her insides, and she could feel the brush along the bottom of her heart. [name] stared up at the thing above her, horrified. It was as if [name] could see eyes staring back into that ever-moving darkness, but it only smiled as its hand grasped gently around her heart; she could feel each finger around each artery.
Teasing.
Waiting.
Waiting for what? For something to happen? Was she supposed to say something?
"Fuck," [name] whispered, voice cracking as one tug was all it took for [name]'s mind to blank and fall to pieces.
[name] woke up a mess.
She immediately rose up from her bed and darted painfully to the bathroom to spill the contents of her stomach. It felt like she had just consumed poison, this poison affecting her mind more than her body. She wished she had drunk poison rather than experience that dream because at least her body could fight against the toxins that invaded her system, yet with the dream that replayed in her mind, she could not expel it. It was a poison of the mind that [name] began crying tears over.
Time had passed since she had entered her bathroom too. After throwing up, she had just decided to lay against her toilet, in a daze. Her foot was throbbing due to placing pressure on it while scrambling to get to her bathroom, but [name] was grateful that it was just her foot. [name] would rather have her other foot become broken than have her guts spill out.
Soon enough, the tile became uncomfortable and her toilet no longer held the same solace it did when she had first entered the bathroom. Yet, she still felt disgusting.
[name] looked in the mirror, recognizing herself. Her eyes were sunken, bags underneath them. Her hair was a mess, tangled and clumped, greasy near the roots of her hair. She sighed, her reflection mimicking her movements as she moved to turn on the shower and peel off her clothes. [name] turned again to the mirror as she removed her shirt.
Her skin was the same as it had been yesterday, with no vertical line causing her intestines to hang out. Her stomach flipped like wet cement at such a thought and she quickly turned her head away, forcing her mind to distance the thought as she readied herself for a quick shower.
Never in her life had she felt so scared to go to sleep.
[name] was miserable as she dried her hair and unlocked her bedroom door, but curiosity replaced misery as she smelled something familiar in the air.
Bacon? She thought with a sniff. It was faint but lingered as it did just a few minutes after it was cooked. [name] listened carefully without moving from the hallway for Helen, who was the only possible culprit at the moment. What kind of burglar broke into someone's house and made bacon?
Upon hearing nothing that could indicate the man lingered in her home, [name] ambled to the kitchen where one thing caught her eye—a paper plate with tin foil covering the top. She leaned against the counter as she peeled it back and let out an exhale of amusement through her nose at the sight of two pieces of bacon. She took both, biting down on them at once so that the crispy flavor spread across her tongue and pleased her empty stomach. Although, since she had thrown up earlier, she probably should've eaten something easier to digest... And, just maybe, something other than just bacon.
As she was searching through the fridge, [name] was surprised at how little she cared that Helen decided to cook in her home. It was her food, plus she was the one who paid for it, but at least he left her some food too, right? She was on the fence about it, but some part of her had every right to be at least a little upset.
[name] took some fruit out from the fridge and cut them up into smaller pieces, then placed them into a small cup. Blueberries, bananas, strawberries, grapes; the sweetness and sourness of each fruit was a satisfying way to restart her morning.
Especially when the next step of her day was heading to the studio.
One hand holding half-eaten bacon and the other with a cup of fruit, [name] trudged her way toward the studio on the other side of her house. Her legs moved across the floor like she was submerged in mud or cement. However, the dark dream(nightmare, she corrected) she had gave her a flicker of an idea and all she had to do now was apply it to the canvas.
She opened the door slowly, having to bite down on the end of her bacon and use the pads of her fingers to do so, and then paused on her way in.
A blank canvas was sitting there, staring back at her frozen form.
[name] couldn't help but laugh. It was as if he—it—knew exactly what was going on. Was it responsible for orchestrating those nightmares in her head? Was that its way of giving her a little 'push' in the right direction?
[name] shoved the rest of the bacon into her mouth and grabbed a blueberry out of her cup, popping it into her mouth as well as she chewed. The sourness of the fruit added with the smokiness of the bacon wasn't terrible, but [name] would never do that again. She sat down on the small stool in front of her easel and placed the cup of fruit by her good leg.
I know you can fucking hear me, [name] swallowed as she forced the thoughts out, leaning to the side to grab her brushes and paints, squeezing hard on the tubes and watching the greys and blues mix together into a white-grey, almost metallic, hue, stop giving me those dreams. Stop forcing these ideas into my head! I'll get things done on my own time. She allowed a bit of blue to remain, smearing the smallest bit of white next to it to create an elastic color.
She could feel her blood run cold as the morality of nagging this sociopathic, HP Lovecraftian, thing settled in her half-empty stomach. She smeared a red glob on the corner of her palette, frowning at how worn it had become. She had extra tubes, a whole, tin bucket of the stuff too, but there was always a sense of sadness as she tossed an empty tube in the trash.
Before beginning to paint, [name] placed the palette to the side and grabbed a pencil to quickly draw out a few, light lines on the canvas. This was just to remind her where some areas began and others ended; where the curl of bone was, the cavity of the chest, the curves of the arteries.
[name] knew the absolute bare minimum when it came to the human body. She remembered a class she took in high school—or maybe it was college—and learned a bit about the human body, but those days were behind her. She usually did research on such detailed projects, something just as detailed as this, but logic went out the window the moment she met that tall creature who sent her mixed messages.
She would need more red paint.
[name] began painting the image in her head, beginning with the hand that cusped the bottom of the lifeforce. A gloved, blue hand, those tossable gloves protecting a bare hand from a muscly sensation. She used a thinner brush to outline the light and dark folds of the glove where it curved around the wrist or appendages that were its fingers.
She ate half of her fruit by now, opting to down it like a drink as she didn't want any paint to be consumed in the process. [name] moved onto the red of the body and heart now. So, so much red. The heart, chest cavity, the muscly fiber that surrounded it. She left space for the ribs that surrounded the heart but didn't mind allowing the red to spill or bleed onto the gloves that held the tender organ. [name] even considered splattering some red onto the blue when all this was over, and then thought, is Doctor Smiley a neat person, or messy?
[name] painted the ribs and whatever other bone that would be revealed near the heart, just as bloody, but still bone. White, but some hints of grey, and even the tiniest bit of light brown where the end met flesh near the back.
Sitting back, [name] averted her eyes away from the painting, finding it hard to believe that any of what she had painted so far was even close to exact or realistic. [name] didn't exactly know what her, or anyone's, heart looked like from the inside without a diagram, and she wasn't keen on finding out.
[name] stood from her chair, wiping the back of her right hand over her face after inspecting it for any recent blotch of paint. Hours had past, no doubt, and she had seemingly finished this horrid work of art. She was hungry again and the leftover fruit she had forgotten about, too drawn into her art, had dulled in color and was no longer fresh. [name] picked up the cup and walked out of that stuffy studio.
She made her way back to the kitchen again and took a glance at her backdoor, the only thing that didn't have blinds(aside from her studio windows) that blocked the view to her backyard. The sky was dotted with clouds with a blue backdrop that kind of reminded her of the rubber glove she had painted moments ago. She pulled her attention away from the sky and her painting and began making a half-assed sandwich in attempt to put her mind at ease and her growling stomach to rest.
[name] was only halfway through with her sandwich when she heard a dull thud from somewhere in her house. She kept her sandwich to her lips, mid-bite and now staring at the direction it came from.
Her studio.
Now this she didn't find funny. It was always her studio. Why were supernatural entities and violent psychopaths so attracted to her workspace? Why could she not have one minute of peace in this house?
[name] dropped her sandwich onto her plate and got to her feet, marching with purpose toward her studio with nothing in hand. If there was an intruder, she'd much rather lock them inside the studio than end up in a brawl (or a stab wound). Yet, when [name]'s clammy hands opened the door, she found no such thing.
There was only one thing that made her gasp aloud; her painting. It had fallen flat on its painted side down onto her palette of paints. She scurried over as fast as she could, hissing painfully as she knelt down and grabbed both items off the floor, then peeled the two away from each other to assess the damage done.
A large splatter of candy red sat directly at the center of the painting where the heart was, enveloping the fingers in a sickly, sweet tone that she had not intended for the painting to have. It stood out from the entire work as if the hand that enveloped the heart had crushed it rather than pulled it from its place.
[name] stared at it for a moment longer, slowly turning their head instinctively to the right. Would this affect the outcome of the painting? Would she have to start from scratch? Or maybe... Did it not like what she had created?
The static that collected in her mind told her otherwise as she caught a glimpse of that white-faced fellow just behind her large fence. It was on purpose, she came to realize, stepping back and away from the painting, and she did not want to be here when the muse of the painting came to be.
Chapter 6: I WAS CRAZY ONCE
Chapter Text
Two murderers chatting normally in a kitchen on a Tuesday morning was not something [name] was expecting to wake up to.
She had heard talking, but the sound was muffled against her securely locked door. A Q-tip was also placed at the crease of her door, so if someone did manage to get inside, the door would bend the center of the Q-tip even if they placed everything back where it should be.
Nobody had made it past her security so far. So far. It irked [name] that someone could in the future.
For now, [name] shook that thought aside, removed her basic security, and held tight on the handle to the door. She gathered her courage and the little hours of sleep she had gotten and opened the door.
The chatter she heard flowed clearer now that there was no obstacle muffling the sound and she could recognize one voice, while the other was unfamiliar; yet, she knew who it was deep down. She stilled, hearing the unfamiliar voice pause, most likely having heard her awakening, and then resumed in conversation.
[name] placed a hand against her chest to calm her jackrabbiting pulse, smoothed it down her shirt, and evened out her breathing.
It's okay, she thought, it's okay.
Stepping through her hallway and out into the open area of her kitchen, she spotted the underwhelming presence of Doctor Smiley. He looked like a more disheveled version of Helen (Bloody Painter, she kept telling herself). Dark, messy hair that curled low and in front of his eyes which was just like the image [name] had seen of him online; black sclera and red irises. There was a bit of stubble that dotted his chin and the sides of his face, and, surprisingly enough, he wore glasses.
"Good morning," he was the first to acknowledge her presence as if he had met her before. She could feel his gaze burning into her, freezing her in place.
"Morning..." [name] nodded once, eyes darting to Helen, who remained masked and unreadable, then back to Doctor Smiley, "did he...tell you everything?"
There were many ways [name] wanted to phrase that question. Did he tell you what was going on? Did he explain to you how you got into this world? Do you know what Slenderman's goal was?
Doctor Smiley tilted his head just a bit so that he glanced at her over the top rim of his square frames, weariness and that tired doctor look in his eyes. He thrummed his hand on the counter in front of him and sighed.
"Yes, unfortunately," he pushed his glasses up his nose so they rested just below the bridge, "it still doesn't make sense how I came out of a...painting." His face crinkled, as if not believing the words himself.
"You think that's the strangest thing of it all?" Helen questioned softly, his mask startling [name] as it focused on her, "she was the one who painted that painting."
Doctor Smiley then turned to [name], and she could feel his gaze, once again, burning into her. The only thing she could think about when he was staring at her was that horrible nightmare.
"Interesting," the man mumbled, eyes flicking down, most notably to [name]'s foot, then up to her face.
The room was now enveloped in a silence that crawled underneath [name]'s skin. It felt awkward now that she regularly had an audience when exiting her room for the day; almost like that small embarrassment she got in high school when walking into a full class of silent students and watching their heads swivel in her direction.
"What about a check-up?"
[name]'s attention shot over to Helen, who stared at nothing but the space of the counter in front of him. His shoulders, the way they curled up and back, shook ever so slightly as he held back a laugh. A tease, he was teasing, but he meant every word of it too. Then, her attention swapped to the other, dark-haired man. A hand rested on his chin, not gloved, looking relatively normal.
"Check-up? On you?" He didn't turn his head or his eyes away from [name], "on her?" It felt especially awkward that he spoke as if [name] wasn't standing right in front of him.
Then, the chair Doctor Smiley was sitting on behind the counter scraped against the floor as he stood from it, startling [name] from her place. He walked around the bend in the counter where he could enter through the kitchen and step closer to [name]. She froze in place, blinking quickly as the space behind her felt like a great place to flee.
Closer, he's getting closer, [name]'s mind yelled in a panic as she wavered and stepped back. He noticed this and paused a good few paces away.
"Are you not feeling well enough to even shake my hand?" Doctor Smiley crinkled his nose at her, and [name] looked past him, at Helen, then back at Doctor Smiley. She steeled herself, straightened up, and took one step forward, close enough that if they reached out, they could shake hands.
And that's what they did, shake hands. [name] stared down at his, gloveless, not at all bloody. She couldn't imagine those hands groping inside her body, grabbing and pulling at her innards and muscles, watching her writhe and scream.
"[name]." She met his eyes, which glinted dangerously from behind his glasses. He pulled his hand away and used it to push them up his nose again.
"Smiley, Doctor Smiley... Or just Doctor, if you wish," his eyes rested on her arm, her injured one, and he turned to look at Helen, "you did this?" Helen looked away, not in guilt, but refusing to answer the question, and in doing so he did.
Doctor Smiley turned back to [name], a sigh escaping him, "I suppose a check-up is required then... You've already gone to the doctor for...that, but there's no way of telling if..." And he was mumbling now, his mumbles becoming invisible thoughts in that crazed mind of his.
[name] wasn't...opposed to a check-up, but it wasn't like she was okay with it either. If she wanted a check-up, she'd go to her local doctor's office; but she also didn't want to worry Katlyn any more than she already had. Doctor Smiley was here; he'd do it free of charge and she wouldn't have to leave her home. And if anything happened, [name] would put up a fight. She would use her slow-healing foot, split arm, and pounding head.
"Now?" [name] questioned, pulling her hand and body back. He crossed his own arms, shoulders slouching.
"If that works for you, then, yes," he nodded once, glancing sideways, not at Helen, but just beyond the kitchen, "perhaps in the studio connected to your home?"
A tickle ran down [name]'s spine, reaching all the way to her ankle and causing the bone to feel uncomfortable in her own skin. She sent one more glance by the Doctor's shoulder where Helen's masked face was, just barely seen. For some funny reason, she could assume the smile on his mask was the same one behind it.
"Fine," she sighed, eyes darting back in front of her, lips thinning tightly as her eyes immediately fell to the tiled floor. It was so...odd. Maybe it was because of his inhuman eyes or the hollow stare he gave her, but she couldn't meet his gaze for long periods of time. Only the shine of the glass reflected by light was able to hide those red irises, which was very minimal when his back was facing the windows at the back of her house (the blinds were even open, damn it!).
[name] pivoted, her stomach remaining empty as she stepped out of the kitchen and down the semi-long trek to her studio, passing through the small hall, through her living room, and then the long hall that led to her art studio.
The door was open.
A split-second thought of reason saved her from a wild panic; he would've had to open the door to get out of her studio. He, being Doctor Smiley. And Doctor Smiley was just now heading towards [name], so she stepped inside the studio quickly.
Cool, natural light came through the large windows across the room, and the painting she had created just twenty-four hours ago still sat on her easel; the bloody red at the center burning into her eyes. She walked over to it as quickly as she could and hooked her fingers behind it, then shuffled close to the other side of the wall where her many, red, delusionally-made paintings were, and added the one she held to the mix.
"Helen told me the things he knew about the situation," Doctor Smiley's voice, surprisingly, didn't cause her to jump. She only turned and watched as he explored the room with his eyes, "I would like to hear it from you too."
[name] inhaled softly and slowly, "the situation..." She repeated, "right.."
Doctor Smiley walked over to the stool next to her easel and motioned to [name] with a flick of his wrist. She talked while inching closer, "the...faceless creature. It wants me to paint you...people," she cringed at the words, knowing this would sound absolutely terrible out of context, "I don't know how it got here in the first place. All I needed was inspiration and I painted a piece on a whim and..."
He had her sit, then moved to her right. His fingers slid up from her palm to her wrist, using his index and middle finger, then came upon the folds of her bandages. He pressed gently along the middle, pausing each time as his presses grew a bit harder, and when she made no reaction he went back to the start of the bandages and instead began to squeeze gently along the sides. His eyes flicked to her, a sign for her to continue speaking.
It was hard to ignore the hold of his hand on her wrist and the one along her forearm, but forced herself to as she continued speaking, "you...you and He-Bloody Painter probably know more about It, but anyways..." Her attention wavered back to her right arm when he began to gently unravel her bandages and she felt her pulse quicken just a tad, "I think it's putting...thoughts and ideas into my head, dreams, trying to get me to create you guys into existence."
"We've existed before you...painted us," he spoke up, causing [name] to straighten, "your version of events is more convoluted than what we experienced. The painter and I both recounted the moments before, supposedly, you created our picture."
The bandages that were once wrapped around [name]'s right arm were now loose and dangled off of her skin. She turned her attention to her wound, Bloody Painter's work, and frowned. It was a clean cut. The wound was pink, but the stitches were more visible. Doctor Smiley pulled the bandages away and pressed a thumb gently against the start of the cut.
"We both experienced momentary loss of consciousness and found ourselves here," Doctor Smiley pulled his hands away, taking the bandage with him, and [name] allowed her arm to drop.
"Sorry," she couldn't help but blurt, feeling strangely guilty and almost curious at the same time. They were alive, but somewhere else? As in, a fictional world or an entirely different plane of existence?
Doctor Smiley huffed and crossed his arms, "sorry?" He echoed, "sorry you followed unrefusable orders?"
Yeah. And for majorly doubting your character, she wanted to say. Her head hung low and she watched as he took a few steps back and then knelt in front of her, hands reaching for her foot which was still in a brace, which was once a cast. It still ached, and as Doctor Smiley's hands grew closer, she could feel the phantoms of his hands grabbing at her bone and pulling it apart.
He didn't even touch her, and yet she still let out a hiss of pain. Doctor Smiley stilled and looked up at her.
"How did you break your ankle?" He questioned without wavering, hands still a few inches away from pressing on the brace. She was surprised he could even tell it was her ankle that was injured, not her foot or possibly her leg (or maybe it was just that obvious).
"That thing did it," her voice was a whisper and when she said this, it only took Doctor Smiley a moment to register who she meant. He let out a hefty sigh, pulled his hands back, and stood.
"I need you to remove your shirt."
[name]'s mouth moved before she repeated his words in her head, "what."
I need you to remove your shirt, did I hear that right? She thought, watching him lower his head so he could rub the space between his eyes then adjust his glasses again, "I'm a doctor. And if that thing touched you, then I need to make sure you aren't marked by It."
"Marked? I'm- I don't think it marked me," her voice wavered now and she laughed cautiously; not because she found this funny, but because it was awkward and tense and she was ready to bolt if he even tried anything... But considering her current, major injury, [name] was pretty sure she wouldn't get far.
"You wouldn't know even if it did." And he motioned with his hand, shirt. Remove.
Even though [name] took a moment to process his words again and again, Doctor Smiley did not make a move to do it on his own.
It's just your shirt, [name], she thought, going over the possibilities of what could happen. She didn't see anything or read anything about Doctor Smiley assaulting his female patients; nor did she read anything that contradicted this. It's not like he told you to undress.
He didn't look any different when [name] took off her shirt. It was like ripping off a band-aid; once she did it quickly, it would be over within seconds. But she didn't even know what Doctor Smiley was looking for.
The man stepped to her right, then around to her back. Her instinct was to shift and turn around, easily done on the stool, but Smiley placed a firm hand on her bare shoulder, keeping her in place. His hand was cold, sending a cool warmth across her skin that spread down her right arm and her back. It was both comforting and terrifying.
Suffocating.
His other hand, she had to assume, brushed against the base of her neck, moving some of her hair out of the way, then smoothing down the center of her spine. She straightened quickly, a rush of heat crawling up her neck and reaching her ears. His hands were way too cold.
Fuck, what if Helen walked in here?!
The cold of his hands dropped and his figure came back into view. She let out a breath of relief she hadn't realized she was holding which did not go unnoticed by the doctor.
"Well?" She raised a brow, quickly tugging her shirt back over her head to remove the majority of the embarrassment and cool chills that ran down her back. He crossed his arms.
"You aren't marked," he sighed, "surprisingly."
[name] was somewhat skeptical of the man's words now. Did he just say that because he wanted to see her shirtless? Or was he actually concerned about a certain mark?
"So are we done then?" She asked tentatively, the suffocation of this room now thickening in her breath, "with the check-up."
The shine that [name] had wished to see a while back in the kitchen, the shine of the light reflecting off his glasses that covered his abnormal eyes, allowed her to finally meet his gaze. She was still unsteady, fidgeting and itching to find some space of safety.
"If you don't have anything else that ails you," he shifted nonchalantly on one leg, his eyes behind the glare of the light observing her carefully. She could feel them crawling along her body; not in any way sexual, but like a predator scoping out its prey.
A memory passed momentarily at the front of her mind, around the time Slenderman had first made itself known to her and the hurdles that followed, "do you know anything about coughing fits? Coughing up blood... Blanks in memory?"
The man in front of her laughed loudly, once, sounding almost mocking, but he sneered and [name] caught a glimpse of those sharp, pointed teeth behind his lips, "I know of it. Some people of ours are afflicted with it. Can't do much about it but down some pills and wait for the episodes to pass."
There were people like her?
"I can tell what you're thinking," he interrupted her thoughts and stepped closer, the white reflection in his glasses gone and those dark eyes back behind the clear frames, "and you have to get one thing straight before you fall any further than you have. Not like you have any choice in it," Doctor Smiley's eyes darted behind her, and she knew that the only thing behind her was her easel, "none of what you're going to see, who you're going to meet, will sympathize with you. You got lucky with who you've met so far, only getting by with a scratch and a broken bone, but whoever you're going to meet next will act nothing like the ones previous."
[name] swallowed the hardness in her throat and tasted copper. She could feel the static in her brain, itching and then scratching, causing her mind to bleed. Of course, of course she was lucky. Of fucking course! A cut, hell, a broken bone... What could be worse? The bitterness on her tongue and the word vomit she wanted to spew in Doctor Smiley's face was worse, but what was even more terrible was what he could do to her in return.
"Then what do I do." It was not a question, but a lost statement, that left [name]'s mouth. Doctor Smiley stepped back and then turned his head to the left, toward the studio doors. [name] noticed the figure there as well, Bloody Painter. He tilted his head to the side once, and then turned and left.
"You can't do anything," those words stung [name] greater than she had thought they would, even if they came from someone she had only met today, "but what you should do is slowly raise the bar. I'll give you someone to paint, a duo, I'm not sure who will come first, but let's hope they won't appear at the same time."
Doctor Smiley stepped back and [name] blinked in surprise as he began walking off, but what caught her off-guard the most was the pair of blue, rubber gloves that came out of his pocket. To anyone but her, he looked like a doctor in uniform, ready to perform his next surgery, and to only [name], he looked like a mad doctor, ready to lure in his next victim.
Chapter 7: I SWING BOTH WAYS
Chapter Text
[name] didn't know what Doctor Smiley wanted to do when he asked about a computer.
She had one, a laptop, not a computer. It was more accessible that way and she could bring it around with her on trips or during business, but mostly to the coffee shop a few streets away. He didn't mind, said it didn't matter anyway, and pulled up Youtube.
What he left her with was a playlist of videos, one-hundred thirty-three of them. The majority of them were by a channel called Marble Hornets, while there were a few sprinkled in that were by totheark. The first started with "Introduction", then entry one, two, three, and onward. There were also a few with odd titles; the first being "Regards" and "Operator", with all the videos ranging from a few seconds to a few minutes.
"You want me to watch all of these?" [name] asked aloud to nobody except herself as she scrolled back up to the top of the page. Some of the videos were unlisted, and no longer intended for human viewing, but that was alright with her. One less video didn't make a difference for there were over a hundred of these. As long as she dedicated her time to watching this whole playlist today, she'd finish it by the afternoon.
Thank god she had a laptop.
The videos didn't start out as anything special, they were silent in one instance, then gratingly loud in the next, yet [name] would never know what volume to set it at. She'd either need to turn her volume up after getting her ears blown out by a previous video or jump from her seat by a sudden, head-splitting noise that came from the next.
Even so, the concept of these videos, all out of order, but still strung together in a story like no other, drew [name] in. While life outside continued on, she stayed shut in, eyes glued to her screen, wide whenever a figure clad in black, but face white, could be seen.
Alex. Jay. Jessica. Brian. Seth. Tim.
They were all normal people. At least, they were normal people. Alex clearly had some screws loose, going about things the wrong way—his way. Jay seemed like an okay guy, trying to mend things, braver than she'd ever be by exploring dark places and abandoned buildings on his own. She felt for him when putting the pieces together that he too had experienced a gap in his memory. She was not the first, and most likely would not be the last.
But, [name] realized quickly what Doctor Smiley meant by 'duo' a few days ago. The first she saw was the masked man, which Jay figured out was Tim. It wasn't too hard to piece together; she could recognize people by their build most often, then their hair, and mannerisms.
The second was the hooded, masked figure. He was a bit of an enigma to her; not exactly helping Jay and Tim on their ventures, but still aiding them when they leaned too far off the path. The two, (which she soon learned were dubbed Masky and Hoodie) were not often seen together, only in one full timeline of events that began at a hotel.
It was eight o'clock when [name] finally finished Marble Hornets, her laptop now connected to her charger in her kitchen. Doctor Smiley and Bloody Painter did not return to her home, so she could only assume that they were staying out for the night.
It couldn't end here, [name] thought, furrowing and then relaxing her brow as she leaned back in her chair with a sigh. There were still so many things left unsaid! So many questions she had! No way in hell was she going to ask the duo who'd soon become a reality how it ended either; that'd just be too insensitive.
Doing a quick search of Marble Hornets on another tab resulted in a large amount of suggested prompts and links to various pages. A wiki, fanworks, behind-the-scenes, an official comic. It looked like Brian and Tim, Hoodie and Masky, were the fan favorites too. [name] let out another sigh, rubbing the side of her head with the pads of her fingers.
She had done what Doctor Smiley told her to do, even if it felt like she had wasted her entire day away. Even so, [name] couldn't help but feel hooked onto the found-footage media even though it left an unsatisfied pit in her stomach.
There had to be more, she thought to herself, glaring at her screen as she went through pages of fanwork, articles, artwork, and the like. [name] had to reassure herself that the need to know more about Marble Hornets was just to know more about the duo she was supposed to bring to life and not the creeping fascination that came with exploring new things.
Or maybe she was just invested because of the characters—the people—in the story. [name] didn't want to admit that.
[name] got up after closing all the applications on her laptop and turned the warm device off. It didn't feel great having had wasted her day away like this, but she had no other choice. No other choice, [name] though, grimacing. That was her excuse now, for everything that became of her paintings. And what was she to say when one of those paintings hurt her enough, close to death?
I suppose I can't say or think about anything when I'm dead. [name] made herself some dinner, a quick pot of soup, and two pieces of sourdough bread on the side. It filled her empty stomach, becoming warm and pleased. Only now, after eating a full meal, did [name] finally feel the weariness weighing on her eyes despite doing absolutely nothing.
She undressed and redressed into pajamas, locking her bedroom door tight behind her, and stared at the knob as if someone was about to twist it, attempting to follow her inside. [name] did a once-over of her room, checking her closet and her bathroom for any intruders; there were none.
[name] sat down on the edge of her bed, a creeping dread now crawling its way up her spine.
She didn't want to sleep.
What if, like every other time, she was going to experience a wild, vivid dream? She felt everything, heard everything, and remembered everything in each dream—nightmare. [name] had never had these things happen to her before and even if she had in the past, she never used those to influence her art.
Sleep, her brain cried, eyes dry, and senses numb.
No, she thought back, I can't. I won't.
[name] scooted back to the center of her bed, piling two pillows behind her to prop herself up. She stared at the shadows that climbed her walls and teased her vision like claws breaking down her walls.
Her mind flickered and she shut her eyes for a moment. Just a moment, she told herself. But that moment turned into two minutes, five minutes, and then in ten, she fell asleep.
Or...wait, did she? [name] did not feel refreshed when she opened her eyes and did not recognize the ceiling or the walls or the uncomfortable crack of broken wood and rock under her back. Dust and dirt fell from her hair as she slowly sat up, blinking hard as her eyes adjusted to the darkness in this cold, empty room.
She laughed, the stale air filling her lungs as she inhaled sharply, rubble digging into her palms.
Where am I? That was all she could think, but thinking hurt her head. It hurt everywhere to think. She gripped painfully at the ground underneath her, but the pain was greater in her noggin than the pieces of garbage scratching her skin.
The ground shifted and moved as she sat up, the world tipping as [name] stumbled and leaned her body against the walls peeling with paint and crumbling cement. Her foot did not ache as it would usually do when she put weight on it, but even as she willed herself to look down, [name] could not do it.
So she was dreaming... Right?
[name] began walking forward, weight dependent on the feeling of stability as she felt her way to the opening of a doorway of sorts. It was just as dark out in this opening as it was inside and the sounds of the night echoed louder here, a faint, owl's hoots sounding so close as it bounced across the open space from so far away. Crickets seemed to tweet and chirp their time away, hidden by the shadow of the night from predators and only pausing as [name] made her move to the right.
The wall she had been leaning on disappeared for a moment, causing her to stumble and kick up a rock and some glass under the shuffle of her feet. Her heart lurched, not exactly wanting to nosedive and eat cement and whatever else could lodge in her skin in this dangerous place, but she caught herself on a beam of rock, both rough and smooth as her fingers curled around it, dust gathering under her nails.
Her eyes were adjusting, but only to a few feet around her. She could see the corroded ground, once tile and surrounded by firm walls, but now empty and abandoned. There were doorways without doors, supposedly open rooms that were just as trashed and desolate as the one she woke up in. [name] kept her slow pace, heart pounding heavy and hard within her chest.
The pattern repeated itself, each soft, crunch of her feet seemingly loud in her own ears, causing her to pause and hold her breath. Then she'd continue after twenty seconds of silence, sometimes broken by an owl or some other night creature bellowing out their cry. This didn't deter her though, and it didn't make the feeling of dread any better.
Then, [name] heard something and paused. The first noise that she didn't recognize as an animal or the sounds of her feet. It sounded like a gentle tap, like a drop of water, or something else. [name] swallowed the hard lump that gathered at the pit of her throat and sucked in a quiet breath. Her knees felt weak and she felt way too light-headed. She couldn't breathe.
She couldn't breathe.
[name] tried to make her collapse sound as quiet as possible as she grasped at her chest and slid against the wall she leaned on. Old wallpaper flung off from where her hand dragged, scattering around with a quiet tap on the floor. The air was thin, and her gasps were becoming a quiet wheeze as she squeezed her eyes shut.
You're okay, you'll get through this, she battled against the opposite thoughts, the churning of her system becoming hot one second and cold another. Her fingers trembled as she brought them up to her lips, almost covering them, but the sharp intake of breath she made caused her to instead drop her hand and wipe the sticky palm on the flat of her pants. Her mouth tingled, and her eyes and legs too.
She could breathe again.
Yet, the coolness that raked across her body went flush as she heard a loud, echoing sound far behind her. Someone had dropped something metal, the object clattering and clanging against the ground as it inevitably began to roll. Her heart began racing once again and she scrambled off of her knees, trying to be as quiet as she possibly could until she leaned hard against the wall once again.
She quickened her steps, eyes wide as the darkness around her shifted and rolled, crawling up the walls until stars dotted the darkness; but it wasn't the walls anymore, the ceiling had opened, and the darkness turned to night and a million, white eyes blinked at her from above in the cool, night air.
"What the fuck?" [name] jolted, head lowering as she stared forward, eyes narrowing and squinting as a light turned on to illuminate her form. She blocked it with her hand and wanted to take a step back...but she couldn't. Her feet wouldn't move.
"H-hello? Could you...lower the light?" She spoke, voice cracking as this person ahead of her didn't lower the light right away, but he did slowly, and [name] breathed a sigh of relief.
She couldn't see who stood a good fifteen feet away, only his outline and the light that shined down at his feet. A flashlight, she correctly assumed.
"Who...who are you?" He asked, not hesitant, but more concerned and...distant. His voice also held an accusatory tone to it, making [name] throw up her guard. She thinned out her lips and straightened up, her muscles tightening.
"My name is [name]... I... I'm a bit lost," she chuckled awkwardly. She didn't want to give him the truth, at least, not the full truth. Someone would usually think the worst upon venturing into an abandoned building at night, coming across homeless and crazy people, as if the ones who decided to adventure at a time like this weren't crazy themselves.
[name] had seen a lot of videos surrounding abandoned buildings, like, "Spending 24 Hours in a Haunted Hospital!" or "Last to Leave this Abandoned Motel Wins $1000!" which, almost ninety-five percent of them were staged and fake. Perhaps this guy was one of those kinds of people, who explored for the thrill.
"Lost," the stranger echoed, exhaling, "listen, it's dangerous here. You shouldn't-"
BANG! Something heavy and loud echoed behind [name] and down the hall, causing the two of them to jump. He was already facing the way it came from, but [name] couldn't will herself to turn and look, so instead she just darted forward, nearly slipping on a smooth piece of tile on her way over. The figure whom she was talking to whirled to look at her as she ran passed him, causing her heart to lurch as the stars above disappeared.
She just wanted to run.
She just wanted to get out of here!
[name] screamed as something cracked in the air and a hot wind whizzed by her face, causing a spray of stone to catch in her eyes. Her vision watered as she continued to run, the sound of her feet hitting the ground creating a storm of noise, but the sound of something approaching fast behind her kept the fire in her stomach to keep running. Even as her legs grew heavy like lead and her lungs burned cold, she ran.
There was something chasing her, just as fast as her, or maybe even faster, but they were toying with her.
The air around her changed yet again, an opening in the sky and in front of her. Wind flowed through trees and a messy undergrowth, the crickets loud and surrounding her here. She didn't stop. She couldn't stop.
And she didn't turn around.
[name] gasped, eyes wide and chest heaving as she stared up at the solid white ceiling of her studio. The sun's rays from the large windows cast warm, speckled lights over her body as she lay flat on the floor, not on her bed where she had gone to sleep.
The [h/c]-haired woman sat up quickly, turning right and left, mouth open wide, her throat dry, and her clothes a mess. Dust and leaves clung to the fabric of her pants and shirt, a chip of old paint falling from her tangled hair.
A dream, she thought. It was a dream, this was just a coincidence. Nothing was wrong. It was fine.
But this wasn't normal.
She didn't usually get dreams, this only started when that thing came into her life.
She never had to worry about her safety when going to bed. Not until Bloody Painter first appeared.
She was never afraid of doctors. But only just began when a figment of Doctor Smiley first operated on her.
[name] pulled herself up, her leg tightening and crying out as she placed an unnecessary amount of weight on it just to check. Just to make sure she was now fully awake and this wasn't another one of those dreamscape hells it had placed her in.
The artist paused though as her attention focused on the easel toppled over on the tarp she used to paint on. It wasn't broken, but two things sat on the wooden object, holding tight like the two things were its saving grace.
The first thing was a canvas. Medium in size, painted dark, all black, with the main focus of the picture at the center, white and grey, and like a ghost on a backdrop of dead night. Four faces were visible, two faces, human, on the right, two masked on the left, all four of them pulling apart from each other as if they were being melted together into one being. [name] knew who these people were, Tim pulling away from Masky, and Brian pulling away from Hoodie.
[name] looked at her hands, scowling at the sight of greys, blacks, whites, and pencil smears all over her fingers and hands. She had painted this...but she also did not.
Now, the second thing that was sitting on the easel, almost like it was glued to the edge so it did not sprawl away when the easel was toppled, was a doll. It had no discerning features except that there were two, pinprick, black eyes sewn into the white fabric around its face. It sat there in front of the canvas, a knowing reminder of who was in control.
Chapter 8: VIOLENTLY. WITH A BAT.
Chapter Text
Something was wrong.
[name] knew this immediately when, again, she woke up with a splitting headache and was in the middle of a cluttered, unfamiliar room. This time though it was dawn, faint particles of light seeping through the large gaps in the walls, paneless and easily accessible if someone wanted to get in, but not out as they were taller than she could reach.
She groaned quietly, shutting her eyes, refusing to acknowledge the scene around her, refusing to go along with this absurd plan this entity had for her. Yet, the unknown danger that could lurk around any corner of this god-forsaken place forced her to sit up and deal with the creaks and aches in her back and joints.
Even the smallest of items that fell from the folds in her shirt and hair made a small noise that seemed so loud when it echoed off the large walls.
Surprisingly enough, she wasn't panicking as much as she felt she should have, the knowing suspicion that, if she did, it would only get worse.
The floor beneath her was just as messy as she thought it to be, covered in broken, old wood, sheets of cardboard, broken glass, and other plastic items that gave her the impression that people may have used this place to party or as a hideout for some time. She didn't pick anything up though, but saw the end of a metal rod sticking out from beneath the folds of a large sheet of plastic wrap and noted it down within her mind.
[name] got to her feet slowly, balancing herself still as she allowed her body to completely wake up and grow accustomed to her surroundings. Just like before, the walls were peeling old paint, an eggshell white with grey, cemented walls behind them. [name] approached the wall in front of her slowly and plucked a piece of the coiling paint off the wall with a satisfying snap!
She tossed the item to the side, frowning as it skittered across the floor and disappeared out of her sight. [name] tip-toed across the rubble and trash, cringing each time she made the smallest of noises that seemed the loudest to her ears until she made it to the opening of the doorway. No door remained on its rusted hinges, allowing anyone who passed by here a good glimpse into the room.
[name] stepped out slowly, light immediately shining into her eyes from a large crack in the ceiling. She blinked the tears away and looked left, her eyes darting around for any semblance of an exit or a way out of here. None, only a long hallway with doors that matched her own, each just as a mess and ransacked with trash.
She turned right now, noticing quickly that the area she stood at was at a fork in the road, and she stood at the left-most door just around the bend of a concession desk that curved to the left. She moved slowly to the right, eyes trained down the long hall that stretched out even farther than the one on her left, and then stopped when the curve of the wall opened up to a new hall to her right.
[name] didn't have to peer around much to see what was down this hall as the bent area of the built-in desk made it easy to see everything passed a certain point. Trees poked out of an opened area to the left, like an opened greenery, but wild and untamed. More open doorways carved the walls to more unexplored nooks and crannies. The woman wasn't too keen on finding out where these places led though, and shuffled her way around the curve.
It was a long stretch, but at the end, she could see a terribly kept doorway, white light shining through and reflecting off the dirty, tiled floor. Her breath came out as a sigh of relief, but she kept her lips shut after that, an uneasiness creeping up her spine and tickling her neck. She turned her head each time, to the left and right, if there were any openings or dark corners she needed to be aware of.
Then, she heard a shuffle.
This shuffle wasn't loud, but it bounced off a corridor of an archway to the far left, a bit across from where [name] stood. She paused, only for a moment, holding her breath to stare wide-eyed at the darkness that coiled around the corner of the doorway, threatening to consume her if she stepped any closer or grab her if she stepped any further away.
Then, there were more noises, shuffling, getting louder and louder, and just as [name] took a step forward, maybe to make her escape forward, or to hide in a doorway just a few feet away, someone stepped out.
[name]'s eyes trailed up slowly from their foot to their face(or what was supposed to be one). They were tall, having to duck under the first doorway to move through the second until they too paused at the sight of [name].
Hoodie, [name] knew this as Hoodie. He wore that same exact yellow hoodie from Marble Hornets, and his black and red-stitched ski mask, that crimson frown staring daggers into her. She swallowed hard, neither of them breaking eye contact for a good while before he made a move.
Fast and precise, he was aiming for her with his lunge across the hall to which [name] quickly jumped back and away, her feet catching on a large sheet of flimsy metal, causing her to stumble and glide her hand across the deteriorating wall. Old paint showered to the floor, kicking up as Hoodie scrambled to his feet, using part of the wall to stabilize himself.
[name] turned tail and booked it back down the hall, cursing to herself as she slid again, rock and dirt digging into her palms as she grasped at the floor and hurled herself forward as Hoodie's hands came inches from her shoulder. She felt the air shift behind her, and she let out a wheeze as she careened toward that same room she came out of, nearly slamming her side into the bend of the doorway, eyes darting around on the floor.
She spotted that piece of plastic wrap again, and then to the opening of it below where that metal rod still sat. She hurried over to it just as the pounding of footsteps made it to the door; [name] grasped the end of it with one hand, then two, then turned and—
[name] swung and hit Hoodie, hard. The area where she hit him was around his head and neck, the impact causing Hoodie to crumple back to the floor and let out an ungodly noise which was akin to a man screaming into a terrible microphone. The feeling of the metal rod vibrating in her hands caused [name] to drop it out of shock.
"FUCK!" She could hear only one decipherable world throughout his garbled cry of pain and grasped at his face while he squirmed on a pile of rubble and trash. [name] jumped passed over his body, staggering as a cold chill ran up her back and numbed her mind. A familiar feeling caused blood to run down her nose and curl at the top of her upper lip.
[name] pushed herself around the corner once again, stumbling as a pounding static reached the front of her mind, pulsing loudly in her head. She wiped at the blood, coughing as some of it ran down her throat, forcing her to swallow it down and taint her tongue with the taste of metal.
Her knees wobbled, her vision was ebbing with light and dark at the corners of her vision, and she felt as if she was repeatedly being lit on fire and then doused with ice-cold water.
There was that stampeding sound of footsteps behind her again, and with no time to react, she was being barreled to the ground.
[name] squeezed her eyes tight, different material poking at her skin, but never breaking it. She thrashed around when she felt that they had come to a stop, her back against the floor, his body a few feet above her.
A gloved hand grasped both her hands, collected them into one grasp, and squeezed at her wrists with quick precision. A quick yank turned her surroundings darker as she was pulled hard into a side room, the feeling of static now directly muffled by the walls.
"Stop," that same, mechanical voice spoke to her from behind Hoodie's mask. He pressed a knee on both her legs, yanking her at her wrists so she was sat up. His figure was now more than just a few dots in her vision. Her hands were out in front of her, collected and almost bound together by one of his hands, "and I'll let you go."
"I was almost out of here," she hissed back, voice much louder compared to his relatively hushed tone, and, despite this, he didn't waver. He didn't harden his grip either, no threatening movements, nothing to show that he was going to harm her. And yet, [name] still did not want to be here with him.
Hoodie turned his head toward the doorway behind him as [name] allowed the quiet to soothe her aching skull and painful pricks on her skin. That tumble wasn't the worst she had gone through, surprisingly enough. And it was even more of a surprise to realize that she could stand and move around on her bad foot even without much support. She really hadn't been thinking about it too much since she had woken up here.
"You..." It took her a moment to connect that Hoodie was looking at her now since she had her head lowered, "you know about us, don't you."
This wasn't a question, more like a statement that [name] had to agree to. She nodded quietly, licking her lips and frowning when she tasted dry dust and a bit of blood.
"I know you go by Hoodie even though that's not your real name," she told him bluntly, watching as his shoulders lifted like a cat with their hackles raised, "there's more of you too. And I'm supposed to bring you here..."
It wasn't a bad idea, telling him all this, she thought. All of them would find out sooner or later, and she thought it'd be nice to know as soon as possible.
He made a noise, muffled by the fabric of his mask and made scratchy by the device making his voice almost inaudible. She didn't remember him speaking once throughout the entirety of Marble Hornets, only when it was just him; Brian. A tall guy with a kind smile and a certain walk that [name] wondered was the same as in the videos. All of those things that happened surely remained the same as they passed over into her world, right?
"I need to find Tim." She heard him say, maybe not to her specifically, but to himself, as he turned his head away, allowing the quiet to consume them and the room, becoming worse than the static that filled her ears and clawed at her mind minutes ago.
"He's not here," she whispered, "or, at least isn't anymore. We need to go."
"I'm not leaving without him," his voice was strained even under the effects of the voice changer. This time too his grip tightened on her wrists as if emphasizing his point.
"And we'll find him," she ripped her hands from his grip, rubbing her right wrist first, then her left. He wasn't holding on as tightly as she thought, or maybe he just didn't expect her to try and break free, "but right now, I need to figure out how to get you back to my place," [name] paused, sighing, "and how to get there."
Hoodie stared at her, and then shifted, releasing his knee from her legs, and stood up to his full height. She remained seated, unsure what he wanted her to do, or if he wanted her to do anything. He pushed a hand into his front pocket and then pulled out a phone and handed it to [name].
[name] took it quickly and turned it on. Thirty percent battery, cool, okay. [name] opened the maps app first, knowing that if they were to get out of there and get back to her place, she needed to know where in the hell this place was.
And, what did she expect, they were out in the middle of absolutely nowhere, the nearest road about a two-minute walk on foot through an old, dirt road. Although, from what she could see on the map, this building was nowhere to be seen at the current location. Either someone was going to be fired, or this building wasn't here before.
"Okay," she stood up now, eyes darting over to Hoodie as he took a big step back from her, but did not let up his guard, "let's get out of this place first and I'll call someone."
He nodded quietly and stepped once near the door. His hands grasped each side and hung out of the threshold, looking right and left quickly before releasing his left grip and swinging out of the doorway. [name] followed quickly while opening up the phone to dial Katlyn's phone number. It was the only person she could count on, because there was no way in hell she was going to pay for an Uber out here.
The rush to the large doorway was surprisingly uneventful despite the bright light of the sun nearly causing [name] to go blind. She directed the two through the knee-length field and toward a rocky, dirt road, then pointed them left.
"Hello?" [name] heard Katlyn's suspicion-toned voice at the other side of the line when she called and breathed out a sigh of relief.
"Katlyn! It's me," [name] said quickly, afraid she was going to hang up due to the number not being familiar. And, with Katlyn repeating [name]'s name on the other side, she continued, "I need you to pick me up. I, uh..."
She looked around, then at Hoodie, who only realized she was looking at him when she was quiet for far too long. He didn't make any suggestions.
"I... Got lost."
Fuck. She facepalmed.
"You...got lost," Katlyn repeated as [name] messaged the woman the location and the road nearby, "[name]! This is an hour away!"
[name] felt heat run up to the back of her neck and emptiness settled in the pit of her stomach. It was, wasn't it? She kicked at a few rocks and pebbles and coughed, "yep... I really didn't know where I was going."
Katlyn sighed, and before she could say anything [name] added, "and I have someone here with me too. This is their phone, which is how I'm calling you."
Another sigh, still warranted. [name] couldn't tell her anything about why exactly she was out here, why she didn't have a phone, and who exactly this person was, but she could only trust that Katlyn didn't ask any questions.
"Okay, okay, [name]. I'm...hah, I'm going to be a bit. So just sit on the side of the road or something..." [name] could hear the jingle of keys on the other side of the line and felt hopeful, "don't. Move."
"Will do," [name] swallowed hard, "well, I mean, I won't move. Yeah, bye."
[name] ended the call and turned the phone off, then handed it back to Hoodie who slipped it back into his front pocket without a word. It wasn't too long after that though when the two of them came up to a slope and to the road. The smell of dew and spilled oil hung in the air, which [name] was glad for as it was much more pungent than the smell of blood that clung to the inside of her nostrils.
The [h/c]-haired woman took a careful seat on a relatively nice patch of grass, dried at the edges but matted at the center as Hoodie stood a few feet away.
She watched as he pulled back his hood after a few minutes, and then a few minutes after that curled his fingers underneath his hoodie to grab at the coils of his ski mask and pull up. [name] felt guilty, watching as brown hair jumped free from the confines of that dark mask. His eyes were sunken and tired, his lips were tugged to a frown with dried blood running just below his nose. There was a scar though, jagged, running up at the corner of the right side of his lip, and [name] only noticed when he tilted his head toward her.
It was too late though when [name] looked away. He had seen her staring, he knew she was looking, and that just made her even more uneasy, but not uncomfortable.
"What would your friend think if a masked man jumped in the car after you?" His voice, clearer and much more light-hearted caught [name] a bit off-guard, her heart tugging in all different directions. She swallowed again, wetting her lips again, and nodded again.
Right, and what would Katlyn think if [name] and an unknown, relatively handsome man got into the backseat together?
[name] could think of a lot of things.
Chapter 9: CUTE FIRST DATE IDEAS
Chapter Text
Two days went by in a blur after allowing Brian into her house. Most of it was spent online, searching for any places that had "popped up", as she put it. Places that didn't belong or weren't at a location before, but just suddenly appeared. [name] was sure something would come up, but it was harder than she thought.
She didn't know what Brian did when he left the house on most occasions. He was reserved, letting her only know that he was leaving and the moment he was back with a knock at the door. He was unmasked, of course, but she was pretty sure he left at night too, returning somehow in the early morning without setting off an alarm.
[name] also noticed something else about Brian whenever he had his mask off. It was very brief, but she had a good look at an area on the back of his neck where the skin was discolored. His white skin was darkened there, patchy and grey, like a bruise. She could've chalked it up to a bruise, but she saw a greyish area on his right arm when the sleeve of his hoodie rode up his forearm. He noticed her staring at him the second time and turned away quickly.
Currently, Brian was in her living room, while [name] was in the kitchen. She had given him her laptop temporarily to help with the search (since it was his idea). She knew what this was about; searching for Tim, or Masky, but she hoped her first introduction would be to Tim. She didn't know the ins and outs of their predicament, only that Tim had very little control over what happens when he wore the mask, at least in Marble Hornets, he did.
Outside of that, she noticed that fans of the show would make art or even stories of the two, and Tim and Masky acted like one and the same. It was funny, because Hoodie, too, did not speak much, nor did he have the voice changer that [name] was growing accustomed to understanding. She wanted to know what these differences meant, or if it was just an odd addition to her artistic creation of the two.
[name]'s thumb hovered over an article on her phone, said article new and showing off a large building in the front photograph. It didn't look worn down, but it was very familiar. Not in the way that [name] had been there before, no, but she had seen it recently on a certain video. She stood up, tapping the article with bated breath. She didn't show Brian yet, she couldn't, not until she was sure this was the place.
The location was a two-hour drive from where [name] was, further from where she had Katlyn drive to before, but this time [name] would have a car, and someone with her who was searching for a place like this in the first place.
"I found it," [name] said aloud after looking over two pictures from the inside. Desks and chairs were stacked onto each other in one room, and a long, Resident Evil-esque hall faced a set of stairs at the end of it. Brian placed her laptop to the side before getting up quickly.
He towered over her, the front of his shoulder pressing into the back of her own. [name] froze and then pushed her phone into his hands so she could retrieve the space she lost. Brian took it without a word and stared at the screen.
[name] watched his eyes as squares of light reflected from her phone and into his irises. She could see the moment his expression changed, just barely, to one of recognition. He nodded once and then turned away. With her phone.
"You're not thinking of going now, are you?" [name] asked, following him as he moved back to the living room. She mostly did so because she wanted her phone back, but if he thought of leaving, he'd need directions. He was capable of driving, she assumed, because her foot still ached and throbbed whenever she rested it on the ground, but she could walk freely without it.
"I am," he responded dully, grabbing his hoodie that rested on the couch.
"I'm coming with you then," she responded firmly, eyes darting to the sky outside. Dusk was approaching, and a two-hour drive would cause the sky to darken even more so. She hated going outside during the night, something that only came to her recently.
Brian turned and stared at her for a moment, brows furrowing. He didn't argue and surely wasn't about to just take off with her phone in hand (it would take longer than two hours to get there on foot anyway).
"Let me get some things first." [name] told him, turning away to grab her wallet, a charger, and a jacket of her own. She took a bit longer too so she could find some batteries for a flashlight, because there was no way she was going to go without one.
When [name] returned to the living room, Brian wasn't there, but her front door was open. She grabbed the keys she kept in the kitchen and tugged some shoes on, going painfully slow with her sore foot, then locked the door to her home behind her before she made her way to the driveway.
Brian stood nearby, her phone turned off in his right hand.
"I'll drive," he said with a bit of urgency straining his voice. He held out his hand like he had already decided for both of them that he was going to drive.
Technically, [name] was going to let him drive anyway, just to be careful with her foot, and because she didn't care who the driver was. But since he had said it in such a way, it irked her. She didn't know why, but it just did.
"It's fine," she moved around his hand and toward the driver's side door. She heard him follow after quickly, but wasn't expecting his hand to hit the window of her car. Not a threat, but a nonverbal way of him saying, "give me the damn keys."
"Look." She turned to him again, "if you get pulled over or something, you don't have any ID. Plus, I know this area best, I can get us there faster than what directions Google Maps will give."
He stared hard into her eyes, causing [name] to swallow and waver. A second, two, five, eight is when she almost decided to give in and hand him the keys, but instead Brian held out her phone quietly. Once she took it, he walked back around the car and took the front passenger's seat while she slid in to the driver's.
Brian was pouting, and [name] couldn't help but feel a little proud.
━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━
Instead of two hours, [name] got the two of them there in an hour and thirty minutes (even with the additional stop for a snack at a gas station). It got darker than she initially thought, and the building wasn't located on the side of the road.
They had to walk a good five minutes down a path, more well-kept than the last path she had walked on after meeting Brian, but it didn't stay that way, the cement cracking and basically becoming rubble when the building came into view. It was as if this path was split just to allow space for the building to appear. [name] wondered how this was even possible, and if she was the cause of it.
The building was tall, red bricks making up most of the walls outside with windows placed high and low, white trim, and grey stone slotting smaller windows below at foot-level. It had a basement at the looks of it, but they weren't going into the basement, or so she hoped, as Brian took the lead and rounded the corner, keeping himself close to the wall.
Around the corner, there was an out-of-place path paved directly in front of a set of low stairs that led up to a door. The two of them passed two wooden sticks in the ground first, though, and [name] paused for a moment, noticing that something lay at the center, surrounded by old leaves and dirt. The wood was faded, but, even so, she could read the words: BENEDICT HALL.
[name] was the first to climb the stairs, noticing quickly that the white door's paint was chipped and old, like the walls in the abandoned building she was in. Although when she was close enough, she realized Brian had stopped walking long ago. [name] turned, tilting her head to the door.
His lips thinned as he approached slowly and pulled his mask from the pockets of his hoodie.
"Don't make too much noise," he said, eyes darting to [name]'s quickly, then away. [name] nodded slowly, reaching out and pulling the door open.
It creaked open, much to her surprise and dismay. Surprise, because it was unlocked, and dismay because of how loud their arrival was announced; but the foyer was giant, vacant, but giant. There were open gaps above them, allowing for a clear view of the area below.
Benedict Hall; [name] wondered what this place would look like, full of people. Students, maybe? Were the many rooms, the halls, and the stairs meant for a place of learning? She hadn't paid too much attention to the gritty details of Marble Hornets, especially details about Benedict Hall.
This was the giant building at the end, wasn't it? One of the final entries.
It was darker too, inside the main building. Brian, or, maybe she should say, Hoodie, moved forward first while pulling on dark gloves. She followed close behind, thanking her past self for remembering to bring along a flashlight. [name] didn't turn it on just yet though.
Their footsteps filled the building, and the stale air filled [name]'s lungs. She was aware of every breath and every shuffle they were making, maybe a bit too aware, as every crack of uneasy wood she stepped on made her jump. Hoodie's presence made her feel just a little bit better, although she didn't want to think that, it was true.
One of the stairwells was filled with junk and wooden furniture that must've been tossed out of the rooms and never cleaned up. Some of the windows too, were boarded up, still allowing light through, but keeping anyone who wanted to get in that way, out. They found another, less cramped, stairwell and ascended when the sun was just about setting, making the halls a dusty orange, and building the shadows in the corners.
"[name]," Hoodie's modified voice caused her heart to jump. She had forgotten about it and wasn't expecting it to break the silence between them, "stay downstairs."
His voice was low, so it was hard to hear, but his right hand was moved back, outstretched to keep her from moving any further.
"What? But-" She stopped herself upon hearing the echoing sound of rustling from a room ahead. How did he know? Did he hear something before her? It was possible, maybe a noise had covered it up.
Someone stepped out of the doorway, a leg first, then a hand, a body. [name]'s mouth opened, maybe to say something, or call out a name.
"Go—!!"
A crack echoed in the air just as Hoodie's voice reached her ears. The noise rattled her head, and blood splattered across her face from the man in front of her.
No, not just blood, brain too. It clung to her hair as Hoodie dropped backward, his right shoulder hitting her left as he went down.
[name] turned and ran, ducking low as a hot crack shot over her head, causing her to shriek as she practically stumbled down the stairs. She skidded across the ground, hands outstretched to catch herself before she faceplanted. Another gunshot echoed in the building, sounding much like someone had dropped something flat in an empty space.
Nothing hurt; whoever was shooting did not shoot her, or, at least not yet.
"Stop!" She heard a vaguely familiar voice as she turned and ran down the second length of stairs with urgency in her steps. She wiped at her face and let out a shaken breath to see red smeared across her hand.
Hoodie was dead?
It was a stupid thought. Anyone could die, but somewhere in her mind, she had put these people on a pedestal where they didn't belong. Part of her believed that they were immortal, but she knew that that was absurd thinking on her part.
[name] dipped into a room off to the side, her legs burning and her foot pricking with pain. This room was filled with the same junk that was piled on the first stairwell, but the desks and chairs were placed on their legs rather than thrown into a corner. She got on her hands and knees and crawled underneath a table that kept her close to the wall and hid her body from the sight of the door.
"Come out, I'm not going to hurt you!" His voice echoed throughout the building, which [name] almost scoffed at.
But you were shooting at me? She thought instead with a frown. His footsteps sounded much closer to her position than she would've liked. She couldn't pinpoint where he was due to the sound of her heartbeat growing louder in her head.
Something familiar tickled the back of her throat, causing [name] to clasp a hand over her mouth (the one without blood coating it). Her brows furrowed.
Not now, anytime but now! She brought her other hand against the top of the other, tightening her grasp. It was hard to breathe, hard to think; the pounding of her heart became a pounding in her head. That tickle became an itch which became a burning sensation at the back of her throat.
She began coughing, nearly choking as her hand became speckled with red.
This was ironic, so ironic. She had watched Tim do this exact same thing once, trying to keep himself from coughing and giving his location away while someone, something, hunted him.
"You're sick too?" The voice of the one with the gun, the one she knew as Alex Kralie, echoed in the room she was in. He muttered something else under his breath that was too quiet for [name] to hear, but she knew he knew she was here.
[name] stopped coughing, but it was her breath she was afraid of now, afraid that he could hear her swallow or exhale slowly.
Could she take him on? Or would he shoot her before she could do anything?
Her eyes darted down to the pocket jacket on her right, where her flashlight was kept away. [name] grasped it, a plan unraveling in her brain. This flashlight was the kind that nobody wanted to be on the opposite end of, the blinding kind of light that mimicked the annoying high beams of a car.
I can do this, she gripped the handle tight, I can do this, I can do this, I can...
[name] surged up right after turning the light on and brought it high. She kept her head low, prioritizing the muscles in her head over anything else. There was a sound of momentary shock that came from the man standing on the opposite side of the room. A bullet whizzed by the skin on her right hand. Her arm trembled, nearly dropping the flashlight as she lunged for the doorway and yanked it closed.
He hit the door hard in response, pushing against it. For a moment, it opened, but she threw her entire body against it, forcing it shut.
[name] heard him shouting, she didn't bother listening to him though as she leaned to her right, grabbed a collapsed chair (nearly allowing Alex a moment of freedom), and wedged it underneath the handle.
It wouldn't hold though. The wood of the chair was creaking.
What do I do? What do I do? What am I doing here?! Brian wanted to look for Tim, Hoodie was searching for Masky, but they only found Alex, the one who killed Jay, the one that Tim supposedly killed in the end.
So why was he here?!
[name] turned and began running down the hall she had come from, eyes lifting to the stairs before she paused.
Two men, one tall and familiar, one shorter, and only familiar in the way that she had seen him from a screen, stood at the top of the first set of stairs. [name] breathed heavy, her brain scrambling as her reality broke for about the thirteenth time. Brian was still masked, but his arm was slung over the shoulder of Tim, and Tim... He was maskless, staring hard at [name] with a frown.
BANG!
This noise snapped the three of them out of their daze, and [name] sidestepped, pressing her back against the curve of the wall as she jutted her thumb back.
"It's Alex."
[name] watched as all the attention that Tim was giving her with his stare was turned away and down the hall. He guided Brian to the right, leaving him leaning against the wall as he moved down the stairs, giving [name] a quick look before he disappeared, shoulders raised and hand reaching for something behind him.
A mask, she noticed, taking a brave peek, watching as he left to finish a certain job a second time.
Chapter 10: HAND TO HAND COMBAT
Notes:
thank you guys for the kind comments :]
i will try to respond to them, i promise i read and cherish every single one of them!
Chapter Text
[name] had learned a few things during and after leaving Benedict Hall.
First off, Hoodie was fine. It was wild to her that he was still breathing after being shot in the head. She had his blood splattered across her face and shirt, pieces of viseria no doubt clinging to a few folds in the fabric. She had approached him a minute after Tim had left, only sparing her a glance. She had outstretched her arms for a moment, maybe to plant them on his shoulders, but withheld her touch in fear that he'd drop in front of her once again.
"I'm fine," his voice surprised her, [name]'s gaze lifting to find the red fabric in his mask that was now drenched in a new kind of red, accompanied by an entry point near the top of his mask, soaked with blood. A perfected or lucky shot from Alex, as if he were expecting a foe in the first place.
[name]'s mouth opened and closed, then opened again like a gaping fish.
"But...you...you died," her voice was trembling, betraying her shock, or was it fear? [name] shook her head, "I know you guys are, like, not...human sometimes, but you can't just say you're fine after something like that happens."
[name] felt wronged in some way, even though she had no reason to. Her throat was tight, and her stomach twisted. How stupid it must be, telling someone like him something so strange like that. She didn't mean it in an accusatory way, but out of slight concern for the man.
Hoodie did not respond.
The second thing she had learned was that Alex had most likely escaped Masky's wrath.
The second masked man returned, fuming. Even though his white mask was secured on his face, she could see the anger in his raised shoulders and in the way he walked toward the stairs, stomping loudly up the steps.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing, Hoodie?" He seethed behind his mask, pushing forward so he stood closer to the man, not giving [name] a second glance. His language and whole demeanor surprised her, but she had to learn when and when not to be surprised, because these people were never like what she read online, "bringing a fucking civi in a place like this?"
"She's not just a civilian, Masky," Hoodie responded, having only to tilt his head down slightly, "she's the one who brought us here."
[name] didn't know whether Hoodie was blaming her for something, or maybe it was accidental too, because Masky's frustration toward Hoodie switched to [name] instead, but his eyes flashed with more emotion than just anger. He was unsure how to be angry at [name] exactly. What did Hoodie mean by she brought us here? Why was that man still alive? How did he even get here?
Tim had thought it was just a blip in his memory, just like usual whenever he would grow sick and 'fall asleep' so to speak. He never imagined waking up in a familiar place, nearly having a breakdown at the sight of old blood staining the floor below him, right where he had left Alex to die in that upstairs room all that time ago.
Never in his right mind did he think about running into Hoodie, dead and reconstructing on the ground with his brain splattered across the wall and floor. He would get up, Tim knew this, but his mask felt heavy on his hip just as his throat constricted, refusing the stuffy air. He pushed the fragile object against his face to keep his mind steady.
"You..." Masky finally spoke, his words coming out in a rough sigh, "let's get out of here. How do we get out of here."
His words were flat and held some authority over [name] like a human holding a treat above for a dog. She stared at him, eyes flicking to Hoodie, and then back toward the stairs.
"This way," she murmured, taking one step down before looking back at him, "is...is he gone?"
He, she thought, hiding her frown. She knew that they would know who she meant, even though [name] had spoken his name so familiarly minutes ago.
"Probably."
That did not ease the nervousness that built up in [name]'s chest as she made her way down the rickety stairs and down the hall, eyes darting toward every doorway and every movement. The shadows that climbed the walls from the setting sun caused her anxiety to worsen as she remembered how they would need to get back to her car.
And why the hell was she taking the lead?
[name] swallowed back her complaints as she pushed open the white door of Benedict Hall, the humid air hitting her hard in the face, not exactly the fresh wake-up call she needed. The overgrown area around them was tall and looked much more threatening now that it was late, but since Masky was secured, she didn't have to worry about coming back here for a while.
She didn't want to come back here.
The stroll down the path was filled with nothing but the same silence the three of them left the building with, with the occasional glances and jumps at the sounds of nature around them. [name] was just glad the place wasn't forested; it was just an overgrown area dotted with trees once in a while. [name] was relieved to spot her car in the same place it had been before.
She looked back at Hoodie, remembering the near-argument they had before coming here. She was sure he saw the look too, as his direction changed from following to returning to the passenger's seat. Good, she thought, unlocking the doors, I don't have to use getting shot in the head as part of my argument.
[name] was also sure that Masky wasn't too thrilled about climbing into her car, as he and Hoodie had a small chat right outside while she started the vehicle up. She didn't exactly care about his issue with her or her car, but she did care about getting out of here as fast as possible.
So when he was finally inside, Hoodie as well, she pulled off the side of the road, glad to be on her way home.
[name] didn't know what time it was when she pulled up into her driveway and parked the car. It was dark, she was tired and running on fumes, and her fucking lights were on inside.
She was pretty sure she had turned her main lights off; no, she was absolutely certain they weren't on when they left.
Her mind raced awake, and she clutched her keys tight, marching toward the front door without looking if Masky or Hoodie (or Tim and Hoodie, she hadn't bothered to check if their masks were on or not) were following along. She jammed her key into the lock and twisted, pushing the door in without fear of repercussion, unlike her time in Benedict Hall where even stepping on a few pieces of glass caused her skin to crawl.
[name]'s eyes fell on Doctor Smiley first, who was reading a book on her couch. Where he got the book, she didn't know, nor did she really care; then, there was Bloody Painter, in a far chair at the other side of her living room. There was a swell of relief, but also irritation.
How dare they enter her home so casually?
How dare they sit there, like nothing was wrong?
Doctor Smiley's head did not turn to [name] when she opened the door, but he finally only took notice of the added presence when Hoodie and Masky stepped behind her. She wasn't expecting a, "welcome back," that would've been too presumptuous, but part of her wished at least one of them here would've at least been a little concerned of her whereabouts.
"What the hell?" Tim pushed through on her left, stepping into the house while staring at the two ahead of them. He was maskless, but [name] was sure the painter and the doctor could recognize him without it.
"Timothy," Doctor Smiley spoke first, nodding to the man, "good to see you."
A light hand pressed to the small of [name]'s back, urging her inside just a step further until she could hear the click of the door behind her. She knew it was Hoodie, or maybe Brian, but she couldn't tear her eyes away from the group interacting like this, even when Tim looked back and flashed [name] an annoyed look.
"Was anyone going to tell me about this?" He motioned with a hand out to the two in the living room.
[name] averted her eyes, "well... I didn't expect them to just be sitting in my living room when they got back," she sighed, her tiredness hitting her again like a wave, "it's complicated, and I'm exhausted, so can we please talk about this in the morning?"
She slipped by Tim before he could respond, quickening her pace toward her bedroom while trying to ignore the presence in her living room and foyer. It was hard to though, knowing the four of them were capable of breaking any bone in her body at any second, so keeping her back turned on them was never the greatest thought.
Once [name] stepped into her room, she let out a sigh of relief while closing and locking the door behind her. She made sure that her security was in place, even though her mind lagged behind with every slow movement of her fingers.
She slipped off her jacket, pulled off her shirt and pants, and stared at the bathroom door. [name] needed to take a shower, or a bath, wipe off the grime and blood that was still clinging to her skin and toss the clothes she wore in the trash or, if she wanted to save them, put them in the laundry for an entire day so she could rid them of those memories at Benedict Hall.
[name] trudged into the bathroom and flicked on the lights with a slide of her finger, then turned on the faucet to her shower. Finally, she could have a good look at her face in the mirror.
She recognized this person, [h/c] hair sticking to her skin, framing around her slightly sunken eyes with the dark splatter of blood running up her chin and freckling her face across her nose and in her brow. She scrunched her face up at the sight and brought a hand up to wipe at it, but noticed that her left hand, too, had blood splattered on it and just let it hang at her side, becoming tingly and uncomfortable to think about.
Finally, when she tested the water again, [name] stepped into her bathtub (which was currently acting as a shower) and began scrubbing at her skin with her hands. Her nails ran painfully down her arms, coating them with soap, until the suds turned a slight pinkish color and ran down the drain. She squeezed her eyes shut as she massaged her face, hard, with her palms, feeling the weird stickiness and flakes of blood gather under her nails.
It ached, the places she was scrubbing so hard, scratching at the blood that wouldn't fall so easily, eventually though, it did, but not until her skin was raw from the repeated effect, not until she was bleeding herself from two hangnails. She felt clean, though, that was what mattered, and she could recognize herself in the mirror again, with damp hair and skin without crusted blood.
[name] dressed herself, mind still groggy, but body buzzing from the clean it received in the shower. She toppled into the comfort of her bed, pillow slowly becoming soaked from her wet hair, but that was the least of [name]'s worries.
Just before she allowed her mind to distance itself from her body, she listened closely to the noise outside her bedroom. There were hushed voices this time, which she found both thoughtful and uneasy about. Maybe they were doing that because I said I was going to bed? She thought, or maybe, they were planning to finally do something, now that they had strength in numbers.
It wouldn't be that bad, [name] thought, her mind drifting away from consciousness, dying in my sleep.
It wouldn't be that bad, not knowing which one of them would kill her, or if she didn't wake up the next morning.
[name] woke up the next morning.
She didn't find that surprising, but what she did find shocking was that her door was wide open. The lock she had placed on it was lying on the floor, broken. [name] sat in her bed, blinking away the sleepiness in her eyes while keeping a blanket up and around her shoulders to block out the cold morning air that swept into her room.
It was cold, so cold.
"What the hell," [name] couldn't help but mimic Tim's words last night as she detangled herself from her sheets and blankets and pulled on a black hoodie over her night shirt, but kept her comfortable pants on.
Her joints ached, and muscles screamed for her to lie back down, relish in the warmth of her mattress, and sleep the morning off just a bit longer, but her annoyance began to build when she stepped out into the hallway and then into her kitchen. She spotted her back door wide open, as well as her front door, without a person in sight. There was nobody here but herself to stop a wandering stranger from inviting themselves into her humble home.
"Can someone tell me what the hell is happening?!" Her voice was raised, trying to bring out someone in this chaotic house. Although she was not going to be housing anyone but herself if she didn't get some answers soon.
There was a flash of movement in her backyard, and she saw Brian move quickly across the view of the windows from the side of her house, then turn and step into the dining room which was attached to the kitchen. He looked much brighter than the time [name] had seen him with his mask removed, but there was a new splotch of discoloration around his temple, the location where he had been shot.
"You're awake," she heard him mutter, "good."
She caught his eyes darting up and down her current choice of clothes, then turned his attention to the windows he had appeared across, "you should get changed into something you can move quickly in."
Before she knew it, [name] had found herself crossing her arms almost defensively, raising a brow in a questioning manner.
"Tim... Wants to do something, a training exercise, to build up your stamina." He explained, turning to look back at the windows again, "if he sees you right now, he'll want to start right away."
A slightly baggy hoodie over a tank top with some comfortable pants? Was this Tim's sort of thing? Or did Brian mean that Tim wanted to start as soon as possible? [name] turned quickly and returned to her bedroom, shutting her door so she could change out of her pants and into some of her old workout pants; slightly tight-fitting, but they wouldn't hinder her movements. She combed out her hair too, just to be presentable, and returned to the kitchen.
Brian was still in the dining room, but [name] could now spot Tim in her backyard talking with Doctor Smiley, Tim dressed in that familiar red and black plaid flannel. There was a nervous feeling in her gut when she saw the doctor rub one side of his head and frown, while Tim smiled wickedly. Then, the two dispersed, Tim heading for her home.
"Finally," Tim clapped his hands together in front of him. He didn't look surprised to see her awake, so she only took his words as a sarcastic jest.
"Can you explain why my home looks like it's currently open for public viewing?" [name] leaned forward against one of her kitchen counters, toying absentmindedly with one of the sleeves of her hoodie. Tim exhaled through his nose, a smirk growing on his lips.
"It'll help getting in and out of your house easier, since we're going to do a bit of basic exercising today," he looked so proud of himself, even though this plan was not at all discussed with her.
"Didn't you want to hear about what's going on? How you're here?"
Tim rolled up his sleeves, tilting his head to the side, "got caught up with the story overnight. You think the whole thing has to revolve around you?"
[name] felt heat crawl up the back of her neck and rise to her ears. Embarrassment and a flash of anger, but Tim seemed so attuned to what she was feeling, "you do, don't you? So what is an artist like you supposed to do, left defenseless and by herself if pitted against someone you can't fight?"
Memories of Benedict Hall came rushing to the front of her mind, causing [name] to pause. The sound of the gun, Alex calling out to her, and [name] nearly losing her life. She couldn't fight back against Alex because he had a gun, so all she could do was run and hide.
"Run," Tim answered for her, speaking her first thought, "normally, you won't be able to hide, but you can run. Your last resort is to fight, but that's if and only if you have nowhere else to turn...or if you're buying some time."
Slowly, she was putting the pieces together, her eyes widening as she took a second look at the interior of her house. The front door opened wide, her back door the same, but not only that, some of her furniture had been physically moved just a slight bit. Her dining room table and chairs had been pushed up against the wall, her couch moved a few inches or more, closer to the TV. Hell, [name] shouldn't be surprised if they even moved her car.
"So, this exercise..." She murmured, meeting his gaze as he flashed her a grin.
"First, you'll run around for a while, chased by Helen. Then, once you can keep a good distance away from him for a while, you'll move onto me, then Brian," he told her, looking like he was ready for his turn already, "like a game of tag, I guess."
[name] swallowed hard, thinking back to the last time she had played tag. Middle school, or elementary. She hadn't had the need to build her stamina at all for the past few years, so to start now of all times...
"When are we starting?" She asked, her voice quiet. Tim took a seat in one of her dining chairs, across from Brian. He crossed one leg over the other and smiled with narrowed eyes.
"How about now."
It wasn't an offer or a suggestion, because at the sound of quick approaching footsteps and the flash of blue streaking across her backyard made it apparent it had already begun. She ran in the opposite direction.
This wasn't a game to her, but it was to them.
Chapter 11: WHAT DO YOU HAVE?
Chapter Text
[name] lay exhausted on her bed, her eyes shut as she tried to relax even though her heart kept pounding hard and loudly in her chest and ears, the blood flowing hot in her veins. Her legs ached and were sore from the multiple days of stamina training, but a part of her didn't feel it anymore.
She didn't want to do this anymore.
This was the thought that always ran through her head after experiencing the absolute minimum that these killers could give. She didn't want to paint, she didn't want to eat, she didn't want to move, and maybe, somewhere inside, she didn't want to live.
But [name] was certain that even if she chose a way out for herself, one natural, and not by another hand but her own, some force would stop her; or fate could play a cruel trick on her, and she'd be kept alive.
A toy, a fucking plaything, that's what she was. A puppet. The burning sensation in her legs now rose to her stomach and her heart until she was burning off the flames that flickered and sizzled from anger; an anger far and in between, coming and going, and then vanishing as soon as it came, replaced with fear.
What could she do with this anger other than look like a fool?
[name] laughed breathily to herself, covering her eyes with the palms of her hands as she turned to her side.
What if she could find a way out, but through a happy little accident?
She was told by an artist that accidents happened when painting, but sometimes they could show her another path she could take in her journey. A small mistake could be painted over, but it could also be used in a way it was not intended.
Could I be used in a way that was not intended? [name] thought absentmindedly, staring up at the ceiling of her bedroom after resting her arms by her side, her right hand then beginning to grope around for the phone she had left on the edge of her bed. She felt the cold screen after a few seconds and tapped it awake.
Dangerous Creepypasta was two simple keywords that brought up different results.
Articles, YouTube videos, and Reddit posts, there were so many to choose from. [name] had never once realized what a horrifying world she was missing out on. Humans made these people up, they created them as scary stories, nothing more. Yet, some of them were seriously terrifying.
But she wasn't looking for the serious and dark stories, even though they were an enticing read; she scrolled down a bit further and stopped at an article that only had the Creepypasta theme, but unlike the others, this article showed the top ten most popular characters rather than the most dangerous.
Jeff the Killer.
Not the most eye-catching name, but [name] had recognized it only somewhat. She had heard it in passing, maybe, or had seen his name on the internet while scrolling by. Nonetheless, it was one of the top three, hence why [name] typed out his name in the search bar, replacing her original search and leading her down yet another rabbit hole.
Yes, she thought, sitting up, he could do it.
Ruthless, messy, psychotic, all the traits that fit the generic, mass murderer type.
His story, unfortunately, tugged a bit at her heart at the start. Jeff tried to protect his brother, Liu, from bullies, but Liu took the blame for it and was arrested. Jeff went through a mental break after killing one of the bullies at a party, but not until he was set on fire after being covered in bleach, which resulted in awful burns covering the majority of his body. He then killed his mother and father(and presumably Liu) after carving a smile into his face and burning off his eyelids.
How could a human survive all this? [name] thought, cringing after reading the story. The human body could go through and survive a lot of things, but mutilating your own face after being nearly burned alive?
There was a bunch of other trivia and characters connected to the Jeff the Killer story. Someone like Liu, who survived his brother's attack that night and developed a split personality because of it. Then, a woman called Jane the Killer, whose parents were murdered, and in which Jane became a mortal enemy of Jeff's cause. There were actually many renditions of all three of their stories, but reading even just the first few caused her mind to spin in both good and bad ways.
Ultimately, she felt sick. But also excited to know that the thing controlling all of this would soon have her as a puppet no longer. She could truly put an end to this...
Truly...
[name] rolled on her right side, keeping her phone cupped with her right hand to keep it from falling in her hand. Did she want this? Or was this another planted seed in her mind so that the creature had another killer in its arsenal? Were these thoughts she was thinking right now her own?
Could she trust herself and her decisions in the future? What about the past? [name] didn't fight back when the doctor gave her Marble Hornets to watch, because, at that point, she was used to it. When had she grown used to it before that?
How did she know she was in control?
[name] tossed her phone in a blind fury, crying out and sitting up straight. Her lungs ached and her head pounded, but not because of that thing nearby, because she was crying. Hard. Hot tears ran down her face, and her nose clogged. [name] felt herself sobbing, painful, choked noises trying to crawl out of her throat as she held them back and wiped hard at her eyelids with her knuckles.
Nobody was home, but she couldn't help but find the need to muffle her small cries. Her throat became raw until she could only whimper, and her eyes were growing dry as the tears ran slowly until they stopped. Her skin was wet and sticky, and she felt so very gross. [name] lay back, though, this time exhausted mentally, even though her legs still ached physically.
"Go to sleep," wasn't that his catchphrase? It sounded so simple for a sentence that had a different meaning behind it upon spoken by a different person.
If [name] got to choose, what would she wear in her final moments? What would she do the entire day before? What would she eat? Or who would she hang out with?
What did she want her final words to be?
With these thoughts, she took them to bed, laying her mind to rest with the thoughts of death, without bothering to check who stood right outside her door.
Why.
Why.
[name] knew she was dreaming. She knew she was.
Because she was lying dead on the floor of a burning house. Yet, even as she lay dead, she was standing before her own corpse, watching as the blood oozed out of a deep chest wound. Multiple wounds, but [name] couldn't see how many or what they looked like, for her entire shirt was soaked in crimson.
But [name] knew anyway, as there was a smile carved in her face, bleeding profusely and soaking her teeth and gums and spilling down her throat. If the knife hadn't pierced her heart already(which she could only piece together with how her face was mutilated), or the blood loss hadn't killed her, then she would've died by drowning in her own blood.
And this wasn't her, godammit, but it was, even though she was standing right in front of her body, the blood now seeping to her toes, creating an imprint on the wooden floor.
The house was still burning. [name] could not feel the heat, but every instinct of hers was telling her to keep away from it. Yet, it didn't grow any closer than where it was, clinging to the walls, the furniture, the windows, everywhere except for one door.
[name] was facing that door too, and seeing that she had nowhere else to go, she finally moved forward, stepping over her own body, and leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind.
She could feel every stick of her bare foot against the wooden floor, until it would just stick as a faded crust of red around the soles of her feet and toes. [name] gripped the handle of the door, finding her muscles jerking her back after touching the metal, but she paused. It was cold to the touch, even though every part of her brain said it was scalding, burning her flesh, causing her palm to bubble and grow irritated.
Why would you touch metal? You're burning! You're burning, burning!
[name] gripped it again, twisted, and pushed forward.
Outside was the same, forested and burning to the ground, but she could smell rot and ash in the air, smoke filling her lungs, but it was only room-temperature, not unbearably hot like it should be.
"Motherfucker!" She had taken only one step out when she heard the voice curse loudly from in front of her. [name] stared wide-eyed, heart beginning to race. This only happened once, where someone in her dreams spoke (but was that a dream? Or was it real? She still didn't know). [name] wasn't used to it, because even if this was a nightmare, or a dream, this was supposed to be a place in her mind, where she could push everything away.
Fool, fool!
A foot came through the flames in front of her, the fire only licking at the fabric, dancing around it, and growing taller as the figure fully formed. Dark hair like an unkempt mane falling from his head, white, leathery skin, unlike the soft, white fabric of his hoodie, which was stained with blood. Her blood? He froze, just like her, and [name]'s face scrunched up at the sight of his face.
His skin looked like it was sagging, raw and red around his eyes, where eyelids should be. She read his story, she knew they weren't there, but in place every so often were pieces of metal along the curves and certain points of his face, keeping the skin from lifting or falling, probably. His mouth, too, was darkened, crusted, and so hard to look at. The images she had seen from the amount of scrolling she had done did not do the real thing justice.
"You still alive?" He tilted his head to the side, one side of his face doing its best to scrunch up like he was narrowing one eye and doing nothing to the other. [name] stepped back, watching as his hand, rough-looking just like the rest of him, slipped into the front pocket of his hoodie, "didn't finish ya off, huh? You're probably in a lotta pain, huh?"
Jeff let out a dry cackle, as if he had made the funniest joke in the world, then slowly trailed off. He grumbled something, taking a step forward, which caused the wall of flames to grow higher, keeping the area around them tight and enclosed.
"Waaait, no, I remember stabbing ya in the chest, what, like... Ten times? Eleven? Didn't count..." He twirled the knife in his right hand with such skill that it made [name] nauseous. There was blood coating the blade, as well as a deeper red around the hilt. [name] didn't want to know if it was dry blood or rust.
"Look at me, dammit!" Jeff lurched forward, both hands reached out, the knife's blade positioned forward in a stabbing motion, while his left hand reached for her shoulder to possibly keep her from running.
[name]'s eyes stretched wide, watching that burned killer grow so close to her in just a few seconds. The knife came down to her shoulder, and she was expecting a rip of hot pain to run down and deep into her flesh and bone, but the knife went...somewhere, into her body, but not hurting her. His hand too reached right through her being.
Jeff mumbled something, his slouched body standing uncomfortably close in front of her, chapped(maybe permanent?) lips and grotesque features forced in her proximity, "—uck? The fuck? What the fuck??" His voice grew louder and louder, even more enraged, until he was spitting and repeatedly trying to stab and slash across her body.
"BITCH! WHAT THE FUCK'S WRONG WITH YOU?! WHY ARE-" He cut himself off in a roar of anger, the fire doing the same and illuminating the leafless trees around them. [name] finally could feel a blaze of heat run up and across her back, almost singeing her hairs, but most definitely making it feel like she shouldn't be wearing a hoodie.
[name] waved a hand forward and then up, testing the lengths of how this worked, but stilled when she felt the bump of his hoodie brush across her fingers. He felt it as well and then began to swing wildly again. [name] threw her hands in front of her, but found that the knife felt like a brush of air across her body.
She could touch him, but without her first contact, he couldn't touch her. Harm her.
[name] didn't want to touch him. She didn't want to know what his skin felt like, or his self-inflicted wounds on his face, or the way the dirtied blade of his knife would feel sinking so easily into her skin, cutting deep, until it would rise and sink again.
"G-get...AWAY FROM ME!" [name] screamed at him, pushing him hard with both her arms and her body. Her eyes were watching the knife, watching as it just barely grazed the side of her arm, until she was pushing him into the fire, [name] following behind.
Jeff screamed profanities once again, thrashing, his hands bare, the knife gone somewhere on the path in front of the house. [name] couldn't feel the fire, but she was watching her own skin bubble and blister in front of her own eyes as she pushed and pushed Jeff, until she was feeling something charred, and that feeling disappeared and was replaced with a courseness she had never felt before. Something foul burned her nose until her eyes were clouded with smoke.
Hair, skin, muscle, organs, they were all being burned.
All [name] wanted to do was cry, but the tears wouldn't come.
Maybe a knife to the heart would've been far better than feeling nothing and being burned alive.
[name] didn't know she had more tears to give when she woke up and dragged herself slowly to her studio and sat down, numb, in front of an easel.
She didn't even recognize the room anymore with all the paint on the floor, finished pieces leaning in the corner of the room, stockpiled after her first time at memory-loss induced haze.
There were reds, yellows, and oranges being used as the backdrop of the piece, swarming around a center of soft yellow where she used a smaller brush to paint a finer image of a dark shadow amidst the flames, standing hauntingly as everything burned around him, or maybe with him. There was a forest around him, too, but only black spindles of stems and thin limbs that had yet to be burned to ash.
Then, [name] stopped painting and sat there, staring at it.
Something was missing. A smile, maybe? She couldn't do it justice with what she had already painted. But she could; maybe a red one, grinning from beyond the fire, or white, so it was different from the rest.
No, nothing metaphorical. The painting was complete. Something physical.
[name] stood, walking quickly out of her studio and into the kitchen, running on autopilot. Where was it again? Her memories were a haze as all she could think about was that dream. Her hands were slick with some paint, the red looking ironically like blood, and her shirt had been the one she had exercised in and worn the day before.
She ripped open the fourth drawer and grabbed the handle of the kitchenware after releasing a relieved sigh, then returned to her studio where she presented the knife with trembling fingers, placing the item on her stool, only pushing the point of the blade further up to center it.
He could truly put an end to this.
Chapter 12: A KNIFE!
Notes:
This book will take a hiatus after this chapter due to the feeling of burnout I have for this fic.
Chapter Text
[name] didn't know when she dozed off, but she wasn't as surprised as she should be to see the man she had painted sitting right in front of her. Too close.
She had chosen to sit and lean against the wall directly across from her easel and had tried to keep awake so she could watch the painting spit out the killer that she could only expect to immediately stab her in the heart. This is what he should've done, and she should've stayed awake long enough for him to do so.
Yet, [name] had so foolishly dozed off and had awakened to the man in front of her who stared at her like she was crazy, when he was the crazy one here.
Unlike her dream, his skin wasn't actively drooping off his face, but it was charred, scars all across his face, fresh and old. His skin was abnormally pale, discolored from his major burn that no doubt looked the same all over his body.
Jeff's eyes were unsettling. A pale blue, the sclera reddened around the edges, and the area around his eyes sunken, black, and red. She averted her eyes after taking in the worst: his mouth. She could hear the in and out of his breathing through his teeth that were exposed on the left and right of his cheeks, the area split and disgusting. The jagged area where the skin was sawed through looked like it had tried to regenerate, but failed. Only at the very corners of his fake, self-carved smile, did the skin just barely reattach itself by a thread.
"How fuckin' broken are ya?" Jeff finally spoke after the uncomfortable, silent staredown. Without moving his head, his eyes shifted to the left, her right. [name] turned her head to see what he was looking at, but shook when a hand snatched her jaw, forcing her gaze forward once again.
There was a rancid smell.
Jeff had leaned forward, one of his hands gripping her jaw with his fingers digging into her skin. He had no nails to pierce her flesh with, but his grip was iron tight, and so were his words, "don't fuckin' look away from me, bitch!" He hissed in her face.
With his proximity, [name] had the unfortunate close-up of the detail of his face. His hair, which was an untamed mess that reached just below his shoulders, was patchy in some areas. As tangled as it was, she noticed a few spots of emptiness where the hair did not, and probably would not, grow back.
She nodded quickly, as best as she could with what movement she could muster. Jeff held [name]'s jaw for a moment longer, giving it a sharp squeeze, before yanking his hand away and leaning back onto his knees.
[name] had seen and understood what he was looking at: her red paintings. The ones she did not remember painting but remembered waking up to, lying in the center with crimson decorating the skin of her arms up to her elbows. It was such a pain to clean off, especially when she had used up so much red paint without even doing it herself. Could she even be called the artist of such things if she didn't even remember creating those pieces?
"You gonna answer my question, dumb bitch?" Jeff yanked her attention back, like a leash attached to a collar around her neck. She swallowed hard, mouth gaping.
"I-I don't understand," the irritated look on his face when she said that caused her heart to drop, "broken? I-I'm not-"
But [name] stopped herself right there. Did she even know if she was broken herself? Or did Jeff mean to ask if she had encountered anyone else? Did they hurt her? Toy with her, the evidence being the paintings in the corner. Was this a normal thing?
The man laughed, his laughter rough and dry and displeasing to the ears. [name] pressed further into the wall, realizing quickly what a grave mistake she had made.
A mistake, yes, a mistake. This was her decision, but she wasn't in the right mindset to choose.
Nothing was making sense. Why did her mind not make sense? He was laughing in front of her, and when her eyes darted over to the painting, to the stool, she saw that the knife was gone. He took it. He had to have taken it. Then, where was it? Why wasn't it buried in her chest, or deep in her gut, ending this forced existence?
"You realized it right as you were tryin'ta deny it!" He leaned forward again, both hands on the ground, his weight shifting unevenly, "who dunnit, huh? Which fucker got here first?"
Nobody, nobody did, she wanted to say. He was wrong. He didn't know what he was talking about, she didn't know what he was talking about!
Yet, the one who got here first... "Slenderman," she murmured, staring off just above his head so she didn't have to look into his eyes. Those blue eyes of his ripped away all the other inhuman parts of him.
[name] knew Jeff was human; at least she had read that he was human. He looked human, but so did Brian, and Doctor Smiley, and all the others she had yet to meet but surely would in the future. Even though their fiction stories held information that sometimes contradicted the physical beings she created, [name] wondered if that information was no retained because she was the one repurposing that same story into something else.
And that something else became much, much different.
Jeff's expression twitched, his yellowish teeth grinding together, and that permanent smile on his face did not look like a smile anymore. It was a grimace, growing to be a frown, even as the skin that was torn upward looked so uncomfortably worn in doing so.
[name] felt the air disappear from her lungs, unsure what exactly was happening, until her weight jolted upwards. Jeff gripped the front of her shirt in an iron grip, standing. He was sitting a moment ago. Why- How was he standing? He moved so quickly that [name] couldn't even react, she couldn't do a thing.
But this is what you wanted, right? A voice told her, whispering into her mind from her ear until it was a mantra beating along to the rapid pace of her heart. [name] let out a sharp cry as Jeff tossed her backward, more like a push rather than a throw, but she hit the ground anyway, unable to find any proper footing.
"Of cour-OF COURSE! It's always fucking him!" [name] scrambled, her body numb to the feeling of hurt that panged her legs and back, but even in her panic she noticed the phrase he used.
Him. Of course, [name] knew that Slenderman's name had "man" in it, but that was just its(his??) title. A name given to something that wasn't human, so [name] didn't expect it to have a gender.
This wasn't the time to spiral down this rabbit hole though. [name] stood slowly as Jeff shouted indiscernible threats and obscenities to the one who wasn't here, and to the one who was. [name] took one step back now that she had her back toward her door. Even so, she would not allow her eyes to pull away from Jeff.
"一always fuckin' does this! Who does he think he is?! I'm gonna ruin him, oh, I swear I gonna fuckin' carve a face on that piece of shit's-!" And then he stopped. [name] stopped as well, because she knew why he stopped.
His unblinking eyes bore into her frozen figure, [name] staring back with horror swirling in the depths of her own. Everything felt so suffocating under his gaze, and it was so terribly hard to breathe. If she just turned now and ran, would she even make it to the door? Would she even have the chance to?
Run.
Run, she had to run, but it was like [name] had grown roots and was now stuck to the ground.
I can't move, I can't look away, these thoughts were swirling in her head, squeezing her heart and lungs tighter and tighter.
Run.
"Hey," there was a painful itch at the back of her head, in her skull, along the matter of her brain, "you better start runnin'."
And so she ran. This wasn't like the hours of stamina training Tim had drilled into her, chased down by Helen, who was surprisingly athletic despite his quiet and blunt nature. His stamina wasn't as built as Tim's was. Tim wasn't as athletic, but what he called "instinct" was much sharper than [name]'s. She could not outmaneuver him for the life of her. She still hadn't, but could only assume Brian was the fastest of the other two; that's why he was last.
She would never see how fast he was though, not at the rate this was going.
[name] had ripped open her studio door, the sliding wood rattling and the trim around it shaking. She ran into the wall across from the door, her face knocking into it hard, but she pushed herself to the left, forcing her legs to move, move, move! And through all that, she could hear the grating voice of Jeff the Killer counting down, "four...three, two..."
It was unfair, totally unfair, this wasn't right! The small voice in her head was screaming, [name] just barely reaching her living room, eyes darting around for anything, anyone, to help her.
There was a loud BANG! behind her. Not one that cracked in the air that belonged to a gun, but of a body hitting the wall like she had, except with much more force. This only fueled her eagerness to get away, as far as possible, while launching herself over the couch. A second later, something had flown over the top of the furniture, where her head would have been if she hadn't hit the ground. The item shattered, falling to pieces. A vase, or maybe something else fragile, she couldn't remember what was even over there in a situation like this.
Outside, she had to run outside.
[name] didn't know why she had this feeling, but her body had instinctively moved toward the back door. Toward freedom. Through the glass, outside, she could see the haze the sun cast over the dark sky; whether it was dusk or dawn, it didn't matter much, because someone had to be awake.
Just as [name]'s hand clasped around the door, her body was yanked back by the hair on her head. Her scalp screamed, and so did she, her free hand spinning around to fight back. She ignored the pain pricking all over her head as Jeff pulled just as she backhanded him across the face. He didn't move though, he just grinned, eyes shining wildly in the dimness of her house, and something stung.
[name] released the handle of her door and then tossed the full weight of her body against him, sending both of them sprawling to the ground. She heard a sickening sound of head meeting tile, which wasn't her own. She scrambled off of Jeff, feeling the creeping pain and warmth of blood running down her left arm. Wounded, she knew this, but she had to leave before Jeff had recovered.
And just as she unlocked and yanked the door open, she heard the enraged shout of the man behind her.
"COME BACK HERE, BITCH!" His voice echoed in her ears as she jumped out into the cold morning, or night, air.
Maybe it was the dizziness of fighting back that made her unable to see the thing that stood just at the very end of her yard, or maybe it was because all of her senses were tunnelvisioned on getting away, because when she was only a few feet away from it, she then noticed it standing and staring. At her? At him? The itch in her head grew stronger as her resistance to it shattered.
Running towards it一him一for salvation? No, she wasn't, she couldn't, that's not what was going on here. She was running for her life, and he-it just happened to be there. But why was it there?
This was no coincidence.
It knew what [name] was planning. And that shattering will inside her head only made it easier for it to slip through the depths of her brain to confirm her schemes and her warped desires.
Kill it, kill it, me, kill me! KILL ME.
This was all happening in just a few seconds. [name] could hear the approaching footsteps behind her, and if she could meet that thing's eyes in front of her, she would've. I won't run to you just because I'm running from him, she glared, understanding full well that any thought she had was now his.
[name] turned back, heart thundering, shocked to see that Jeff, as close as he was, had blood running down the front of his face. Even so, this had not deterred him from continuing the chase, bloodied knife clutched at the ready in his right hand, ready to stab, cut, slash, or gut. She would've preferred neither of those things before, but now, it just seemed like a sweet release.
Then, there was a flicker in his eyes, as if he only just noticed the Slenderman too, its presence concealed until it was just a few steps away, or if he allowed it. Jeff's grin, ever disgusting and vile, grew, his steps growing quicker, much quicker than before.
And much to [name]'s shock, he passed right by her.
"C'mere, you motherfucker!" Jeff shouted just as [name] turned and stumbled back and away from the mindboggling sight. He had practically launched himself at the tall, faceless being, knife outstretched and slashing at the creature, and, for the first time, [name] saw it move. Actually, she couldn't tell if it was moving due to the way places around it seemed to warp, but it was for sure dodging Jeff's attacks.
Writhing, black snakes stretched out from behind the entity, grabbing Jeff by the wrist, the hand that held the knife. Yet, Jeff maneuvered the weapon, twirling it between his fingers before clutching it again, the blade facing downwards, and slicing backward along the appendage. Three replaced the one, static beginning to fill [name]'s mind, until the fight disappeared from in front of her, the two of them gone from her yard.
Gone from her home.
Gone.
And [name] felt utterly relieved.
Pages Navigation
Krysthalina on Chapter 1 Thu 13 Mar 2025 04:40AM UTC
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Suny_egg on Chapter 2 Mon 10 Mar 2025 08:02AM UTC
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Krysthalina on Chapter 3 Thu 13 Mar 2025 04:53AM UTC
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O-O (Guest) on Chapter 3 Fri 28 Mar 2025 09:42AM UTC
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IHAVEANXIETYtm (Guest) on Chapter 5 Mon 14 Apr 2025 10:53AM UTC
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crowkechi on Chapter 6 Tue 18 Feb 2025 06:06AM UTC
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Taochuu on Chapter 6 Tue 18 Feb 2025 06:08AM UTC
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Suny_egg on Chapter 8 Sun 23 Mar 2025 01:57AM UTC
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mizulie on Chapter 8 Sun 23 Mar 2025 04:14AM UTC
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O-O (Guest) on Chapter 8 Fri 28 Mar 2025 03:02PM UTC
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JustAWaffle on Chapter 8 Sat 29 Mar 2025 05:06AM UTC
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RUSSELLLLL on Chapter 8 Thu 21 Aug 2025 09:57PM UTC
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RUSSELLLLL on Chapter 8 Thu 21 Aug 2025 09:57PM UTC
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SCORCHED167 on Chapter 9 Fri 11 Apr 2025 01:33AM UTC
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