Slenderman

Slenderman has always been a point of interest for me and my friends, a creepypasta we found entertaining starting all the way back in 2018. This is a short story I wrote about him.

The chilly air bit through my shirt. The leaves made way with satisfying noises.  

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.  

The sound disturbed the peaceful silence, tearing it like the tension on the surface of a lake being broken. The field road followed along the woods and skirted the corn fields, which were empty after a plentiful harvest. Brittle stalks could be found in place of the proud cornstalks that once stood. Scattered corn cobs littered the field.  Every tiny noise seemed to stretch and amplify, filling the entire area. No birds sang. No crickets chirped. The eerie silence seemed to occupy physical space, like heavy fog in the air. I picked up my pace. The dusk was settling faster than I anticipated, the golden glow of the sun's dying rays casting long shadows, leaking from maples and oaks that loomed in the small tree islands that dotted the field. How long had I been walking? It felt like hours had passed but . . . that couldn’t be right. 

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. 

 The maple and oak trees that I once walked with morphed into birch, where the once old, thick, rich brown trees became a blend of skinnier black and white. The air continued to get colder, gnawing at me, and even the air seemed to be oppressive. I don’t remember the road turning this way . . . strange. I glanced over my shoulder. A flicker of movement. Maybe it was my imagination. Maybe it was an animal. I froze, scanning the tree line. Still nothing. 

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. 

Birch. I never liked birch. Walking along a forest of birch didn’t help.  There’s something off in its bone white skin, the way it tears and curls like pages of an old book. Their skinny trunks grew thicker and closer to the path, pushing me closer towards the barren cornfields as the path narrowed. Small tears formed in the corners of my eyes as the cold pressed harder still. A scarecrow watched from the edge of the field. At least I thought it was a scarecrow? I blinked the tears out of my eyes. When I looked up again . . . it was gone, replaced by the fall-wind, and a long silence. Too long. I had to get home before the sun fell below the horizon. It was already dancing on the precipice, stirring up strands of gold and orange.  

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. 

In front of me stood a gate, the kind your neighbors might have, rusted, old, and less to keep you out and more to keep them in. A fence protruded from each side, extending far beyond view and deep into the birch forest. I didn’t remember having to venture through private property to get home, although there were no “no trespassing” signs. Still, I pushed the gate open and passed through, its rusted hinges creaking. The sun dangled over the horizon, mocking me, laughing as I walked onward. The birch woods flanked me on both sides now, dispersing a bit of the frigid winds. The trees seemed to loom over me, the twilight dispersing into patches of gold like sand through a sieve. Shadows elongated and grew into twisted, almost sinister forms. Something felt . . . off. The rustling leaves seemed to whisper a muted, sinister tune. The air simmered at times, distorting as though space itself was being warped. 

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. 

A movement in the woods. I turned. Still nothing. I could feel it, as though something was watching, analyzing my every move, stalking me silently. I tried looking deeper into the woods to no avail. The trees were a blur of black and white, like a herd of running zebras. The wind had completely stopped. I never thought of cold wind as a comfort, but without it, the silence felt restless. Some of the trees seemed to disappear when I blinked, subtly removing themselves from the edge of my view. Something just beyond view vanished when I could almost make it out. Tall. Black. Maybe a tree stump, or a pole. It was too . . . still. Eerily unmoving. As if it was trying too hard to be still. 

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. 

The sun had finally fallen, its last purple and magenta wisps fading as the blanket of night enveloped the sky. The air grew into a more aggressive, dry cold, the once bitter winds replaced by a nightly incarnation. The trees were silhouetted in black; their paper skin faded to a charcoal grey, the bright orange, red and yellow leaves darkening into muted versions of themselves. I got a feeling . . . the kind where your body knows something it hides from your mind. It dripped down my neck and settled low in my stomach. Building tension. Waiting to be released. And then I saw it. It resembled a man, but not a true man. His limbs extended like cables, long and unnatural, and his face . . . where a face should have been replaced by smooth, featureless skin. But I knew he could see me. His suit clung to his body like dew on a spiderweb. He didn’t move, just stood. There was no noise. It was being sucked out of the air, becoming as smooth and empty as his face. Everything was still. I tried to move, but my legs were rooted, frozen in place. My vision started blurring. All I saw was a slow, static, the kind you might see on an old fashioned tv. And then he was gone. My vision cleared, and I blacked out. 

When I came to, I was in my bed, the bitter, misty fog of the dark forest replaced by the morning light filtered through my curtains. Groggily, I stood up and stumbled to the windowsill. My eyes traced the tree line, searching for the man who had invaded my nightmare. Nothing. The oak and maple danced in the wind, their colorful leaves moving serenely to a peaceful rhythm. And then he was there, tall, ominous, staring straight up at me with eyes he didn’t have. As quickly as he appeared he vanished. But I knew he was watching. He was always watching. 

Author's Note

Slenderman has always been a point of interest for me and my friends, a creepypasta we found entertaining starting all the way back in 2018. Inspired by the very real experiences I had in Minnesota at dusk in the months preceding Christmas, when the sun dips low and the trees become brilliant shows of warm hues, this Slenderman story was my first creative writing piece.