My Back Porch

It is currently 10 o'clock at night, darkness has fallen, I'm sitting on the back porch of my place with my laptop on a TV dinner stand. I've been out here for three hours. Watching. There is a string of lights on above me, my computer is illuminating my face, and I can see maybe ten feet in front of me before it hits complete and utter darkness. Until, of course, it reaches the alley. There is a faint light there, and there is a man.

Bob.

Or, more so, The Slender Man.

I'm tired of pretending. I do know who he is. I've known since I was a kid. He killed my brother. He killed my parents. And now, he's following me.

I don't give him the respect that other bloggers do by calling him "Him" or "HIM" or those who do not even say his name, like he's the equal to Voldemort from Harry Potter. I call him what he is. The Slender Man. He doesn't have a name. He's tall, faceless, slim. That's it. The Slender Man is a perfect fit.

He isn't moving.

Is it a he?

Any matter, we've been observing each other for the past three or four hours now. I've been out here doing some research on other victims. I'm both bemused and upset at the number of people infected by this guy.

I don't know how to kill him, and frankly, I don't care. I mean, come on. From everything that happened, from the numerous places he's been, there's not a way we can stop him.

I'm in Virginia. There's a few of us here. But I also know that there are people in New York, Chicago, somewhere in Alabama, California. He's everywhere. Every. Where.

I just looked up, and he's gone.

Gone to do what, I don't know.

Gone to infect more, probably.

Gone to stalk more, yeah.

Left me alone, no. Not at all.

I like to tell people I lost my leg in a car accident. There is some truth to that, but not all. I lost it in an intentional car crash. I worked for the FBI for the longest time. I'm in my late thirties, worked there since I was in my twenties, started low and worked to a pretty decent job. I'm not giving you all of the nitty gritty details. You don't need to know that. However, it was the day I was going in for the interview to see if I was getting a promotion. I took a cab because at the time, my narcolepsy was keeping me from getting a licence (since then I've gotten the proper drugs and pulled a few strings and kissed some ass and said 'Oh pretty pretty please' but that's totally besides the point) and I was shuffling around some papers in the back seat. The cabbie was talking and singing at the same time, which was a trip. Neither of us were really paying attention.

Then he stepped off of the curb and in to the road.

The cabbie freaked out, spun the wheel, launching the cab in to oncoming traffic where we met a firey death.

Okay, maybe not death.

The car died.

Ambulances were called, people rushed, someone tried to pull us out of the cab. It was a blur of red and numbness. They pried the cabbie out of the car, but I was lodged in pretty well. The jaws of life pried the shit out of that car door, and they pulled me out.

Without my leg.

There went my promotion. Right out the window.

...children down the street just screamed. I'm going to ignore them.

So without my leg, and a nice long stay in the hospital, I...

...the children keep screaming. Oh god. I can't. Why isn't anyone else...

Fuck this.

The Slender Man

I redid the layout of my blog. The old one was nice, but it was a little half assed. So I browsed around and BOOM, new layout.

So, now that I'm done geeking out.

Nothing really strange has been happening. It's quiet and normal and things are going good. My rent is paid, my internet is paid off for the month, my job is going well, and things are nice.

No, I haven't gotten the papers out of the attic. Work has me out all the time. And when I'm not at work, I'm in therapy, expressing my "feelings".

Only, there's been this man. He's tall and always wears the same old business suit. I've seen him before, and lately, he's always been in my field of vision. When I leave the bar, he's there. When I go to therapy, he's there. When I look out my window, he's walking past. When I do anything, he's right. there. all. the. time.

I've called the cops, and they came over a time or two, looked around, shrugged and said there was nothing they could do since he wasn't there. And they left. I've stopped calling it in, and they've stopped caring. Oh, but this man keeps right on creepin' around.

And I don't even know his name.

I think I'll call him... Bob. Bob is nice.

Bob isn't around. Maybe it's because he knows I'm talking about him.

But I swear. I've seen him before.

Like... a few months back when I was going to therapy. He went in to my therapist's office and I was pissed. But when I went in, he was gone. Strange way of disappearing there, Bobbo.

And.

In Germany. With my grandparents. The woods. Wait... there's no way...

No. Of course not. God, I must need sleep.


Adieu,
William A. Gordon