Slenderman: Origins

2: The Forest

The final bell rang. Children sprang from their seats in a mad scramble of scraping chairs and raised voices. He didn't move. Only when the rest had gone did he pick up his bag and get to his feet; Mr. Tusk, the geography teacher, eyed him coldly from behind his desk. He said nothing as the boy walked slowly out of the classroom.

The hallway was empty except for a few stragglers still busy at their lockers. For a moment the boy allowed himself to imagine he was safe. He walked to the end of the hall and through the double doors.

"Going somewhere, stick boy?"

He cringed, and looked down. Laughter came from behind him. In an instant he was surrounded.

"Thought we'd forgotten?"

Hands shoved him; others grabbed his arms from the back. More laughter, and a hand slapping his face, lightly, as you might a dog.

"Look at me stick boy."

He had no choice. Taylor's face was so close to his own he could feel the other boy's hot breath on his skin. He looked up: blue eyes, half hidden beneath heavy lids; hair buzzed close to the scalp; the dent in his lower lip no one was brave enough to mention; angular shoulders, and behind a lazy smile, yellowish, broken teeth.

"I'm not going to forget, not ever."

The punch landed hard; pain blossomed in his gut, brown and soupy. The other boys laughed, and Taylor hit him again, across the mouth this time. He could taste blood. His knees gave out, and whoever was holding him let go; he clattered to the pavement, a loose collection of long limbs and bone.

His hair was grasped and yanked on. He sobbed, his head wrenched back. Taylor's face was dark over the sun.

"Every day stick boy," he muttered. "Get it through your retard head. We're gonna be waiting."

Taylor hauled back in his throat. He spit. The wad hit the boy's cheek. It felt very hot on his skin.

Laughter. Shoes scraping the pavement. He was alone.

Eyes wet, he wiped the spit from his cheek, rose unsteadily to his feet. The sun blazed down on him. He staggered away from the school, one hand pressed to his aching stomach.

He couldn't go home. Nothing was waiting for him there except his father, and there was no way he could hide what happened; when his father found out he'd been so weak again he'd pay for it. Instead, his feet carried him in the opposite direction. He left the school grounds and followed a street lined with low houses and leafy trees. When he came to the end he turned left, and kept walking. He chose his way without thinking. As he went farther from the places he knew, the houses grew in size, and the distances between them increased. At length they disappeared altogether.

He stood at the head of a long, dirt road. To the right was an abandoned field full of tall grasses, while on the left was a thick growth of pines. Almost in a daze, the boy stepped under the shade of the trees. It was very cool here, and the mossy ground was soft beneath his tired feet. Birds called to one another. The wind whispered gently through millions of green needles.

He walked away from the road. There was no path to follow, and he picked his way by chance. At length he came to a clearing of sorts, in the middle of which was a large, moss covered stone. He climbed on top of this and sat down, resting his arms on his knobby knees. His head drooped; soon, he fell fast asleep.

He woke up with a start; he was very cold. All around him the trees stood in silent rows. Though it was dark, a sliver of moonlight cut through the branches. Behind him, a twig cracked.

He turned, his heart pounding, but there was nothing. A low wind stirred. The sound was like a murmur of voices.

Do not be afraid, they said. You are safe here.

"Who are you?" he asked, but the wind did not reply. The boy could not have said if he was dreaming.