Slenderman, Slenderman, Take this Child

by McGeorge, Lee

  Her father shrugged. He was distant still, locked in his own world. Jemima reached to him and squeezed his hand which made him turn and look at her briefly, he half smiled then let go of her. He coughed to clear his throat. “We’re doing what we can,” he said thinly.

  Jemima was anxious for him to speak up. She didn’t want the relatives to think he was incapable, but right now that was exactly how he looked. He was lost.

  They ate.

  Her father left most of his food and stared at the plate. He was making conversation difficult and the other family members began to pretend they weren’t there; speaking to themselves in German and bringing him into the conversation only rarely.

  The meal ended and Aunty Oksana cleared the plates to the sink whilst the men vanished and avoided the housework.

  “I think I want to go for a walk,” Jemima said.

  “Yes, one moment whilst I get my coat,” Grandmother said.

  “No… If it’s alright, I want to be alone. Is that alright?”

  Grandmother looked through to the sitting room. Her father had taken a seat and was staring into his lap. It was like he was hypnotised, staring into space. “I’m sure it will be fine. Stay close to the farm and come back before it gets dark.”

  “I will.”

  Jemima went outside and felt a swell of emotions as she walked through the yard. It was like she could process the facts of what happened. She knew her mother had died and she accepted the logical reasons, but she couldn’t understand how she felt about it. Sometimes there would be a sudden whoosh of feelings that overwhelmed her entire body. At other times she felt numb and was unable to concentrate. But any time she saw her father looking so hopeless and distant the emotions came with a kick to the chest… “I can’t lose my Daddy, too.” she whispered as she walked away from the house. “I can’t lose Mummy… It’s not fair. I can’t lose Mummy”

  She saw the kitten.

  It was limping by the side of the road. It meowed and looked to her, its back legs not holding it up properly. It broke her. “I can’t pick you up,” she said to the kitten. “I’m sorry, I can’t touch you.” The poor animal’s fur was ragged from not being able to groom itself properly and now she noticed the scabs and rips from the fur where the fox had tried to kill it. The cat meowed and limped. It cried out as its back legs fell against the road, its front legs still trying to walk. Its little eyes were crusted with gunk and its nose was running. The animal mewled again, now struggling to keep its head up, fighting against the inevitable, but with one final meow it collapsed to the floor and died.

  Right there. Right at that very moment when Jemima was at her weakest, the kitten died.

  Jemima ran. She ran into the forest, jumping between trees, purging out with moans and breathing in with rasping gasps of air. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. Mummy was gone. Daddy was lost and the kitten had died.

  She fell forward from exhaustion, gasping for breath as something snagged her foot, weeds or a hidden branch snagged her ankle and her momentum brought her crashing down to land on her elbows.

  “Arghhh,” she cried out… “I hate you!” she said not sure to whom it was directed. Was it to God? Was it to life in general? “I hate you… It’s not fair…”

  Nothing mattered.

  Without knowing why, she found her hands becoming fists and her feet squirmed in her shoes. Then she hit herself in the sides of her head with both hands. Crying, screaming, “Why? Why? Why?”

  It wasn’t fair.

  Life wasn’t fair… and death was brutal. Kittens and mothers die in the real world. Kittens are mauled by foxes, mothers are crushed under the wheels of trucks.

  She stayed there for a while.

  She brushed the dirt from her dress and sat with her back to a tree and looked into the forest.

  There was something about this time that seemed like it was the low watermark. She knew it was the worst it would be. This was the time when the feelings would be at their most intense and if she climbed from this anguish she could already tell it would never get this bad again.

  She was upset worse now than at any other time, but it wasn’t out of control.

  She stood and walked.

  She kept her bearings. She knew where she was in relation to the farm house.

  Then it happened.

  She saw it.

  She saw… him.

  ----- X -----

  Surrounded by overhanging trees, was a man, a strange man made from sticks and arranged in some kind of sculpture. He was at least three metres tall, perhaps more. His legs were thin sticks, bundled together and tied with twine, as was his long slender body and his arms. His head was a woven ball of finer twigs, like a bird’s nest.

  Jemima walked to the stickman feeling curiosity overtaking her sorrow. Intrigue temporarily replacing the sadness. This was so unusual. Who would have made such a sculpture out here? It was carefully constructed with care and precision by someone who had spent time finding just the right sticks to bundle.

  Jemima walked around the stickman once then stopped right in front of it, staring up to its face. “You are made of sticks,” she said. Then she was overwhelmed by the sensation that the stickman was answering back.

  “Hello, young girl,” the imagined voice said. “What is your name?”

  It was the strangest sensation. The voice wasn’t real in the world, there was no mouth to speak it, nor ear to hear it, yet somehow the words appeared in her mind. They were wispy words, made of air and delicate. It was like the faintest whisper. “What is your name?” it asked again.

  “Jemima,” she replied aloud.

  “I am pleased to meet you, Jemima,” came the voice. There was a softness to the tone, a delicacy to the intonation. “Is something wrong?” it asked. “I can see that you have cried and have pain or trouble within. I can see you feel the weight and torment of the world.”

  Jemima didn’t answer. She felt her eyes close and squeeze involuntarily as her head drooped. The slow grinding of despair eroding her strength to reply.

  “Sometimes, the world is not fair… I know this, Jemima.”

  “You don’t know,” she whispered. It was like a dream. Like talking to a voice that only happened in her head. “You don’t know how it feels,” she reiterated.

  “I’m sure you’re right. Forgive me if I intrude… I once lost the person dearest to me… I lost the only person I have ever loved. I lost her in a fire… and when I saw you, I thought you wore the same pain that I have felt in my heart for so many years… Forgive me.”

  Jemima looked up at the stick sculpture, trying to see where the words were coming from. There was nothing to see. Nothing but twigs and sticks. “I’m going mad.” Jemima said to herself. She turned away and tried to walk but the thing called to her again.

  “Jemima,” it said. “Whoever you lost must have filled you with the greatest love and kindness.”

  Her eyes fell to her shoes and she twisted her fingers together. “She did.” She sniffled a little. “I don’t know how to live without her.”

  “I can help you, Jemima… if you allow me… I can ease your burden…”

  “Who are you?” she asked softly.

  “I will show you who I am, Jemima… Close your eyes and I will show you.”

  With her back turned to the stickman she did as instructed and felt the wind pick up by the side of her face. Imperceptibly, she sensed hands on her shoulders as though the stick man had moved his wooden fingers to rest on her. A breath of wind blew in her face that felt like fingers running through her hair, touching her, pressing around her head to touch the back of her skull. With this touch came a sense of blackness as though she had been transported from the forest and now stood in a pitch black room.

  She saw something.

  Her eyes were still closed, she was sure of that, but in her mind she saw something.

  It was a man, sitting in a chair. It was like he was posed for a photograph, sitting in a red velvet chair b
y a fireplace. He was thin, with skeletal features to his face, his black hair slicked back. He was handsome. Otherworldly handsome, like a vintage movie star. The man in the chair didn’t move his lips, but she heard his voice again. “Do you remember me, my love?”

  The image of the man faded to nothing and she opened her eyes, almost surprised to find herself back in the forest by the stickman sculpture.

  “I can help you, Jemima,” the voice said again. “I want us to be special friends and I can make you feel better… but it must be our secret, Jemima.” The voice became more substantial as it fluttered in her ear. It tingled her. It was tactile, touchable, a real thing rather than an imagined sound. “I can see now that it was your mother who has died,” it said. “You poor girl. You must be feeling the deepest loneliness.”

  Jemima felt her legs go weak and she fell forward onto her knees. “Yes,” she whispered. Her stomach was suddenly weak and she gripped it with both hands as she knelt in the dirt, locking her fingers together.

  “My poor child. I know this anguish. I lost my parents when I was young and thought I would never recover, but then fell in love with a most beautiful girl. We were to be married but I lost her too… I do, Jemima. I do understand your loss… but there is a way to step away from the pain. May I show you how?”

  “Yes,” she replied. The moment she spoke the tightness in her body was replaced by a strange pleasurable sensation that flowed from her stomach into her chest.

  There was movement… inside the fabric of her dress.

  “What is that?” Jemima asked.

  “Don’t be afraid, my love.”

  Inside her dress was the outline of a hand. It was as though somebody had put a hand under the fabric. She could feel it. Warmth spreading from the fingertips and palm as it slowly rubbed across her chest. It was soothing. Taking away the stress. A warming hand gently massaging her.

  “Do you feel your stresses leaving you, Jemima?” The voice asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then close your eyes, Jemima… Allow me to fill you with warmth and happiness.”

  She complied. Submitting to the voice. Relaxing her body and allowing the stickman to present his offering. The sensation was warming, almost pleasurable. She felt it reposition her. She was kneeling down and felt hands touch her knees to ease her legs open wider. She felt the invisible hand stroke her thighs as it adjusted her dress and raised the hem up her legs. Her fingers that were still locked together in grief ridden contortion were gently pulled apart and positioned behind her back. The sensation was strange, like a hand was wrapped around her crossed wrists to hold them in place whilst another hand stroked her chest and caressed where her breasts had barely begun to grow.

  The touch was beautiful. The feeling, the sensation of warmth and intimacy without compare. Then the hand beneath her clothing moved lower, touching her stomach and making her little heart beat faster and intensifying the sensation.

  “Don’t be afraid, my angel… I want you to feel better… I want to take away your pain and fear… I want to take everything from you!”

  With that the invisible hand slipped between her legs with a sudden explosion of sensation. It was like electricity that made her feel as though she was coming out of her body. Her mind, and spirit going in different directions from her physical form as the invisible hand stroked between her legs.

  “Arghhh, no… stop…” Jemima said. Suddenly she felt frightened. She couldn’t open her eyes and was trapped in darkness whilst a hand… a man’s hand, gripped her private parts. She could feel his hand inside of her underwear, grinding his palm against her sex, its hot fingers sliding in her slit. “Stop!” she said again, but the words were stifled by the sensation of something entering her mouth. She pressed her tongue against it, something between her teeth, as wide as her little lips could be spread. She slid her tongue around it.

  Then came the whoosh.

  No human experience came close to explaining it, but it almost felt as though she was yanked forward out of her own body. The sensation threw her forward then slingshot her back, launching her to the ground physically. Whatever it was broke the mysterious hypnosis of the stickman by hurling her to the floor. She awoke completely and slammed her knees together, a second later she grabbed the hem of her dress to pull it down and cover her thighs.

  She was in the forest, on her back, with the stickman sculpture towering over her.

  “Don’t be frightened,” the voice came again.

  Jemima rolled over and tried to stand. She looked around at the darkening forest, trying to remember the way back to the farm. She ran a few steps but fell forward as something grabbed her ankles. “No,” she squealed, but the force behind her held too much strength. It dragged her backwards along the floor, her dress riding up as it pulled her ankles apart to open her legs. “No… Please, don’t,” she said with a sob.

  “You are almost together, Jemima,” the voice said again. “I am sorry this will hurt you, my Sweet; but it is for a moment only.”

  Again she felt a hand inside her underwear, but this time it gripped the fabric and ripped them away with a tear.

  “NO!” she squealed, but it was to no avail. Something pressed between her legs. Pushing inside… and with it… came blackness.

  Nothing...

  Jemima blinked her eyes and for a moment the dark faded from view and she imagined herself floating through mist above a forest lake. She saw the man sitting by the fireplace again and this time caught sight of a woman in a long mirror. The woman slipped the dress off her shoulders and allowed it to fall to the floor to stand naked before the handsome man.

  It was…

  She was the woman…

  She was looking through this woman’s eyes as she disrobed before the man in the chair and it… it… it excited her beyond compare.

  “I love you,” the man in the chair said.

  “And I love you, too,” the woman said back in Jemima’s voice.

  Darkness surrounded her again.

  “I am sorry for this pain, Jemima,” the voice whispered closer than ever. “But we are meant to be together forever. Soon you will understand… I love you… I love you… I love you.”

  The voice faded into echo… then screamed with ferocity, “SILKE!”

  Then there was nothing but blackness. There was no pain although she felt there should be. “Hello?” she called into the darkness. “Are you still there?”

  “I am here,” the voice answered thicker and fuller than before.

  “I can’t see you.”

  “I know… but do not worry, we can be together again soon, but there is something you must do.”

  Jemima found herself resting easily, calming from the strange sensation of being in this blackness. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Where you are staying, it is a farm house. In the house are books. Handwritten books that are bound in the softest leather. You must find these books, Jemima. You must take one away from here when you leave, or you must destroy one. If you take one, we can be together soon. If you destroy one it will take me longer to find you. Do you understand?”

  Jemima didn’t, but she felt the importance. “I can try.”

  “Search for the books and take one. If you cannot take one, destroy one… Please Jemima. I have been trapped here so very long, but if you can take a book, you can call me away from here and we can be together like we are supposed to be.”

  ----- X -----

  There was barely any daylight left when Jemima awoke. She was curled in a ball by the foot of the tree. She sat up and checked herself. Her knees were scratched. Her pink cotton pants were around one of her ankles, ripped on one leg. She turned her hands over and saw dirt under her fingernails as though she had been clawing the forest floor.

  “What has happened to me?” she asked aloud as she stood.

  Without a mirror it was impossible to see what had befallen her, but it was clear she must look like she’d been dragged through a hedge
. Just finger combing her hair produced leaves and small twigs.

  The stickman was gone.

  The voice was gone.

  She tried to recall the experience but only one part seemed real. The handsome man was sitting in a chair by a fireplace. She was looking through the eyes of a woman who undressed for him. The thought excited her. Standing before the man and revealing herself for his pleasure made her knees lock together and her breath quicken.

  “I love you,” she said recalling the words.

  She could recall the sensation of floating over the misty forest lake by moonlight and she could vaguely recall fighting against the desires of the voice, but now she couldn’t imagine why she would have resisted. This wasn’t something to fight against. This was something to relish and savour. It was something to seek out and enjoy.

  ----- X -----

  Jemima arrived back at the farmhouse and went straight for the bathroom. Her Grandmother’s expression told her she’d seen the raw cheeks and rubbed eyes. Jemima locked herself in the bathroom to rinse her face and straighten herself up. There was dirt and mud all over her dress.

  A tap on the door. “Jemima, are you alright?”

  “Yes, I’m fine… just a moment.” She dried her face and finger combed her hair back before opening the door. Grandma was waiting expectantly to give a hug. “I’m fine, Grandma.”

  “You looked upset when you came in.”

  “I found the kitten outside and was watching it… but it died.”

  “Oh, no. Oh, Jemima.” Her Grandmother put a hand over her mouth.

  Jemima shrugged. “It upset me, but I’m okay now.” Her Grandmother looked to her dress. “I fell over,” she said anticipating the question. “I’m going to get changed.”

  “Oh, okay… well let me know if you need anything.”

  She left her Grandmother and walked through towards the stairs but her attention went to a bookcase. Books… this was important… really important. She began running her fingers across the spines as though some tactile sensation would reward her a clue as to why she should feel them so important. “These are Uncle Tomaz’s books,” Grandma said following her from the kitchen. Tomaz Karner. The name was spelled out along the spines of the books. Some of the editions were duplicated with two or three copies. The most popular was called Deutsch Spukhäuser and had several different covers.