10 Amazing Slenderman Stories

by Jack Goldstein

  However, the world of the dead is Satan’s dominion, and therefore Satan allowed Job’s soul to take on a physical form again, a reflection of how it was when it was ripped from the flesh it once had. This form was of something more akin to a monster than a man; a thin, skeletal figure, arms as slender as shadows... a blind, featureless entity destined to offer no hope to those it met. One of the most shocking passages is Job’s curse to God, where he tells the world how he will use his powers for nefarious purposes:

  I swear by the living Almighty God, who refuses me justice and makes my life bitter: as long as God gives me breath, my lips will never say anything evil, my tongue will never tell a lie.

  Job 27:1-2

  It is clear that Job was asking Satan to remove his tongue and lips as a God would not allow them to be used for evil purposes. Once the transformation was complete, Satan released this slender man into to the world to consume other bodies and souls in retribution for the punishment that God had suffered upon it.

  As the bible says:

  This is the fate of wicked people, the fate that God assigns to them.

  Job 20:29

  The book even speaks of the horror of Slender sickness:

  It has grown so dark that you cannot see, and a flood overwhelms you.

  Job 22:11

  Have I convinced you? Do you now see what I see? The most shocking discovery in my opinion is how closely Slenderman is connected to Satan. He is one of his direct minions, an entity to do his bidding on earth. A presence condemned to wander our lands for eternity, seeking out souls to devour and flesh to consume. I believe that because of this, there is no reasoning with Slenderman, as he himself has no reason; he is purely and simply a gamble between good and evil which went terribly, terribly wrong.

  Yours, in fear,

  Jack

  Another Letter to Jimmy

  Dear Jimmy,

  Are you sure we’re doing the right thing by investigating Slenderman further? When we collaborated on our last project, we managed to gather a host of information from a range of historical sources. Our research took us on a two-year trip across the world, visiting academic libraries and reading those ancient texts. I particularly enjoyed journeying with you to remote German medieval churches to search through their parish archives in the hope of finding some reference to Der Grossman.

  However I am worried that our latest effort may be a step too far. Finding those who have had first-hand encounters with Slenderman is nigh-on impossible, and those with experience of his work are so often too scared to tell me what I do not already know.

  I am also rather concerned for our safety. Some unusual things have happened in the last few weeks. I’ll update you on what I have found, but I will leave the final decision on whether or not to progress with you.

  Firstly I am very worried about a poem I have come across. The document was discovered in an unmarked tomb in a church in Kent which was bombed by the Luftwaffe - the force of the blast exploded the tomb, the walls of which were an incredible three feet thick. The poem was all that was inside. I have included it in this letter to you for your analysis. I believe it is related to Slenderman, as the description fits him perfectly. But why was what seems like such an innocent poem interred like that? My darkest fear is that anyone who reads it will suffer the fate it describes. This troubles me.

  Secondly, I managed to interview a very old man; he was ninety-six years of age. His grandfather was a policeman in Victorian London. The man told me a story which his grandfather told him as a young boy; he swears it is true, and that I am the only one to whom he has ever told it. He was almost on his death bed; after he told it to me in full, he said some words which disturbed me: “Ah, now you have the burden. It’ll come for me, now I have let its secret pass, just like it came for my Grandpap”. One of the staff from the nursing home wrote to tell me that the poor man killed himself the very next day by stabbing himself through his back with what appeared to be a broken wedge of an old truncheon.

  The third thing I have found is a letter of resignation from Captain Marriott of the British Army. It is not a pleasant read, and I fear the man encountered Slenderman before writing it. The paper itself stinks of death, and I no longer want it in my possession - please do not return it to me after reading it.

  There is a fourth document for you to consider. Do you remember the recent mine collapse in Chile? It was in the news - it had a good ending due to the fact that every single miner was rescued. Well I have found what purports to be a fictional account of the happenings of that time. However something is bugging me about the document. As with the others I have included in this bundle for you, every single fact checks out. I believe this to be the real story of what happened to those men, and it terrifies me so.

  Lastly, I have in fact been warned off researching Slenderman further by a policeman no less. His letter is enclosed for your consideration. I cannot read it to the end, as the details contained in the first few paragraphs have already haunted my nightmares.

  So, Jimmy, I ask you this. Is it right for us to continue? Perhaps we should stop our research and burn everything we have. If our previous publication has caused so many deaths, what would the next one do? Is it right to let innocent people die just because they read the terrifying information we publish?

  What scared me most is that people don’t realise just how serious - and deadly - knowledge of Slenderman can be. An ancient Mayan belief ran such that if you drew a picture of a God, it would create a portal for it to enter the real world, especially if accompanied by some text referencing the deity. And yet I see today a member of the deviantArt community - GroovyByDawn - has painted a very accurate depiction of Slenderman, complete with some text from that ancient poem we discovered. Do people not see how dangerous this is?

  Jimmy, as ever, the decision is in your hands. Call me a coward but I am too scared to even decide whether to continue or not. Perhaps Slenderman will hunt and kill me if I inform people of his evil - or perhaps he will slaughter me should I stop!

  My life is in your hands, friend.

  Yours sincerely,

  Jack

  You and I

  A poem found in a tomb of a bombed-out church

  You walk home in the dark.

  I cannot see

  Yet I am watching you.

  You know I am following you.

  I cannot smell

  Yet your scent reeks of fear.

  You are alone in your house.

  I cannot be happy

  Yet your solitude pleases me.

  You lie asleep in your bed.

  I cannot hear

  Yet I listen to your every breath.

  You awake to my touch.

  I cannot speak

  Yet I tell you what awaits.

  You realise I have you now.

  I cannot feel emotion

  Yet I pity you.

  You search for a way out of your nightmare.

  I cannot tell the future

  Yet I know you won’t escape me.

  You scream as I disembowel you.

  I cannot taste

  Yet your organs are exquisite morsels.

  You wonder when the pain will end.

  I cannot cry

  Yet my tears are of joy.

  You try to bargain with me.

  I cannot smile

  Yet my laughter is the only sound you hear.

  You beg me to stop.

  I cannot.

  Struck Again

  A story told to Jack first hand by the grandchild of a London policeman

  Catherine was walking the streets again. In her part of London it was one way to make a living. Sometimes men were nice to her, sometimes they were cruel. But they all paid, and that was what counte
d.

  She got more business at night, especially when the local pubs kicked out drunk patrons after their final gin of the evening. She always got the money first - sometimes they feel asleep and that was a bonus.

  Tonight’s moon was waxing gibbous, offering a little more light to enhance the dull flicker of the solitary gas lamp which shone on the entrance to the alleyway where Catherine was standing. She looked pretty, younger than her twenty-five years would suggest.

  A man in working clothes walked past.

  “Alright darling? Only tuppence for you!”

  He shook his head and hurried on his way. As his footsteps disappeared into the distance, an eerie silence descended around Catherine. She didn’t frighten easily, but she had a strange feeling about tonight. The fog - which was getting thicker by the minute - didn’t help. It was a real London ‘pea-souper’, with a yellow hue and almost tangible in its consistency.

  Catherine heard a distant clock strike the half hour. If no-one accepted her proposals in the next twenty minutes or so she would call it a night. She’d barely earned enough for tomorrow’s food, but she knew when to quit.

  A coin was pressed into Catherine’s hand. From behind her there was a whisper.

  “Don’t turn around. Just stand there for me.”

  Catherine held the coin up to her face. It was thrice what she would normally get off a punter, especially at this time of night. Well, she thought, I’m game for that kind of money.

  She stood still.

  She could smell this one quite badly. The contrast of his filthy fug against her freshly-splashed lavender was palpable. But most of them hadn’t a care for hygiene; mud, grease, oil - it was all the same to her.

  She continued to stand still.

  “Ere, love, how long are we gonna do this before the action eh?”

  There was a small pause and then the whisper again.

  “The action begins now.”

  Catherine screamed as she felt something cut across her belly. She looked down and saw her intestines begin to fall out. Long, slim hands reached around her and pulled them out further. One hand then reached up to her face and scratched at it. There was so much pain now that Catherine knew she had little chance of surviving. But she was a fighter.

  She chose her moment and turned around. The sight that greeted her was worse than the pain in her abdomen however: a man dressed in full evening wear, so tall that she could not see his face, his arms and legs long and thin, unnaturally so. The smell became more intense, more foul - worse than the gutters of her street with their decomposing animals, rats and sewerage.

  It made no sense to Catherine. She had done nothing wrong - certainly nothing other than plying her trade, which surely even a man of this modern age could not disagree with?

  With her last breath she managed to utter a final word.

  “Why?”

  The slender figure stooped its head towards her. It was featureless, yet still a mask of utter terror.

  “Because.” It whispered.

  ***

  PC Edward Watkins turned the corner and saw what he thought might be a drunk lying on the floor. Approaching it with some caution (you could never be too careful; these ne’er-do-wells will fight you even though you’re a policeman) he readied his whistle should he need to blow it for backup.

  As he got closer he realised this was no drunk. He could see the blood gushing out of what was now a clearly female form.

  He could now see the slashes on her face, and that her torso had almost been ripped in two. Entrails spilled out of the still warm but lifeless corpse.

  He blew his whistle.

  “Come quick, come quick. Jack the Ripper has struck again!”

  A Resignation Letter

  This letter was found many years ago in an envelope addressed to a Major R Ponsonby of the British Army.

  Dear Sir,

  It is with regret that I must offer the immediate resignation of my commission. I can no longer face battle, not after the terrors I have seen.

  You may feel that any officer would have seen everything on the battlefield by the time he reached my rank; this is of course true. However, it is that which I have seen off the battlefield which leads me to question my sanity. As a responsible man I cannot allow myself to command others when I cannot be sure that what I see is real.

  With this in mind, I am retiring to my country house in Buckinghamshire and am praying that I can be brought back to full health, and the visions of death which plague my dreams can be laid to rest.

  I will explain below what I have witnessed, and once I have done so will never speak of it again. I trust that as a man of God you will accept that I swear under oath for the truth of this entire episode.

  As you may know, my company had been reduced to just fourteen men by the French; I am ashamed to say that we could not overcome their vastly superior numbers. Flanked on one side by cavalry and with the column advancing, we chose to rapidly retreat to the west. The woods offered cover, under which we could tend to the wounded and perhaps ready ourselves for a second attack.

  As we entered the woods, we were surprised as to just how quickly the light faded. The sun must have still be high in the sky, yet very few tendrils of its warmth or brightness made it to through the trees and bracken in which we now found ourselves.

  We were confident that the enemy would not find us however, and set up a small fire to sterilise the surgical instruments which we would need to tend to Sergeant Cooper’s leg - and to cook what we could forage for sustenance.

  After an hour or so, with Cooper bandaged up and three rabbits in the flames, we began to discuss our plans. All of a sudden, there was a moan from further into the woods. Our man Sugden who was on guard duty instantly questioned “Friend or Foe?”.

  There was no reply. Yet we saw the shape of a tall man approach. Knowing that no man of that height was under my command, I ordered Sugden to shoot. He did so, yet the form continued to approach. As it got closer, I realised it could be no mortal man, being roughly fourteen feet tall and slim as a skeleton.

  Sugden fired again yet the creature still proceeded towards us. My other men readied their ammunition and also bore musket on that thing but it just did not stop.

  Suddenly it brought one arm round in a swipe, and took out three of my men. I can still picture it now, how their bodies were sliced cleanly in twain, their screams continuing even as the blood gushed out of their severed torsos.

  It reached out a finger and touched another of my men on his chest, as if it was pointing towards his heart. The man, Garrett, dropped dead like a stone.

  Still the remaining troops fired, still to no avail. One man jumped directly in front of the beast, pointing his weapon at its smooth, featureless visage. The thing just cocked its head to one side, almost inquisitively, and the man dropped his weapon and held his hands up to his throat, as if to remove something that was choking him. I knew there was no saving him. And I feared there was no sanctuary for any of us.

  I was almost right.

  None of the men survived. It took them in a myriad of ways, some swiftly, some a little slower; one - sergeant Cooper - was parted from this world by a deft flick of the very scalpel that had not half an hour ago removed a musketball from his leg.

  As you may have guessed, I was literally petrified with fear. I could only watch as my men were struck down in turn.

  The thing finally approached me, leaned down and whispered something into my ear. It sounded like “I have had my fill. For now”.

  I was so terrified I passed out.

  On waking, I looked around me to see the mutilated bodies of my men. The forest floor was red with blood. I thought back to what had happened and surmised that most likely I had dreamt about the beast. No doubt a small scouting party of French soldiers had fo
und us and killed all the men. I had only avoided their butchery by being asleep and each Frenchman believing another had done away with me.

  However, sir, the nightmares continue. I am not of fit mind or body to fight on the battlefield, and an officer is no use if he is not facing the enemy. I therefore reiterate my desire to resign my commission and spend the rest of my days praying for my fallen men and wishing vengeance on the French troops that could have committed such a heinous act.

  Ever you servant,

  Captain James. T. Marriott.

  Further research into the British Army’s historical archives shows that Captain Marriott never made it to his country house in Buckinghamshire. On the ship transporting him from Calais to Dover he was found dead in his cabin, believed to have committed suicide by carving a deep ‘S’ into his own throat. The weapon he used was never found.

  Los 33

  The truth about the Chilean mine collapse

  Deep in the Atacama desert, in the troubled 121-year old San José copper-gold mine, Luis Gomez was using his state-of-the art drilling equipment to get deep into a bed which promised an extraordinarily rich seam of gold. It was uncanny; almost supernatural - Luis just knew this was going to be a profitable mineral vein, and hopefully that would mean a small bonus.

  Luis was the leader of a team of thirty-two men (including himself). Each one of them had specialist skills. Each one of them had families for whom they were earning a decent and honest living. Each one knew how dangerous the job could be.

  Since the year 2000, an average of more than thirty people a year had died in mining accidents in the country, and although not one man would admit it in public, each one prayed to whatever god they believed in each and every morning, asking - nay, begging it would not be their turn to face tragedy that day.