10 Amazing Slenderman Stories

by Jack Goldstein

  Rosenblatt opened his eyes sleepily, woken by a weak voice murmuring “Dick... Dick...” As he opened his eyes, Sol was greeted with a scene of utter solitude. His compatriots were all missing and a sickly smell filled the air. The faint voice called again, the words dancing in the night air like buoys bobbing in an inky sea. Following the sound to its source Sol found the smell to grow stronger. It was a smell he recognised, sweet as nectar but sharp and metallic at the same time. The coppery smell burned at Sol’s nostrils as he traversed the dockyard to a warehouse door, left slightly agape. A faint light burned within and for the third time Sol heard the feeble whisper of his taken name.

  “Dick...” whispered the voice. “Help me”.

  As Rosenblatt pushed open the door he immediately located all of his compatriots and the missing members of the Hester Street Assembly. All were piled up on the warehouse floor like old oily rags, their clothes torn and dirty and every one of them was soaking with perspiration - they looked as though they’d been trawled up in the latest fishing catch, as if they’d been underwater for weeks and had just been hauled up in a net and dumped on the warehouse floor. Their skin was translucent white and their eyes had all faded to milky cataracts. These men weren’t dead however; Sol could see they were all moving, faint breaths and grim moans came out of the men’s mouths and one would occasionally stir, gently rustling like a wet leaf. Some of the men had deep puncture wounds in their torsos, many of the men were leaking blood like old cars leak oil. As Sol bent down to look at the face of one of the men, a great shape loomed over him from behind the stack of groaning flesh. Sol hadn’t notice the figure before but it must have been hunched over one of the victims. The creature was hideous; a great tall beast, taller than any man but painfully thin. Its distended limbs were knobbled and gnarled like the boughs of an ancient tree and its stature was broken and painful-looking. The great thin creature had awful claws at the end of its slender arms, with each digit encrusted with dried blood and viscera. Its face -if you could even call it that - was smooth and featureless; the skin itself milky white and flawless save for a cruel splash of gore where a normal man’s mouth would be.

  As the malevolent figure bore down on Sol he instinctively drew his service pistol and held his weapon in front of him. He tried to call a warning to the beast but no sounds would leave his mouth. Again the foul silence that had plagued him before was entwining him in its wicked coils. This fetid brute had some kind of control over him, he felt inflicted with a kind of sickness, the likes of which he’d never felt. In panic, Sol loosed a single round from his pistol, the projectile’s path staying true and penetrating deeply into the supernatural assailant. Where the bullet hit home, a painful hole tore through the monster, only to flow outward with thick black ichor and re-seal itself.

  Sol Rosenblatt fell backwards, his head spinning from a combination of the shock brought on by this slender monstrosity and the sickness he felt in its presence. As he lay on the warehouse floor, the evil shape slithered over to him and impended above him like an enormous tarantula encircling its prey. The un-man cocked its faceless head to one side; curiously studying Sol as he lay suffering on the wooden deck then began to linger inwards with its evil un-expression. Flushed with panic Sol tried to call out “No, no no!” but the words sounded distant, like faint howling heard on the wind. Sol tried his best to scream at the monster but his voice sounded a thousand miles away.

  The creature placed its wicked talons onto Sol’s shoulders and effortlessly pushed them through his flesh; pressing past his collarbone deep into his shoulder, Sol felt the indescribable agony as the monster’s fingers seared through him. Flickering images cascaded through his mind - hundreds of murder victims, this monster’s victims, in their last moments. Dozens of screams, gallons of blood and through it all a sensation of purest hatred; an outpouring of wrath and fury. This beast lives for slaughter, massacring anybody it pleases, and it did please this brute. “P... P... Please, stop!” yelled Rosenblatt, desperate for the creature to halt its torture. “I’ll do anything, just please stop this!”

  The brute withdrew its wicked nails from Sol’s body, its fingers slick with Rosenblatt’s blood. It looked him right in the face then, cocking its head again like a curious feline. “If you spare me, I know where you can find some real prey...” said Rosenblatt. Desperate for his own life, Sol’s mind was racing to save his own skin. This creature had readily torn through nearly thirty men this evening and now it was about to eviscerate him on the concrete floor of this warehouse. Could he not turn this situation to his advantage?

  “I’ve been tracking a man called The Baker; he’s a cruel man and represents a great deal of evil in the world. I can lead you to him; you can have your fill from him and his lieutenants!”

  The slim fiend wavered over Sol, seemingly unimpressed with his offer. Sol remembered from the enforced psychic images that this creature feels nothing but hatred and vitriol; it does not feel pity, it does not care for honour. All of its resources are geared toward evisceration and destruction, its intelligence is focused on murder and nothing more, its only longing is for blood.

  “There will be five men there tonight. All of them fat, greedy and ripe for the taking.” Finding it hard to believe he was using these words, Sol saw the creature repose for a moment, as if it was considering his deal. The creature leaned it foul face so close to Sol’s he could smell its breath; the odours of foul, rotten meat and ancient soil filled Rosenblatt’s nose as the creatures face brushed gently against his. Sol began to feel sick again - the same previous sickness sapping the life from him, causing him to lose consciousness. As the world drifted away and Sol was drawn deep into oblivion, he heard the words “Find them” whispered menacingly as his world faded to black...

  ***

  As Sol slowly climbed the old wooden staircase above the factory floor, he approached Eddie Russ’s heavy office door. He couldn’t believe he was doing this - giving away five men to this monster to save his own skin. He kept telling himself that these men were criminals, their fate was sealed the day they took up this profession; but Sol still couldn’t shake the feeling that what he was doing was wrong.

  The hefty wooden door was always left closed and locked to prevent police, rival gangs or any unsavouries busting in and killing The Baker’s closest men; on this occasion though, Eddie’s door was open. Not wide open, but ajar only slightly, allowing the orange light from inside to spill out over the ancient wooden balcony which overlooked the facility. Now high above the factory on the wooden gantry, Sol crept quietly towards Eddie’s open office door. Hesitantly pushing the door open, the scene inside turned Sol’s stomach. Eddie’s body lay lazily reclined on his colossal office chair with his throat sliced cleanly from ear to ear; bloody streams ran down his neck and torso, drawing Solomon’s eyes to Eddie’s eviscerated body. Three wide gashes had been torn in Eddie Russ’ massive abdomen and his fatty organs were brutally strewn from his frame; his lungs lay on the ground, his intestines were cruelly spilled over his desk like a macabre ticker-tape and his shrivelled heart was brutally impaled on the desk’s note spike - a totem to the brutality suffered in this room. Eddie’s clothes were thick with blood and all manner of claret viscera covered the floor - every surface glistened with the slickness of murder.

  Solomon Rosenblatt had seen murder scenes countless times in his career - gunshot victims, stabbings and savage beatings, but never had he seen anything this brutal. With everything that had been happening today the sight proved too much and Sol lost the contents of his stomach. Vomiting onto the floor, Ronsenblatt’s eyes were filled with tears and his head filled with questions. Who would do this? Had a rival gang burst in here, murdering Eddie Russ? Are they still here?

  Shivering, Sol unholstered his service pistol, surveyed the room and tried to keep a cool head in this chaotic situation. The door at the back of Eddie’s room led into a meeting room - a meeting room that was occ
upied this very evening by all of The Baker’s top men. The men to whom Sol had intended to lead his thin assassin to tonight.

  Gingerly stepping over Eddie’s entrails, treading a gentle path through the gangster’s blood, Sol crept toward the door leading to The Baker’s meeting room. Circling Russ’s body, he placed his shaking left hand onto the cold metal door handle. Raising his pistol in his right hand, Sol opened the door and swiftly moved into the next room. In one jerky motion he slipped into the room, raised his weapon and nervously shut the door behind him. The room was lit, but empty. A great table sat in the middle of the meeting room with chairs along both sides. From Sol’s vantage point he was looking upward at the table as it stretched away from him. The head of the table was filled with a much larger chair, The Baker’s chair in fact and behind that there was a projection screen; presumably for looking at financial reports or something like that. As Sol fearfully scanned the room for movement he observed the clean wooden clad walls, the deep green carpets and the glistening surface of the table, all immaculately clean. No specks of dust or a boot scuff on anything, The Baker’s taste for cleanliness were apparently very exacting within this chamber.

  Rosenblatt came to realise that five of the chairs in front of him were facing away, as if the people who had been sitting in them had been watching the screen. One of those chairs was The Baker’s; the others presumably belonged to the four missing Lieutenants meeting here tonight.

  Sol walked uncertainly into the room, toward the projection screen and toward the chairs turned away from him. As he reached the first of the four chairs, he apprehensively span it around and recoiled as he discovered that these chairs weren’t empty at all. In each chair sat all four of The Baker’s lieutenants - Jackie Esposito, Piotr Gospodinov, Murray O’Ryan and Angelo Papadakis; all four of them wilting silently in their seats, but they were anything but peaceful. The tops of their skulls were cleanly sawn away and their brains were missing; their eyes and mouths had been sewn up and both hands had been sewn together as if captured in a moment of macabre prayer. Between their hands were long steel needles, their hands sewn around them, clasping them desperately. The needles were punching into the men’s chests, holding their hands in place and their corpses in the chairs. Their cadavers were shrivelled and shrunken; their blood had been entirely drained but there was absolutely no sign of any spilled blood anywhere.

  Sol felt the blood drain from his own face as this horrendous sight. His face felt cold, his skin clammy and his stomach once again turned to a gnarling mess. His knees weakened and he dropped the gun from his grip. This was too much - he’d witness no end of atrocity on this day and it was going from bad to worse. First his unit were sickened and piled up like the plague dead, then he’d observed the aftermath of Russ’s murder and now this; the worst thing he’d witnessed in his life.

  Right then the projector fired into life somewhere behind him. The screen in front flickered and spat; noise and broken images juddered in front of him. Sol was sickeningly frightened by didn’t turn his gaze from the screen. A strange logo appeared on the screen, a circle with a large diagonal cross cutting through it. It flickered and pulsed on the screen, never staying in the same place too long. The electronic hum and the scraping whirl of the projector filled his ears and the bizarre logo held his attention until he saw that fetid shape dance across the picture. Turning rapidly Rosenblatt was partially blinded by the bright light from the projector but he could make out the spindly figure stalking him in shadow. The long body approached unheeded in silhouette and was upon Sol before he could utter a cry. As the long, firm claws once again worked their torture on him Sol emitted an intense yelp. “Why? Why are you doing this? I led you here to these men!”

  Sol was answered in the manner of the enforced mental images the monster seemed to communicate in. As white-hot agony and fractured hallucinations spun his mind, Sol realised the truth. This creature knew about these men and was always planning on killing them; he was just an unfortunate soul caught in the crossfire, an unexpected bonus for this skinny beast.

  The monster forced its claws further into Solomon, inciting a bitter shriek from him. “But the Baker! The Baker is still here, you can have him!”

  Broken photographs and memories were driven into Solomon’s mind like a wedge driven into a tree trunk - images that showed this creature’s memories. Memories of meeting and recruiting the four lieutenants; memories of establishing this crime empire. Memories of distilling the purest sickness into a drug which this organisation was pumping into the streets; turning people into mindless zombies. Memories of holding a meeting in this room earlier, and slaying those four men.

  “You! You’re The Baker!” Cried Solomon with the last breaths left in his body. His shell wracked with agony and despair, his breath wheezy and hoarse. “Why have you done this? To me, to everybody? You monster, tell me why?!”

  As the monsters talons found his heart, Solomon Rosenblatt’s body was ablaze with torment. The creature wrapped its slender tendrils around his most vital of organs and as he felt his life being drawn from his body, the creature leaned in to him and spoke only six words. Sol’s heart was strewn from his frame, his body rent into bloodied rags at the hands of the frenzied murderer. As his body lay dying on the rich green carpeting of The Baker’s office, his brain ticked over the last six words he would ever hear.

  “Such are the games we play.”

  Gu Jincan

  An ancient Chinese legend

  On the night of the fifth day of the fifth month in the year 700, the dark priest Gu Jincan set out to unleash as noxious and foul a poison the likes of which had never been seen. His dark apostles, the Miao assisted him in his obscene experiment. By the light of the blood-red moon Gu Jincan began his preparations.

  Taking one of each of the world’s most poisonous and dangerous animals and casting them into a shadowy pit, the black wizard uttered obscene spells, spells unfit to write here. As his profane words filled the thick night air, the creatures writhed and spat in their ditch. A great spindly spider; a lurid orange snake; a glowing scorpion and a slithering, slimy frog; the four creatures circled one another, sizzling and spurting foul venom at one another. At once the creatures began to fight, their venoms piercing one another and causing the rapid onset of death. At Gu Jincan’s orders his Miao emptied baskets of further deadly creatures into the clay well. Lizards, insects and poisonous vermin were next; deadly dragonflies, flicking salamanders and rabid rats were set into the arena, slashing and devouring one another in an ecstasy of malice and poison.

  As his spell continued, the noxious fumes from the pit rose into the air - the caustic nature of these foul odours caused the grass to turn black and leaves to wither on the trees. The night became darker, the air colder and Gu Jincan ordered more fetid beasts be poured into the pit. Into the swirling madness went vipers, giant scorpions, komodo dragons and droves of biting insects. As the rancorous maelstrom of fighting animals continued, the acidic fumes caused many of Gu Jincan’s servants to grow faint, and several of them became overcome and fainted into the pit. Their bodies were torn and burned; ripped apart and scorched to ash by the claws, fangs and venomous stings of the now formless brawl occurring in the magician’s almighty cauldron. At this sacrifice of human flesh, the night sky opened with a great crack of lightning, signalling the climax of Gu Jincan’s incantations. The bitter virulence in the dark wizard’s pot had all but stopped, and the remaining Miao were ordered to pour out the contents. The hundreds of poisonous beasts, combined with the dark magics of Gu Jincan had blended and distilled into the greatest poison ever created. The black liquid was poured into a specially-prepared channel - a long, thin channel reminiscent of a serpent or a great wyrm. Gu Jincan then took that poison into himself, from that slender channel the poison became one with the sorcerer.

  Gu Jincan then became the most feared and most powerful sorcerer in ancient China. With the power
of the poison (which he had vainly named the Gu), the dark wizard was afforded all the powers of venoms, diseases and molders and could cause great harm to humans. His murderous powers were able to generate a noxious chi; a sickening chill and a heavy form of sickness which he could inflict on people, known as the serpent sickness. Gu Jincan would travel the wilderness, preying on unwary travellers and weakened soldiers returning from war. People who contracted his sickness were incurable. They would suffer immensely at the hands of his sorcery, enduring debilitating psychological conditions, hallucinations and were often inexplicably drawn to Gu Jincan’s hideaway, where he would seduce and bewitch them, then devour them in secret.