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It's a non-cys story, but I could use some feedback, because I love feedback, even negative feedback... But I'm not a machochist, so please don't make it too negative... I'll put down what I already have in public, you may recognize the description of Stephen from somewhere else on this site, this is where it came from.

Oooh, sen me a link

I was going to post it here, if ya didn't mind... I derpily pushed the post button and then tried to edit it... This is based on creepypastas, and he encounters more famous ones after this.

Here goes:

These documents were found in some dilapidated old files in a police station basement. For the sake of everyone’s safety, including mine, everyone in this story is going to be anonymous, except for the things he encounters, which I’m sure you may recognize.

I asked if I could go through some forgotten old cases for a school report on history. The Chief, being a generous and liberal person, led me into a great morgue of dusty files. I found a file under “S” that looked interesting and more than a bit thick. I found that the primary source of its weight and thickness was a leather-bound diary dated back to 2010, far too recent to be with any of these files. I flipped through the papers and made careful note of the words “murder”, “manslaughter”, “excorsist”, and “vigilante”. I thought of Excorcist and the image of a grey-haired creepy old Catholic guy popped into my head. Murder, manslaughter, and vigilante didn’t seem to apply to even the creepiest of old Catholic guys, and even the oddest of murderers or vigilantes wouldn’t happen to know how to perform an excorsism… Would they? I ended up hurriedly putting my curiosity away, as I didn’t want to be seen snooping around a fairly recent murder case by a police chief, (as who knows what kind of suspicion that would provoke?) I went to the police chief, and pointed out the date, which was also on the papers and files, pretending that was the only thing I saw. The chief got this look on his face as he scanned the contents of the file. as if the file were threatening to smother him in his sleep, and then he smiled politely and said that it was solved some time last year, and that I could even borrow it to write my report on our town’s history, though now I wasn’t sure I wanted to. There was something fake in his smile and something odd in his eyes. And as I climbed the stairs with the case file I could have sworn I heard him say “Tread lightly, my friend…” Never have I had such creeping suspicions before. If it could unnerve a perpetually armed man of athletic build with years’ training in self defence and use of a gun like that, it was highly likely that I would end up in a white padded room sporting the famous tan leather coat with extra-long sleeves, strapped and buckled look, if not be raving my vocal chords to the point of snapping while on suicide watch for at least a whole weekend. Not that I’m a wuss or anything, but people always looked at Chief in many ways the same as the internet looks at Chuck Norris, and if even the likes of Chuck Norris were to act like that towards whatever forbidden knowledge is in these files, then I may as well be the Lovecraftian protagonist that goes mad and shoots himself in the end. Refusing to apply myself to that metaphor, not wanting to return the file and weird him out with an oblong excuse for being too scared to open these files for the way he looked at them, I resolutely went home, got out my computer to write whatever report I could make of this, and opened the file, blowing off a thin layer of dust. I noticed I missed a few spots and quickly blew those spots off too, and another spot, and another, until I realized these spots were imaginary and that I was only procrastinating the opening of the diary, which I imagined to look more like a foreboding tome, and the reading of the case papers, which may as well have been, in my paranoia and anxiousness, Caucasian human skins, tanned and tattooed with bloody lettering. I again shook this feeling, however powerful, and with a strange sensation, a combination of fear and relief, and confusion, I read the papers. I was surprised at the youth of this man. He was, according to the mug shot, 6 foot 8, and powerfully built, but a cadaverous sort of pale. He had one deep blue eye, the left one, and one grey eye,(not blind) the blue one having a jagged scar running down from his forehead, just missing  it, and continuing down to his jawline. I’m no good at physiognomy or that kind of thing; if I was I’d be able to give you a better description, but he had the kind of face you’d expect a Viking to have, a powerful, defined, but sleek-ish jawline that you would expect was unbreakable, high cheek-bones, and a vertically short, broad, protruding forehead that almost shadowed the eyes, but emphasized his eyebrows. He had the kind of nose with a bridge that made it look like there was a bit of a dip separating the top of his nose from the end of his brow, and the tip of his nose turned down just enough to give the impression of a kitchen knife, but not enough to look like it was turned all the way down or anything. The way it was turned down gave me the impression that his nose was broken at one point, and all things considered, it probably was. He had a Russel Brand kind of beard, it covered his jaw, chin, and mouth, pretty much anything below the nasal level, but went up to the rest of his hair as soon as it left the front of his face. It was black as well as his eye-brows which were thick and made him look constantly displeased, even aggressive, though it looked like he was trying to appear calm, and he probably was.  He had wild (not like 80s or anything, but unkempt to say the most) jet black hair down to his shoulderblades. He looked like he had spent a long time hiding from someone… or (I’d hate to think) been homeless for a month or two. I bet you thought I was about to suggest that he was evading something anomalous right then and cheesily foreshadow whatever the heck was wrong and bind into the plot the belief that this was a full-blown creepypasta then and there. But any momentum I had or will have over the course of this story has been brutally murdered here and now, and I’ll let it remain so, because this man, (Iet’s say his name is Stephen, which it isn’t) was a total boss. I’ll also let the diary/journal demonstrate that.

Monday, January 1^st, 2009. 8:20 PM

My name is [Stephen ummm… what should his fake last name be? How about Hendersen? Is Hendersen good? If it isn’t, then too bad, because there isn’t a comments option in Microsoft word. Okay, let’s restart this now…]

My name is [Stephen Hendersen], If you happen to be reading this, it means I’ve either retired the trade described here, or I’ve been arrested for my unorthodox work on saving you, actually, the world from… well, you’ll see.

This day in 1996, I remember very specifically being 9. Like a lot of the other kids my age, being either a superhero or a world leader were the big ticket occupations that every kid my age wanted. Being a Russian dictator was out of the question of course, and so logically the next best thing was being a superhero. I made a new-years’ resolution that I would do whatever I could to be the world’s first real superhero. My little obsession appeared normal. I joined karate, like any idealist 9-year-old who never bothered to learn that vigilante-ism is illegal. What was unexpected by the adults was how seriously I took this, and that paid attention so diligently that I had a black belt not only in karate, but in judo and jujitsu and aikido at age 12. At 13, I joined boy scouts and learned how to use a gun pretty well, and “for the sake of doing it” (that’s what I told my parents) took several classes in how to use a combat knife, and how to throw knives in general correctly and accurately. And to “research the 1840s” I learned the “Gouging” discipline and the use of revolvers, I didn’t tell my parents the class also expanded to modern revolvers. And yes, it was a tough neighborhood if you haven’t already deduced that. After that, I continued training in the use of long firearms, and dabbled in fencing until I was 18. It was then that I took basic military training, especially self-defense.  Wanting to go even further into military combat methods, I joined, got the hang of assault weapons and general use of guns and how to build them, and mastered S.C.A.R.S., with my training appearing to be satisfactory, I continued to build my physique to its greatest capactiy. I left the military after 1 year, prior to joining I did my homework on psychopaths and maniacs, and learned how to emulate them and impersonate their conditions pretty well, I pretended I went insane and they sent me home as “Combat Unstable”. I knew well before my teens that being a vigilante was in fact, illegal, but I didn’t see any harm in continuing. After all, I could have joined the F.B.I. or a special talent force… But then it happened, November 7^th 1995. I was pitted against something that even with my skills I was unable to overpower…

                I enjoy going on long hikes in the woods on the outskirts of town, sometimes at night, and often with my friends. It was on such a night that we were walking and enjoying ourselves when suddenly all the sounds stopped. The animals quieted, and even the light breeze seemed to have stopped. It was as if the forces of nature had been smothered. Our flashlights refused to work as they had been doing perfectly before, and our only guiding light was the moon which was perfectly full. The light landed on a tall man, oddly formal for a fellow hiker, and he had a grey-white skin-tone, horribly unhealthy looking. At the time I felt that he was in the early stages of recovering from some derivative of the bubonic plague, or perhaps cancer, noticing he hadn’t a single hair on his head.  He was looking straight at the ground, and as I followed his gaze I realized his arms hung down to his knees. I also noticed how he appeared taller than before and that I was just about up to his abdomen. My peers noticed this as soon as I did (as soon as any person would) and froze in some tense combination of fear and confusion. Suddenly abhorred tree branches tore demonically from the tall man’s back. They began to twist and turn and eventually became fully fluid octo-limbs. I was able to dodge the quick swipes one of the ungodly tendrils made for me, but I was unable to get my 2 companions out of the way before they too were swiped at, and to my horror I saw them being dragged kicking and screaming toward the tall man. I took out my concealed revolver and emptied it on the anorexic corporal giant, but to no avail. As the last bullet seemed to go through him, as if he were some sort of mist, he looked up. He didn’t have a face. Not a single feature, just the shape of a human head and blank contours replacing spots where his face should have been. I’m not going to write down what that sorry [His French, pardon it] did to my friends, but he didn’t rush any of it and he made me listen to every godawful second of their deaths. The only thing that I believe saved me was a cross I wore about my neck. I usually hid it under my shirt It was reasonably long, and since I had accidentally damaged it working various odd jobs, its bottom end was sharpened. With the last of my hope as a tendril again ripped through the cold night air and grabbed at me, I ripped the thin chain off of my neck and thrust the cross deep into the tendril that was wrapping thinly around my ankle. I twisted and drove it deeper in sadistically while the silent faceless [shizzle] appeared to cringe, and contorted its jaw downward as if yelling in pain. I drove it further and further, relieving some of the anguish from watching my friends die, and with one final twist I drove it all the way through until I could feel it on my ankle. I then stabbed it into the inside of the tendril, holding onto the flailing tentacle for dear life, (he was now struggling) and eventually split the length of the last foot of that rotten tree-branch thing. I unflinchingly stabbed the cross into the wound between the two halves until the man drew me to his arm’s range and flung me to the earth, his fingers ending with vicious points, as if his fingers were somehow claws themselves, and he made a move to gouge my vitals when I threw the cross into that horrid face of his. The knife-throwing lessons paid off, and the cross dug right into the convex where I believe an eye socket would have been. I took the opportunity to rip the cross out of his face and stab him there again and again, enjoying the fresh blood spattering with each blow, until he clawed my face with surprising force, knocking me back and leaving me with an excruciating pain down the right side of my face, I felt blood beginning to flow in great drops down my face, their source being a claw-mark down my forehead and eye.  He swung another tree-branch tendril at me quicker than the daze of the blow could wear off, and hit me in the chest. It hit hard enough to send me tumbling backwards down the hill through several thorn bushes as I struggled for breath. I was able to take in air as soon as I stopped falling and staggered to my feet. To my surprise I found that sick tree thing already directly behind me. The element of surprise was lost quickly, and he swung another tendril at me, that I was ready for. I drove my cross into its tip and effectively ploughed through a devastating 4 feet of tendril with the force of the stab and his would-be attack. I twisted it sideways and removed the left half of the newly split tendril, and then removed the right half, effectively having severed it. The slender freak reeled at this and made some hellacious screeching noise, then looked directly at me and disappeared. I felt all sorts of fear and paranoia of things I was never scared of before, I had immense convulsions and screamed like some sort of madman until finally I fell to my knees and lost consciousness. I believe the term for that last part is slender-sickness, but I’m not quite sure. I’ll spare you the rambling of my uncertainty and say that he simply managed get away before he could kill me. Now he’ll never have the chance…

                After this encounter I made a mid-year resolution. I took a class in excorsism, and spent my college money traveling to the middle east to strengthen my mind, will, psyche, or whatever it was that demonic tree thing managed to eat a hole through; that mental sickness trick wasn’t going to work again, I wasn’t going to let that thing, or any other freak I may encounter on my new quest, use the likes of it against me. Working many more odd jobs, I acquired the money to build a demonslayer’s arsenal. The first one I got was a katana, I found it fitting for my current location. I bought the silver myself and silvered the blade so that if there was any truth to D&D logic, I’d be able to harm the ethereal with it. Next, I got ahold of a steel cross with the ends sharpened, it was about as long as the average medieval dagger, and I attached a 10 foot chain to the end of it, so that I could use it similarly to a grappling hook, perhaps like the blade that yellow MK guy uses. And finally I got enough money for the most expensive of my weapons, a revolver with a blade fused into its muzzle, I’d always believed that would make the gun dysfunctional, and that it only existed in anime cartoons, but this was Asia, and so not only did they invent the knife-gun, but they were stereotypically smart and must have found a way to make the blade not interfere with the bullet’s path. Then I spent the rest of my money going back to America, where I encountered the white-collar tree freak in a white gimp suit. I was honored to know that I was in my friend’s will (we wrote ours half-jokingly with each other, again, bringing up the tough neighborhood) I received his big black SUV, which shined in the sunlight, he hardly had the chance to use it. I solemnly accepted the vehicle, and for a month I worked and lived in my home town, working on my project. I took my “Lucky” ace of spades card and put it in the band of a black fedora I had, no use in not being stylish. Next, I bought a black trench coat, a gas mask that covered the lower half of my face and changed my voice dramatically, and black goggles that totally concealed my eyes. Then a pair of glistening military boots, and a S.W.A.T. bullet resistant vest, dyed a deep tar color. I tailored various holds into the inside of the trench coat so as to hold the revolver, cross, (the chain was kept in a separate inside pocket, but still handy if I needed to attach it) and some medical supplies. I put the katana in a sheath on my back, and then spent the night quitting my day job, getting my computer, and tracking down my first target. The octo-tree wasn’t going to be an easy find, as he was seen all over the world in quick succession, so I decided I would find its nearest connection and force him/her/it to tell me. I often found fan art of these two together, so I decided I would find the Blue-Man Group’s latest reject. He went by “Eyeless Jack”, and with much studying I found that the majority of his attacks were centered around a single suburban sprawl, [town name, how about Bennsville?]. How convenient, it was two states away. I filled the gas tank and turned the key. I drove, with various stops, for about 2 days, but it was worth it. I booked a hotel on the outskirts of [Bennsville]. I then put on the outfit I made, black fedora, (with the ace of spades in the band) goggles, black trench coat, custom S.W.A.T. vest, a katana strapped to my back, and black jeans tucked into military boots. I looked ridiculous, but that’s how a superhero dresses, I suppose, and as far as superheroes go, I was the least questionably dressed of all. I think I’m going to like this self-employment, I’ve been wanting to do this since I was 9. And now that you’re up to date, I’m going to doze for a bit, I heard that’s how you get this thing to approach you…

Finally finished reading it, good stuff.

If I may ask, who were those two friends you were hiking with? It seems as if there should be more on them.

I am not Stephen, there's no way in hell I could grow a proper beard if I strained for a month. I don't really know about the friends though, they happened to be wearing red shirts during the attack.

Haha, anyways I know you're not Stephen, was simply using it that way for referential purposes.

Anyways other than that there were a few grammar mistakes, nothing big. Good story.

Thank'e!

Why do people hate paragraphing? Its so hard read.

I was going to read it but the big wall scared me

:p

I unfortunately never bothered to put the paragraphs there.

Do it! Do it Now!

Oh, wait... I guess it can't be edited anymore.

Shame shame...

Generally, I make an effort to reply to nearly every post made by BZ to keep the ration. 

Alas, I have no annoying comments to post left. 

I am speechless... (except when I'm not)...

 Who do you think you are? Replying with an inane post? 

Which post was that specifically?

That's a good question. 

I think it has to be the third post you'll make after this one.

In other words, you have started your derailment too early.

It must have come back in time and now we're a few posts from where it will actually begin.

Watch out for paradox....

Oh man. That's crazy. I mean, it makes sense, since my posts were crazy, and not exactly logical, so it must mean that the posts time traveled to the past, to screw everything up! 

The implications are astounding!

Truly. 

Was that it? The third post I mean... Or do we need one more? Everything seems normal so far. The fish are soaring through the skies and my donut trees just sprouted, so I think we're golden...

I don't think we want another post.

OK, then - this one's probably my last. I think it's safe to say that Unholy Disaster has been averted (this time)...

Well, I have dethroned the God of Hair, so was that what you were talking about? 

(he was missing from his throne for nearly 10 years already, so it wasn't such a bad thing to do. :P)

Well actually after reading it a really liked it. 

I know I'm late, bot you should bother to press enter a few times if you want people to read it. Text walls are hard on the eye.

It is good, but it could be better if you re-read it after writing it to make sure you have no spelling mistakes (even then, you will miss some of them), that you do not contradict or repeat yourself, and that you give some details the will matter later in the story.

And do not get me started on the pony avatar. Does people need to know?

pony?

This is no pony avatar, 'tis a troll post you should make on the nearest strictly devout fansite forum full of hot-blooded 6 year olds...(Not only is this pony likely not called starscream, but MLP is a wildly different franchise than littlest pet shop, it will make them RAGE.) Boy did I ever post that... Of course you'd have to add your own different statements to show you are oblivious to the series to get them REALLY riled up, >:D

Ooh, new story, I wanna s--

o.o; ...

...

.... I'm sorry, I just worked 10 hours, I... my brain cannot process all of that without it being broken into more paragraphs, but I'll come back to this later. I'm sure the other comments already made you aware of this, but please remember proper spacing in your actual story.  Pretty please? xD Or you will frighten peoples' minds away from your text, especially over-worked ones like my own.

I read up to about where the diary entries started, and I have to say, great so far! Also, BLAAAAAARRRRRG, WALL OF TEXT!

EDIT:Oh, and there is a comment button in Microsoft Word.

And now we all know who Bartholomew's great great great grandson is, don't we?

Here it is with improved spacing + January 2nd Part I, which isn't finished. Sorry for the lack of finality...

These documents were found in some dilapidated old files in a police station basement. For the sake of everyone’s safety, including mine, everyone in this story is going to be anonymous, except for the things he encounters, which I’m sure you may recognize.

I asked if I could go through some forgotten old cases for a school report on history. The Chief, being a generous and liberal person, led me into a great morgue of dusty files. I found a file under “S” that looked interesting and more than a bit thick. I found that the primary source of its weight and thickness was a leather-bound diary dated back to 2010, far too recent to be with any of these files. I flipped through the papers and made careful note of the words “murder”, “manslaughter”, “excorsist”, and “vigilante”. I thought of Excorcist and the image of a grey-haired creepy old Catholic guy popped into my head. Murder, manslaughter, and vigilante didn’t seem to apply to even the creepiest of old Catholic guys, and even the oddest of murderers or vigilantes wouldn’t happen to know how to perform an excorsism… Would they?

 I ended up hurriedly putting my curiosity away, as I didn’t want to be seen snooping around a fairly recent murder case by a police chief, (as who knows what kind of suspicion that would provoke?) I went to the police chief, and pointed out the date, which was also on the papers and files, pretending that was the only thing I saw. The chief got this look on his face as he scanned the contents of the file. as if the file were threatening to smother him in his sleep, and then he smiled politely and said that it was solved some time last year, and that I could even borrow it to write my report on our town’s history, though now I wasn’t sure I wanted to. There was something fake in his smile and something odd in his eyes. And as I climbed the stairs with the case file I could have sworn I heard him say “Tread lightly, my friend…” Never have I had such creeping suspicions before. If it could unnerve a perpetually armed man of athletic build with years’ training in self defence and use of a gun like that, it was highly likely that I would end up in a white padded room sporting the famous tan leather coat with extra-long sleeves, strapped and buckled look, if not be raving my vocal chords to the point of snapping while on suicide watch for at least a whole weekend.

Not that I’m a wuss or anything, but people always looked at Chief in many ways the same as the internet looks at Chuck Norris, and if even the likes of Chuck Norris were to act like that towards whatever forbidden knowledge is in these files, then I may as well be the Lovecraftian protagonist that goes mad and shoots himself in the end. Refusing to apply myself to that metaphor, not wanting to return the file and weird him out with an oblong excuse for being too scared to open these files for the way he looked at them, I resolutely went home, got out my computer to write whatever report I could make of this, and opened the file, blowing off a thin layer of dust. I noticed I missed a few spots and quickly blew those spots off too, and another spot, and another, until I realized these spots were imaginary and that I was only procrastinating the opening of the diary, which I imagined to look more like a foreboding tome, and the reading of the case papers, which may as well have been, in my paranoia and anxiousness, Caucasian human skins, tanned and tattooed with bloody lettering.

 I again shook this feeling, however powerful, and with a strange sensation, a combination of fear and relief, and confusion, I read the papers. I was surprised at the youth of this man. He was, according to the mug shot, 6 foot 8, and powerfully built, but a cadaverous sort of pale. He had one deep blue eye, the left one, and one grey eye,(not blind) the blue one having a jagged scar running down from his forehead, just missing  it, and continuing down to his jawline. I’m no good at physiognomy or that kind of thing; if I was I’d be able to give you a better description, but he had the kind of face you’d expect a Viking to have, a powerful, defined, but sleek-ish jawline that you would expect was unbreakable, high cheek-bones, and a vertically short, broad, protruding forehead that almost shadowed the eyes, but emphasized his eyebrows. He had the kind of nose with a bridge that made it look like there was a bit of a dip separating the top of his nose from the end of his brow, and the tip of his nose turned down just enough to give the impression of a kitchen knife, but not enough to look like it was turned all the way down or anything. The way it was turned down gave me the impression that his nose was broken at one point, and all things considered, it probably was. He had a Russel Brand kind of beard, it covered his jaw, chin, and mouth, pretty much anything below the nasal level, but went up to the rest of his hair as soon as it left the front of his face. It was black as well as his eye-brows which were thick and made him look constantly displeased, even aggressive, though it looked like he was trying to appear calm, and he probably was.  He had wild (not like 80s or anything, but unkempt to say the most) jet black hair down to his shoulderblades. He looked like he had spent a long time hiding from someone… or (I’d hate to think) been homeless for a month or two.

I bet you thought I was about to suggest that he was evading something anomalous right then and cheesily foreshadow whatever the heck was wrong and bind into the plot the belief that this was a full-blown creepypasta then and there. But any momentum I had or will have over the course of this story has been brutally murdered here and now, and I’ll let it remain so, because this man, (Iet’s say his name is Stephen, which it isn’t) was a total boss. I’ll also let the diary/journal demonstrate that.

Monday, January 1^st, 2009. 8:20 PM

My name is [Stephen ummm… what should his fake last name be? How about Hendersen? Is Hendersen good? If it isn’t, then too bad, because there isn’t a comments option in Microsoft word. Okay, let’s restart this now…]

My name is [Stephen Hendersen], If you happen to be reading this, it means I’ve either retired the trade described here, or I’ve been arrested for my unorthodox work on saving you, actually, the world from… well, you’ll see.

This day in 1996, I remember very specifically being 9. Like a lot of the other kids my age, being either a superhero or a world leader were the big ticket occupations that every kid my age wanted. Being a Russian dictator was out of the question of course, and so logically the next best thing was being a superhero. I made a new-years’ resolution that I would do whatever I could to be the world’s first real superhero. My little obsession appeared normal. I joined karate, like any idealist 9-year-old who never bothered to learn that vigilante-ism is illegal. What was unexpected by the adults was how seriously I took this, and that paid attention so diligently that I had a black belt not only in karate, but in judo and jujitsu and aikido at age 12. At 13, I joined boy scouts and learned how to use a gun pretty well, and “for the sake of doing it” (that’s what I told my parents) took several classes in how to use a combat knife, and how to throw knives in general correctly and accurately. And to “research the 1840s” I learned the “Gouging” discipline and the use of revolvers, I didn’t tell my parents the class also expanded to modern revolvers. And yes, it was a tough neighborhood if you haven’t already deduced that.

 After that, I continued training in the use of long firearms, and dabbled in fencing until I was 18. It was then that I took basic military training, especially self-defense.  Wanting to go even further into military combat methods, I joined, got the hang of assault weapons and general use of guns and how to build them, and mastered S.C.A.R.S., with my training appearing to be satisfactory, I continued to build my physique to its greatest capactiy. I left the military after 1 year, prior to joining I did my homework on psychopaths and maniacs, and learned how to emulate them and impersonate their conditions pretty well, I pretended I went insane and they sent me home as “Combat Unstable”. I knew well before my teens that being a vigilante was in fact, illegal, but I didn’t see any harm in continuing. After all, I could have joined the F.B.I. or a special talent force… But then it happened, November 7^th 1995. I was pitted against something that even with my skills I was unable to overpower…

                I enjoy going on long hikes in the woods on the outskirts of town, sometimes at night, and often with my friends. It was on such a night that we were walking and enjoying ourselves when suddenly all the sounds stopped. The animals quieted, and even the light breeze seemed to have stopped. It was as if the forces of nature had been smothered. Our flashlights refused to work as they had been doing perfectly before, and our only guiding light was the moon which was perfectly full. The light landed on a tall man, oddly formal for a fellow hiker, and he had a grey-white skin-tone, horribly unhealthy looking. At the time I felt that he was in the early stages of recovering from some derivative of the bubonic plague, or perhaps cancer, noticing he hadn’t a single hair on his head.  He was looking straight at the ground, and as I followed his gaze I realized his arms hung down to his knees. I also noticed how he appeared taller than before and that I was just about up to his abdomen. My peers noticed this as soon as I did (as soon as any person would) and froze in some tense combination of fear and confusion. Suddenly abhorred tree branches tore demonically from the tall man’s back. They began to twist and turn and eventually became fully fluid octo-limbs.

 I was able to dodge the quick swipes one of the ungodly tendrils made for me, but I was unable to get my 2 companions out of the way before they too were swiped at, and to my horror I saw them being dragged kicking and screaming toward the tall man. I took out my concealed revolver and emptied it on the anorexic corporal giant, but to no avail. As the last bullet seemed to go through him, as if he were some sort of mist, he looked up. He didn’t have a face. Not a single feature, just the shape of a human head and blank contours replacing spots where his face should have been. I’m not going to write down what that sorry [His French, pardon it] did to my friends, but he didn’t rush any of it and he made me listen to every godawful second of their deaths.

 The only thing that I believe saved me was a cross I wore about my neck. I usually hid it under my shirt It was reasonably long, and since I had accidentally damaged it working various odd jobs, its bottom end was sharpened. With the last of my hope as a tendril again ripped through the cold night air and grabbed at me, I ripped the thin chain off of my neck and thrust the cross deep into the tendril that was wrapping thinly around my ankle. I twisted and drove it deeper in sadistically while the silent faceless [shizzle] appeared to cringe, and contorted its jaw downward as if yelling in pain. I drove it further and further, relieving some of the anguish from watching my friends die, and with one final twist I drove it all the way through until I could feel it on my ankle. I then stabbed it into the inside of the tendril, holding onto the flailing tentacle for dear life, (he was now struggling) and eventually split the length of the last foot of that rotten tree-branch thing. I unflinchingly stabbed the cross into the wound between the two halves until the man drew me to his arm’s range and flung me to the earth, his fingers ending with vicious points, as if his fingers were somehow claws themselves, and he made a move to gouge my vitals when I threw the cross into that horrid face of his. The knife-throwing lessons paid off, and the cross dug right into the convex where I believe an eye socket would have been.

 I took the opportunity to rip the cross out of his face and stab him there again and again, enjoying the fresh blood spattering with each blow, until he clawed my face with surprising force, knocking me back and leaving me with an excruciating pain down the right side of my face, I felt blood beginning to flow in great drops down my face, their source being a claw-mark down my forehead and eye.  He swung another tree-branch tendril at me quicker than the daze of the blow could wear off, and hit me in the chest. It hit hard enough to send me tumbling backwards down the hill through several thorn bushes as I struggled for breath. I was able to take in air as soon as I stopped falling and staggered to my feet. To my surprise I found that sick tree thing already directly behind me. The element of surprise was lost quickly, and he swung another tendril at me, that I was ready for.

 I drove my cross into its tip and effectively ploughed through a devastating 4 feet of tendril with the force of the stab and his would-be attack. I twisted it sideways and removed the left half of the newly split tendril, and then removed the right half, effectively having severed it. The slender freak reeled at this and made some hellacious screeching noise, then looked directly at me and disappeared. I felt all sorts of fear and paranoia of things I was never scared of before, I had immense convulsions and screamed like some sort of madman until finally I fell to my knees and lost consciousness. I believe the term for that last part is slender-sickness, but I’m not quite sure. I’ll spare you the rambling of my uncertainty and say that he simply managed get away before he could kill me. Now he’ll never have the chance…

                After this encounter I made a mid-year resolution. I took a class in excorsism, and spent my college money traveling to the middle east to strengthen my mind, will, psyche, or whatever it was that demonic tree thing managed to eat a hole through; that mental sickness trick wasn’t going to work again, I wasn’t going to let that thing, or any other freak I may encounter on my new quest, use the likes of it against me. Working many more odd jobs, I acquired the money to build a demonslayer’s arsenal. The first one I got was a katana, I found it fitting for my current location. I bought the silver myself and silvered the blade so that if there was any truth to D&D logic, I’d be able to harm the ethereal with it.

 Next, I got ahold of a steel cross with the ends sharpened, it was about as long as the average medieval dagger, and I attached a 10 foot chain to the end of it, so that I could use it similarly to a grappling hook, perhaps like the blade that yellow MK guy uses. And finally I got enough money for the most expensive of my weapons, a revolver with a blade fused into its muzzle, I’d always believed that would make the gun dysfunctional, and that it only existed in anime cartoons, but this was Asia, and so not only did they invent the knife-gun, but they were stereotypically smart and must have found a way to make the blade not interfere with the bullet’s path. Then I spent the rest of my money going back to America, where I encountered the white-collar tree freak in an equally white gimp suit. I was honored to know that I was in my friend’s will (we wrote ours half-jokingly with each other, again, bringing up the tough neighborhood) I received his big black SUV, which shined in the sunlight, he hardly had the chance to use it. I solemnly accepted the vehicle, and for a month I worked and lived in my home town, working on my project. I took my “Lucky” ace of spades card and put it in the band of a black fedora I had, no use in not being stylish. Next, I bought a black trench coat, a gas mask that covered the lower half of my face and changed my voice dramatically, and black goggles that totally concealed my eyes. Then a pair of glistening military boots, and a S.W.A.T. bullet resistant vest, dyed a deep tar color.

I tailored various holds into the inside of the trench coat so as to hold the revolver, cross, (the chain was kept in a separate inside pocket, but still handy if I needed to attach it) and some medical supplies. I put the katana in a sheath on my back, and then spent the night quitting my day job, getting my computer, and tracking down my first target. The octo-tree wasn’t going to be an easy find, as he was seen all over the world in quick succession, so I decided I would find its nearest connection and force him/her/it to tell me. I often found fan art of these two together, so I decided I would find the Blue-Man Group’s latest reject.

He went by “Eyeless Jack”, and with much studying I found that the majority of his attacks were centered around a single suburban sprawl, [town name, how about Bennsville?]. How convenient, it was two states away. I filled the gas tank and turned the key. I drove, with various stops, for about 2 days, but it was worth it. I booked a hotel on the outskirts of [Bennsville]. I then put on the outfit I made, black fedora, (with the ace of spades in the band) goggles, black trench coat, custom S.W.A.T. vest, a katana strapped to my back, and black jeans tucked into military boots. I looked ridiculous, but that’s how a superhero dresses, I suppose, and as far as superheroes go, I was the least questionably dressed of all.

I think I’m going to like this self-employment, I’ve been wanting to do this since I was 9. And now that you’re up to date, I’m going to doze for a bit, I heard that’s how you get this thing to approach you…

January 2^nd, 1:00 AM

                Caught the bastard. I woke up to the feeling of something jabbing my back, and it couldn’t get through the Kevlar, so it just kept stabbing me confusedly. I turned around quickly, jumped and brought my boot down on its head, and pried the knife from it’s fingers. I the beat his forehead several times on the headboard of the bed. Then I made a move to punch him before he tried to claw at my face. I lifted my other arm to block this, and he took the time bought from that to detach a pole from the bed and hit me with it. I don’t know about you, but I personally can’t block a metal pole with my arms, but I did my best to keep him from hitting my head before I jumped up with both feet and Kangaroo’ed  him right in the diaphragm. Blue-boy dropped the pole and sank to the ground, making some sort of alien noise as opposed to human wheezing. I put my foot on his head and leaned forward, pressing relatively lightly.

“Tell me where your gimp friend hangs around.” I said.

Eyeless Jack said nothing, just looked at me questioningly.

I pressed my foot harder into the side of his head.

“Tell me where Slenderman usually is.” I said, faking irritance to make him feel more urged.

Eyeless Jack made wild gesticulations, as if pleading for his life.

“Dammit,” said I, “a mute…”

I reached over and got my suitcase, and got out a pen and a pocketbook.

“Write it.”

Jack wore a defeated look, at least body-language wise, and wrote on the pad. Then tossed it towards me. I picked it up, and read “Hell.” with a smiley face drawn under it.

“You think this is a goddamn game!?” I said, throwing the book down.

“That’s all I know!” Wrote Jack. Every time I questioned him again, threatening more and more to crush his brains in, he added an exclamation point, and when the space was used up, he underlined it several times.

“Fine, I get the point…” And then, after a moment of silence, “How do I get there?”

“…Give me the knife and I’ll show you…” followed by another more sinister smiley face.

“How do I get there,” I put extra pressure on his skull, “WITHOUT dying?”

“I don’t know! I only know how to get out.” he wrote.

“You know how to get out?”

“Well, yeah…”

“Then I guess you’re coming with me now.”

“WHAT!?”

“You’re coming with me, OR I could find someone else who knows and kill you instead?”

“I’m coming with you…” He wrote with another defeated look.

                And so, after putting the bedpost back in place, we walked down the stairs to the drove. There was another person on my hit list, and he was on the much nicer side of town. He wore the exact opposite color of hoodie, but his methods were the same, and I’m hoping I can find him.

January 2nd 1:20 AM.

Dammit. After finding nothing in the whole rich neighborhood, I looked on the internet again and found he was dead. Well, not really dead, but something killed him, and now you have to summon him through a website in Sweden. I guess I have all the time in the world anyway, so I guess I’ll just type in the URL. And take my masks and goggles off, as well as my hat. If anyone’s wondering, Jack is sleeping in the back of the van. I hope he doesn’t lure any kids into it, it’s a black van, not a white one, and I plan to keep it that way.

January 2^nd 2:00 AM.

Pretty creepy video, I guess. An abandoned insane asylum and this bastard walking toward the camera. Nothing too eventful. I just have to wait for this jackass to show his ugly bleeding face.

January 2^nd 2:00 AM update.

I was driving slowly around the block when I saw this kid dressed oddly formally for this time of the night walk down the middle of the road. I figured it was a drunken prom chick, and she was going where she thought she lived, but she was walking in too straight a line. She also had a weird tattoo on her right arm that went around it like a really high bracelet. I rolled down my window and slowed down as I approached her, and noted how strangely fake her face looked. Despite this, I asked her if she was okay. When I did, she turned her head, and didn’t move a single muscle in her face. Nothing on her face moved and it even appeared to shine in the low moonlight. She must have been sweating. What the hell was wrong with her? I asked her again if she was okay, and then she quickly raised a knife and went in for the stab.  Luckily, since I was driving at one mph through the sleeping suburbs, I didn’t have my seatbelt on, and so I dodged it and she couldn’t drive her kitchen knife into my skull. Jack was still asleep, and I hurriedly opened the door with enough force to knock her back, then I slammed her plastic face onto the hood. Bitch left a scratch, but it also left a massive crack in her face… I threw her to the ground and kicked her three times in the stomach before she managed to sweep my other leg. I fell, but swagfully brought my knee down on her as she tried to get up.

January second encounter with the girl from the girl's point of view

"Oh ma gawd, that creep in the van is coming closer to me, thank god I got this knife to protect myself with"

"OH GOD, IT HURTS SO MUCH, WHY IS HE KICKING ME, OW, OW, OWWWWWWWWWWW (cries)"

So when he ages 9 years it becomes the earlier year?

He is nine in 1996 and 18+ in 1995 when the encounter with slenderman occurs.

Drakilian, the girl he is kicking was a serial killer. If anything, she needed to be kicked.

*reads Galo's post* GODAMMIT MATH ERROR!

Wow, you are really bad at math.

nah, just wasn't paying attention really.

Slendy can't get hurt. Bullets, even silver bullets, pass straight through him. Same with knives, whatever metal they are.

There's a fault in that logic. I personally, have not ever seen a story, or unmodded game, where anyone tries to shoot him, other than some parts of marble hornets, where they do indeed do these things. But, there is anther bit in the story,(to be unploaded as soon as I can find it in my sea of word docs) which shows how Slendy can be harmed, and that such notions as yours are, for lack of a better word, crap.

Humans have always had a very strong psychic grip on the world around them, and the more people were familiar with a particular idea, the more likely that idea was to come into effect. For millions of years, humans had believed in luk, and had superstitions, sometimes these conflicted, making things complicated and less noticable, but to this dy there are still tiny things people do that effect the probability fields around them. For centuries people told tales of Bigfoot, and almost everyone on earth is familiar with the idea, so bigfoot, albeit secretly, came to be. Millions of madmen told tales of the Slendermen, and of similar tormentors, and they spread accross the internet, with more people on earth than there ever was in history, these things, in a matter of years, came to be. But luckily, predating these horrible beings was the belief in the ability to kill and destroy them, the cross does not portray religion, but rather the symbolism given to it as a device used to kill and restran the unholy. The silver does not embody any holy beings' anger at Judas, but the belief that something had made it pure to counteract the unholiness of another thing. It's this mentality, and the strength of ideas, that will keep the Slenderman from being able to penetrate his mind like slendersickness, and it's the same strength in ideas that allows Slenderman t get his ass handed to him. 

There is fault in that logic as well.

Belief in something doesnt necessarily mean it will hurt a being. Even then, who says slender is affected by ideas anyways? I'm not saying that slendy being hurt is something you can't have in your story, considering there is no evidence for either side, I am just saying my opinion.

If Bo were here, he'd tell you you weren't stating your opinions in a law-schooly way. What I was saying was, that Slenderman is an idea, and came into the world because many people were familiar with said idea, therefore causing Ideas older than himself to come forth as more powerful, and harmful, as opposed to Ideas that rose relatively recently from nightmares and madmen.

Okay. As I said, it's your story, and you can put whatever you want in it. I think it'd be easier for the readers if you explain the dnd logic, etc.