Member-only story
The Slender Man
And the power of manipulation
“Slenderman can invoke memory loss in all but the most resolute — you could have already had a Slenderman encounter and not remember it.”
― Jack Goldstein
I’m still in disbelief. Did it really happen? Is the reality before me the truth, or is it merely a façade of my worst nightmare, seemingly coming to light from the shadows of the depths of hell itself? My hell, perhaps?
He grazed his hand upon mine in the middle of the night — the first telling I wasn’t alone. Might I be caught in purgatory, not living the truth of the world but instead, veiled by the manipulation consuming my energy from my core? Am I losing my soul, little by little, every damn day?
My memory is failing me, the longer I try to rouse the pictures into a film, much too rapid for me to make sense of the movie of my life: what the fuck actually happened? The thoughts I conjure up from that night haunt me, even though the movie reel isn’t working properly. It’s glitching, and it sometimes even plays itself in reverse, which is fucking worse.
Was I re-living a life I’ve lived once before, but now watching as a bystander to my own fucking life, lived now by someone else? Or was I removing myself from my own situation, watching my life play itself out as if it’s not even my own. Or was I not even…
