Thursday, December 8, 2011

Marking Time, Waiting for Death

Good day, dears. I apologize for my rather lengthy gap in posting, but events have conspired to keep me away from my computer for quite some time. I have continued to expand my safe haven and take in more guests from all over the globe. I believe our current occupancy is 25, with room for another 50. Thankfully, those assembled here have shown a dedicated respect for the rules of the house, and we have had no incidents, nor have we had any sightings of the Slender Man within the bounds of the property. I am beginning to believe that the very nature of this place prevents his presence. There are so many of us here…and he prefers to hunt single targets.

Derek is also recovering nicely. He will never speak again, unfortunately, but he is able to walk and his physical and manual dexterity appear to be returning quite nicely, and quicker than I had expected. He has been a great help in establishing the haven as a truly safe place thanks to his personality. He seems to have a genuine gift for dealing with our more violent guests. Not surprising, given who his former wife was. However, that is not what I wanted to talk about.

The purpose of this post, dears, is to inform you that I feel the time has come for me to accept responsibility for the monster I have created. The existence of the woman now calling herself “Fractal Darling” is my fault. I began her when I murdered Christine. As such, removing her from this world is my responsibility. I will not accept any aid offered in this effort, though your good wishes would be appreciated. Should I succeed, I will notify you. Should the monster prevail…

KK. I know that you follow my writings. I will meet you in the place where the seeds of your life were laid. You and I both know where that is. I will meet you there in precisely one week.

 

Goodbye, my dears, and stay safe. In this world, all you can rely on is each other.

May God have mercy on our souls.

Sunday, October 2, 2011

A Journey

Good afternoon, dears. My apologies for not writing recently. I’ve been quite busy. The first level of the basement is nearly complete, thanks to some rather enthusiastic work by myself and a few new guests. More on them later. You see, after my last little update I returned at long last to my former apartment in New York. Or attempted to, rather. You see, I found that traffic in the city was even worse than usual, due to a mass of protestors on the Brooklyn Bridge and in the financial district. I tried to walk it…and that, dear readers, is when my day took a turn for the worse. I was arrested. I must say, the officer doing it wasn’t particularly nice either. He was rough, used uncouth language, and took my sunglasses (which effectively blinded me in the sunlight). I was shoved into the back of a transport vehicle with several other arrestees, and we were all taken to a police precinct. Several hours of waiting later, I was FINALLY interviewed by a detective.

Quite the amusing man, really.

His name was John Munch. He looked rather tired, but something in his manner told me he ALWAYS seemed this way. He also seemed slightly out of place, as if this wasn’t his usual work location. Thankfully, he had no file in front of him, meaning the local authorities were not aware of my past identity. I’d given them my name upon arrest, of course, but I had remained silent since then. Thankfully the interview room was dim, so I was able to think.

Detective Munch: (calm, seeming slightly bored) Are you a spy, Miss Harrington?
Me: (amused) Not hardly, dear. Why do you ask?
DM: Your fingerprints are a mess, as if you’d taken them off at some point. Only two kinds of people I know of who do that: psychos and spies.
Me: (still amused) It’s interesting that you’d assume I’m a spy before you’d assume I’m a psychopath.
DM: (small chuckle, wry tone) I’ve worked with plenty of psychos. You aren’t one. For one thing, you’re not trying to play games with me. For another, my partner out there saw you when you were brought in. Even HE thinks you don’t seem like a criminal. That’s pretty big.
Me: (small smile) Well, good. I WOULD like to know why I’ve been arrested, though.
DM: Well, your intake form says you were arrested at the site of a violent protest. Personally, I dunno. It seems like the guys down there are snapping up anyone who walks past. I don’t usually work this division, so I’m kinda flying blind. What happened that got you dragged in here?
Me: (he seemed to like me, and it was becoming obvious that everyone was overworked, so I decided to be as nice as possible.) Well, traffic on the Brooklyn Bridge was stalled, so I got out of my car and attempted to walk down the side of the road. As soon as I got near the protest I was grabbed, arrested, and thrown in a transport.
DM: (he nodded slightly at this, muttering, obviously not intending for me to hear) Government oppression at its finest…
Me: (calm, perfectly audible) Well…I wouldn’t call it OPPRESSION, but it does seem rather overzealous.
DM: (surprised look) You sound like you know what you’re talking about.
Me: (smiles) Oh, I do, dear.

We proceeded to have quite the nice chat about conspiracy theories and shady government operations. I believe I added a great deal to his store of knowledge, and when I was finally released I left him my address and an invitation to visit should he find the time. He seemed appreciative, and the quick once-over he gave me as I left did not go unnoticed. I was finally free at this point to proceed to my old apartment, which I did after Detective Munch’s partner (a rather dour-seeming man named Tutuola) gave me a ride back to my car.

I knew for a fact that the apartment had not been disturbed, since I was still paying its rent and had installed a rather impressive security system when I moved in. The air inside was quite musty, with a faintly unpleasant undertone. I had come for a specific reason, so I proceeded to the bedroom, effortlessly tearing up the floorboards I’d hammered into place months ago to reveal Christine’s remains. To my surprise she had mummified, making my task somewhat easier. I gathered up the pieces, quickly loading them into the trunk of my Miata. I know it isn’t much, and is a drop in the ocean compared to all the evil I’ve caused, but in my mind giving Christine a proper burial is something I need to do. This was my sole reason for coming to New York, to retrieve her remains. I managed to exit the city without further incident, aside from one attempted carjacking which was thwarted when I broke the man’s arm, tossed his gun into the East River, and gave his unconscious body to a nearby police patrol.

I’m home now. Christine’s remains are currently in their own room, awaiting the arrival of the other person who needs to be here for the burial. I have to wonder, dears…is ANYTHING I can do good enough? Is redemption even a possibility for me? I will keep trying regardless of the answer, but the thought has occurred to me that I may be beyond saving.

I’m sorry.

I promised you news about our new houseguests. There are only two, unfortunately, but at least someone is accepting my offer. The first is a teenage girl who refuses to respond to anything other than Wild Child. She is a Proxy, I believe, but seems more scared and tired than “evil” in any sense of the word. The other is a boy who insists on calling himself Twitch. He is…maybe a year younger than Wild Child, and I neither know nor care about his alignment. Both are eager to assist in housework in any way they can, and seem like they’re appreciating the chance to rest and feel secure. I now have enough dormitory space for 15 people, as well as a small armory and a large storeroom. More expansions shall follow, I’m sure.

I’m sorry, dears, but I need to go. There’s someone at the door. Ta ta for now.

Sunday, September 25, 2011

Velocity

I apologize for the delay in updates, my dears. I’ve been rather busy. I’ll start from the top, shall I?

After we last saw each other, He summoned me. How this happens is hard to describe. I can only say that I felt an urge to go to a particular place at a particular time and wait. He took me, and he…well, he showed me what was being done to the woman who was once KK. It…sickened me. I somehow knew that this was a threat, that He knew of my wavering loyalties and wanted me to know what awaited me should I fall. I saw the post on her blog, dears. Believe me when I say she was massively underplaying the things she experienced. When I returned to my brownstone, I was…dazed. Dizzy. I felt as if I’d been beaten bloody and then discarded. I slumped in an armchair I happen to be fond of, staring out the window. There were people out on the streets, dears. Smiling, laughing, talking with each other as they ran errands. A whole neighborhood, city, WORLD of people ignorant of Him and His servants. What was it like to be one of them? It’d been so long since I WAS one that I couldn’t remember what it truly felt like. What was it like to be genuinely happy? To not feel a need to murder and torture to achieve one’s goals? I could see right then how something as simple as a trip to the grocery store could be far more enjoyable than anything in my current grocery store. I know it seems naïve, dears, but I thought it all the same.

It was then that I decided to leave.

That moment, staring out at the ordinary people enjoying the sunlight, is when I truly left the “Andromeda” persona behind for good. I could no longer be that person. Everything within me cried out against it. In one way, perhaps, I had fallen…but in a far more important way I was rising from my own ashes. I stood, quickly gathering a few of my things from my office (including my portable computer). I went upstairs, retrieving clothing and weapons from my bedroom. As I was doing so, Morgan came in. He wanted to know what I was doing. I found it…surprisingly difficult to keep a straight face as I lied to him. He’s so earnest, so naïve despite the visible evil in him. It was endearing and repulsive at the same time. I told him that “Father” was sending me to take care of some unfinished business, and that I’d be back in a week or two. By now, he knows I’m not coming back. In any case, I left, taking the Mazda Miata I bought after trading in the stolen Mustang. My trip across the East Coast was mostly uneventful, so I won’t bore you with details. I retrieved Derek (who has communicated to me that he wishes to be called “Freeman” from now on) from the house I’d stashed him in, and the two of us began searching for a new residence. We eventually settled on an isolated house in a small Maine coastal town. It’s a lovely single-level home, two bedrooms, sitting on a large patch of land with a few trees. The land is at the edge of a cliff, a steep drop leading to a rocky beach below. There’s a small path down the cliff, and a dock at the bottom.

We have spent the last week establishing ourselves in the nearby community, buying supplies and hardening the house against any attack or intrusion. Freeman is claiming to be my son when we interact with townfolk, though that may change. I’ve also ordered weaponry and survival supplies of various types from some of my old suppliers. I have somehow retained my abilities despite the discarding of the persona accompanying them, so I have been working on expanding the basement of the house. I aim to turn it into an extensive bunker/refuge for myself, Freeman, and anyone who wishes to take advantage of our hospitality. Yes, I said anyone. I am officially declaring myself neutral, dears. Proxies and Runners/Fighters are welcome on my property, so long as everyone is civil and there are no altercations or threats. I may not always be here. but my home is always open to all of you.

And please, dears. Call me Constance from now on.

Saturday, September 10, 2011

All Alone In The Moonlight

My name is Constance Imelda Harrington. I am...46 years old, I believe. For the last 14 years, I've been forced into the service of the Slender Man. I have been brainwashed and forced to assume various personas, none of whom could recall who I truly am. Perhaps that was by design. In any case, that's immaterial. My most recent persona was that of one Andromeda Carter. I...I remember everything. I did horrible things. Ghastly things. I don't know how I can even begin to make up for them...but whether or not any of you are open to it, I want you all to know who I truly am. I am not the woman who has been murdering and terrorizing her way across the United States.

I was born in Sweden. My mother was...was...I can't quite remember, but she was an artist of some sort, and exceptionally wealthy because of it. My father owned a grocery store, the only one in our town. We owned land, and a house sitting right on the Atlantic Ocean. It was so beautiful there, whether the ground was covered in flowers or snow. When I was 13, that beauty was shattered. He murdered my parents and ate them in front of me. Yes, Him. I still don't know why He didn't kill me that night. In any case, it doesn't matter. After a suitable grieving period I moved on. Funnily, I'd convinced myself that He was a delusion. I went to medical school, and after much study received a Ph.D. I took up practice as a surgeon, and genuinely enjoyed my work.

Until the accident.

A patient died while in surgery. A young woman. It was my fault. I'd worked a triple shift, and my fatigue led to mistakes any first-year resident could've avoided. I was fired. My license wasn't revoked, but the fact remained that I'd never work as a doctor again. I didn't know what to do. Then...then HE came again. He took me. It's like he'd been watching me all along, waiting for a reason to sweep me up. He...I don't remember exactly, but somehow he broke me. He forced me to become one of His servants, and he unleashed this new not-me on the world.

I'm sure all of you are wondering why I'm telling you these things. You aren't used to me showing any humanity, any sign of remorse or caring about other people. For that, I'm truly sorry. I have just finished saving the life of a rather wonderful young man, Mr. Derek Collins. Doing this has served as a reminder of things I once enjoyed doing. It reminded me what it's like to preserve life instead of take it constantly. I am not certain where I'm going from here, dears, but you can all rest assured of one thing. Whatever my next actions, they will only be taken after careful contemplation. Now, at the moment I need to hide Mr. Collins in a safe location, so I would appreciate it if all of you would pardon me. I will be with you once more when I have something new to report.

Father is calling for me. I must go.

Ta ta for now, dears.

Thursday, September 8, 2011

Home Is Where The Heart Is

After a rather exhausting journey, I am once more home. Well…at one of my several homes, that is. A person with a career such as mine would be foolish to keep only one bolt-hole, after all. This home happens to be in Harlem, a lovely area I’ve become rather fond of. It is a two-story brownstone, quite well-stocked with money, supplies, and weaponry, as well as tasteful furnishings, a piano, and most of my rather extensive book collection. We just arrived an hour or two ago, and Morgan left almost immediately to purchase some clothes for himself. While he was out, I thought I would take the time to update you, dear readers, and share a small anecdote from the trip home.

We stopped in a small town in southeast Iowa to refuel the Mustang. As we were still wanted by federal authorities, I was attempting to avoid stopping in larger cities. This was mid-morning, and the only other person at the station was a young man in a surprisingly decrepit subcompact. He was overweight, though in a stocky way that managed to be interesting without being repulsive. He was watching me as he fueled his vehicle, surprisingly icy and calm blue eyes shielded behind round wire-frame glasses. Now, I’m quite accustomed to men staring at my figure. This one, however, was staring at my face. He appeared to recognize me, which I found odd. I’m certain I’d never been to this part of the United States before, so there was no reason for him to know me.

After he had finished filling his tank, he calmly resealed it and walked over to me. I could see Morgan inside the convenience store, bristling protectively. Something about this boy made me uneasy. He stopped a fair distance away from me, arms crossed over his barrel-like chest.

“You’re Andromeda, aren’t you?”

I blinked. This boy was too young to be a Federal agent. That automatically meant he was either a Proxy like myself, or a Runner (in which case he’d be RUNNING, not talking to me). No matter what, I had to be cautious.

“Yes, I am. Who are you?”

Thomas Crane.” This boy was incredibly cool. He obviously knew who I was, yet he wasn’t reacting at all. This…worried and impressed me at the same time.

“What do you want with me, Mr. Crane?”

He smirked slightly. The light reflecting off his glasses temporarily hid his eyes, giving his next words an added bit of menace. “You killed one of my cousins. I kinda took exception to that. Y’see, I used to live with them, and I’m kinda protective.” At this point he pulled a butterfly knife from his pocket, casually flipping it open.

I replied calmly, keeping one eye on the knife. “Well, I can’t honestly say I REGRET doing it, but I will tell you that it was rather a while ago, and holding on to grudges will only end poorly for you. Now, you’re not actually going to USE that knife, are you? After all, it’s broad daylight.”

He chuckled at me. Actually chuckled. This boy had ice water for blood. “What makes you think I care?”

He moved rapidly, faster than I could counter. The knife drove itself up to the hilt in my left shoulder. As I was trying to puzzle out how the boy could move that fast, Morgan came barreling out of the store, roaring. I barked at him to get in the car and get us out of there. Mr. Crane watched us go, smirking. It wasn’t until we were passing through Akron that I remembered to pull the knife out of my shoulder. I’d stopped bleeding by this point, of course, but still felt faint. Even now my shoulder is sore, though it’s improving. Morgan is home, so I’m afraid I’ll have to go now, dears. I hope I’ve given all of you something to think about.

Ta ta for now, dears.

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

A Small Update

Hello again, my dears. I’m terribly sorry I haven’t written recently, but dear Morgan and I have been rather busy escaping federal agents and other unsavory types. We’re currently in lovely Wyoming, staying at a small hotel. I’m writing to you from the hotel room balcony, taking advantage of the sky’s remarkable clarity to do a little stargazing. I don’t have any interesting stories to tell today, no new examinations to detail or derring-do to relate to you. Instead, if I may, I would like to outline some of my thoughts. You don’t mind that, do you dears? Good.

For…several years now, I can’t remember how many, I’ve served Father. I was always glad to do so, as he’d given me something I never had before.

Purpose.

I did his bidding, following the gentle impressions in my mind as best I could. I made mistakes early on, and was punished, and learned from it. I was a good servant. Some of you have seen traces of my work in the tales of Runners or other of Father’s children, though I name no names. A good servant takes pride in her work, and cares not for fame or infamy that may come with the recognition of the true scope of their work. In my off time (which I had a surprising amount of), I would pursue my own hobbies of reading, composing music, and performing anatomical examinations of unique individuals. I have shared the results of some of these examinations with you, my dear readers. My hobbies are my joy and my pleasure. This only makes recent events all the more disturbing. I have related to you my doubts concerning my recent tasks, though I carried them out as befits a proper aide. Those doubts have only increased over the last few days.

Mr. Stern appears to rather enjoy being a servant of Father, though his face normally betrays no emotion. His sarcastic smirks, his arrogant posture…they make me uneasy. I have associated with Redlight in the past, without fear. This boy, though, scares me. He is dangerous. And I believe I am becoming less so.

I have also found myself remembering people and places I’m quite certain I’ve never seen. I am losing distressingly large amounts of time, dears, wherein I will apparently travel or otherwise go about normal activities without anyone noticing anything different about me. I understand from my reading that I am not the only of Father’s servants (or adversaries) to suffer this malady, so I’ll attempt to keep it at the edges of my thoughts. The memories concern me, though. The most prevalent one has me as a small child, in a place that appears to be rather near the polar regions. It may be Sweden, considering the architecture and geography. I am sitting on a dock, feet swinging just above the water. I’m young, wearing a purple dress and a flower in my hair. A woman calls to me in Swedish, which I somehow understand. She’s wanting me to come in for dinner. The house she is standing in front of is the only one around, indicating that we live in a secluded area. I stand, running to her. I can feel myself smiling as I mount the porch and land in her arms. The memory ends here.

I have no idea what this means, dears. The emotions in it are…different than those I feel now. I suppose, were I pressed for description, I would say that they felt purer, unaltered. More and more, memories of this type are surfacing. I’m also starting to note contradictions or outright fabrications in my own memories since I joined with Father. I’m no longer entirely certain of my mission or my actions, dear readers. I hope you will forgive me if there is some slight vacillation in my future actions. A path I had once believed to be sure and true is now in question. I shall continue as I am for now, however, I shall be slightly more cautious in my actions.

Ta ta for now, my dears.

Friday, September 2, 2011

The Most Interesting Man in the World, Pt. 2

As promised, dears, here is the second half of my tale.

--

As I freed my new acquaintance from his confinement, his true size struck me. This boy, who couldn’t have been older than 17, was already at least 6 feet 4 inches tall. Very muscular as well. He fairly towered over me, an experience I haven’t had very often. I’m sure his proximity was meant to intimidate me, but I simply smiled up at him.

“What’s your name, dear?"

The poor boy looked befuddled by the question, as if nobody had bothered to speak kindly to him before. “Morgan Stern…ma’am.”

I chuckled. Please understand, dears. This boy’s reactions to my questions were rather amusing. “Well, Morgan, you’re free. Would you like to join me in a little fun?”

As he nodded, I realized that I could see Father, hanging back in the trees behind Morgan, watching us. Normally His presence would reassure me. In this instance, though…I found myself disquieted. I knew it was his influence that had caused me to murder Mr. Roye. How much of me was still me, and how much was Father using for his puppet? I no longer know, dear readers, but for the time being I chose to continue as before and hope that my doubts would resolve themselves. I smiled at Morgan, leading him back to my vehicle. Again, nobody so much as glanced at us, an oddity which I now recognized as Father’s influence at work.

The agent who had owned this car before me was either a weapons aficionado or believed in being extremely well-prepared. The first time I had opened the trunk, I discovered to my delight that it was filled with weapons of various types, as well as appropriate ammunition containers, all neatly labeled and organized. This was the first time, however, that I would willingly use a gun. Firearms are exceptionally noisy weapons, you see, and I prefer to avoid them. I chose a nice Beretta rifle for myself, loading it and tucking extra magazines into my pockets. Morgan, for his part, chose an HK USP and several magazines with 9mm hollowpoint rounds.

We proceeded to round up all the happy campers, a surprisingly easy task considering the size of the compound. Staff and clients alike were herded into their disgustingly large chapel. Why must you people persist in worshipping an ineffective and possibly imaginary deity? I honestly don’t understand. You build grand structures to His glory, ignoring the fact that every single one of you follows a tradition founded in blood and iniquity. At least those of us who follow Father are HONEST about our origins. We recognize that our god is a cruel god, a dark one that hunts worshippers and strangers alike. We accept this and follow Him anyhow. But you…you’re all hypocrites.

Morgan and I took up positions in the balcony, our guns trained on the pathetically mewling crowd below. They all looked so small and terrified. I found it telling that not a one of them was praying to their God, despite the fact that they were in a chapel and in mortal danger. This fact normally would have amused me. In this circumstance, however, it simply made me sad. Even if I had doubts about what I was doing, I still had faith in my Father. They had apparently lost theirs. One particular boy caught my eye. He looked familiar to me for some reason, having black hair and very European features despite his slim build. He was staring up at me, his eyes full of tears, pleading. He was silently mouthing a single word over and over.

“Please.”

I couldn’t stand to look at him for one more second. I squeezed the trigger on my rifle, planting a bullet squarely in the center of his forehead. I spoke harshly, voice projecting so that I could be heard by the congregation.

“All of you! Strip! Right now!”

They began to do so, very hesitant and slower than I would have liked. Blowing off the head of a middle-aged woman was sufficient incentive for them to finish the job, though. They soon stood, naked, shivering and revealed to the world, each trying to avoid contacts with all the others. I hefted the rifle, noting that Morgan was watching all of this quite calmly. I closed my eyes momentarily behind my sunglasses, quietly reciting a prayer that had sprung to mind.

“Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our sins, as we forgive those who have sinned against us, for thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever and ever. Amen.”

I don’t know why that prayer came to mind, or why I chose to say it. In any case, it didn’t change my course of action. My next command caused gasps of dismay and outright disgust from many of them. I spoke coldly, forcing myself to restrain several unwanted doubts and emotions that were threatening to interfere with my work.

“Men pair with men. Women with women. You are to engage in sexual congress with each other. Anyone who refuses will be shot, and others will be ordered to rape the corpse.”

Morgan smirked slightly at this. I found my stomach churning. What was I doing? This was…despicable. On several levels. Yet I couldn’t stop. One part of me was thoroughly enjoying this desecration, while another was screaming at me to stop it and leave while I still had some shred of dignity. Unfortunately, the former side won. I smirked slightly, the expression icy and brittle as I watched these people begin to essentially condemn themselves to their Hell by following my orders. It devolved into a full-on orgy as they lost all moral restraint. I had to forcibly bite down on my tongue to stop myself from crying out that they could stop now, it was enough, they were done. This continued for…nearly an hour, I believe. As the camp employees and clients began running out of energy Morgan and I let loose, shooting haphazardly into the crowd. In under two minutes, every person in the chapel was either dead or immobilized and dying. Morgan was smirking. I kept my expression flat, trying to force the roiling disgust in my stomach to vanish.

Before we left, we raided the camp’s motor pool, finding several drums of gasoline. The chapel was ignited first, the screams of those still alive inside perfectly audible over the crackling of fierce flames. I forced myself to ignore it once more. The rest of the camp followed. As we sped off in the Mustang, the flames and smoke could be seen rising for miles. I found myself quietly reciting another unknown prayer as we drove.

“God our Father, your power brings us to birth, your providence guides our lives, and by Your command we return to dust.
Lord, those who die live still in Your presence. Their lives change but do not end. I pray in hope for their families, relatives and friends, and for all the dead known to You alone.
In company with Christ, who died and now lives, may they rejoice in Your kingdom, where all their tears are wiped away. Unite them again in one family, to sing Your praise forever and ever.
Forgive them.
But not me.”