Concern

This.

This was in my inbox today. I don’t understand it, not completely, but I think I understand some of it.

I have a few personal days off from work, and I’m thinking of taking them. But I don’t want to leave and be wrong.

Can you understand if I think this is a trap? I think baits been laid and I’m being coaxed from cover. But by the same token, I have to be able to get him back. Have to. And wherever she is, she needs to be let out. No one deserves to be stuck there.

Not even her.

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Missing

In lieu of going into a complete unreadable rage, I’m just going to say that I’ve read The Bitch’s blog on Tumblr. Anger is the very worst emotion, useless and draining of mind and spirit.

Blake, if you can read this, I’m sorry you’re caught in between. I’ll never understand why you went with her or why you didn’t just stay home when you came and took your things. But I’m waiting for you. I’ll wait as long as I have to.

Promise Me

I’ve been away for a while, trying to keep myself from feeling overwhelmed. Trying to distance myself from this garbage (even as the shadows in the corners of my vision seems to swell and shudder in the way they always do when things start getting closer).

Except I’m getting emails. It’s easy to ignore the little things creeping around the edges of my vision – insomnia, boredom, tricks of the light: all viable excuses. I can pretend they’re not happening.

But everyday I have three or four emails in my inbox from someone calling themselves ‘Kaughtneedless’. Not a single one makes much sense, and I would assume it was the Bitch except its even more incoherent than her usual prattle. I took a screen-cap of the most recent one:

They’re all pretty much like that.

I haven’t heard anymore from Blake or the Bitch, and it’s beginning to unnerve me. But I’m not going to leave. I can’t.

He Was Here

After Blake’s call, I left the front door unlocked. It was hard to convince myself that I should, but I didn’t expect to sleep. And I suppose I expected that, if I did fall asleep, I would wake with him at my side. Instead, i woke to this… note on the seat of the couch beside me.

I don’t understand why he didn’t stay. I don’t understand. But I do know that some of his clothing has been taken from the dresser, and his cologne and phone are gone from the bed-side table. He’s taking a trip. He promises to come home, and if I just keep things together on this end so he has a home to return to, all will be well. All will be well.

But I cannot leave here. I can’t go now, knowing that he might come soon, that he plans to come back eventually. I have to keep myself calm. I cannot stay locked in this apartment, mooning over thoughts of where he is and with whom. I have to return to work, pretend this is normal, pretend everything is alright.

And then he’ll come home.

Fifteen

Fifteen days, now the phone rings. No hero is he, not that one can justify in saying, but it was good to hear him nonetheless. To know he’s not gone. That I was right not to go.

You think you can scare me, pretending he’s coming to you? I’ve got google translate, you stupid bitch. He’s coming home. He’ll be home tonight.

Something in Nothing

In faerie tales, when a man goes off in search of the minions of evil, that makes him a hero, doesn’t it? And the hero always comes home, triumphant if a little tired.

Every fiber of my being screams that it’s time to cut my loses and run; he’s gone the way of the girl and I’ve got to get moving. I have to leave this place. But at the same time, some strong, heavy part of me is shouting that he’ll come home any time, any moment, and I have to be here for him.

I managed to convince my superior that my absences are justifiable due to personal issues. There was even some sympathy, condolences and assurance that everthing will work out okay. Call him, talk to him, or just wait and go on like I don’t miss him. Because eventually he’ll realize the mistake of leaving and come back to me.

 But no one seems to believe me that I don’t know where Blake is.

Behind Locked Doors

Everything is going wrong. Dreaming again, waking with the dream on my mind. I’m worried people will start to notice. I’m worried Blake won’t come home.

I have to keep the door locked while he’s gone. Draw the drapes, lock the doors, keep the light off. If there is no light, then I don’t have to see what I’m sharing space with. If anything’s here, I don’t have to see it. I don’t want to see it.

Like the Water Dream, every thing about this makes me want to vomit. I heard a truck rumble past the apartment, and I think it’s thunder and I taste the water in my mouth. I can taste it, heavy and metallic and rank; I feel like I’m drowning in it even though rationally I know I’m awake, I’m in my home, I’m dry and safe.

God I hope he comes home soon.

‘Communication’ and Other Stupid Arguments

I very much doubt that a great number of people are reading this blog. To be honest, I hope they aren’t — the fewer people reading, the smaller the chance of one of my coworkers or my employers recognizing my writing style and me having an Embarrassing Conversation Involving Lies and Deception.

However, I took the time to read over the few conversations I have had with the few readers who do take the time to comment, and I have realized that  I am indeed behaving in a very unpleasant manner. Or rather, Blake shoved the fact in my face, and I was forced to accept that this is true. And so, readers, I apologize. I am not usually such a jerk. I am simply – and, I hope, understandably- under a lot of stress. Between trying to keep my job and my sanity – and I teach, which isn’t a job conducive to sanity, actually – I feel… stretched thin. So again, I apologize for being so terse.

On a similar vein: I have done my best to steer clear of  Tumblr for the last few days, and in particular, I am steering clear of Oohthethingsiveseen (I call her the Bitch, but evidently she calls herself Eve). However, Blake has been keeping track of her posts (hence the sudden knowledge of name) and that was the beginning of our latest rash of arguments. He thinks we should try meeting with her to talk. I disagree. Vehemently.

Blake and I are not usually an arguing couple. It doesn’t come to us naturally. So I will just say that I resent being put in a position where arguing seems to become the norm. However, some how the Bitch has gotten our phone number, and she was actually trying to call our home for a while. She even left messages on the answering machine, which would be posted on youtube, except I’m lazy and can’t figure out how.

She says He is coming back ‘around our way’. I know He is, and I don’t need to risk contusion to know more. In fact, I am almost positive that her only motivation for wanting us to meet up and ‘communicate’ with her is for her to have the opportunity to corner us and keep us tripped up – or knocked out – until He gets ‘around to us’.

 

I’ve lived this long without a true face-to-face with Him. I’m not letting her change that.

YouTube-ing, Because There Isn’t Enough of This Crap There Already

So, Merry Christmas to you five people who keep up with this blog. Blake and I were out of town for the better part of the holiday, and returned home Sunday afternoon in generally good spirits.

And those spirits remain, despite the recent developments. Blake went into our office and found something new. Well, the return of something old, but it may as well have been new. Truth be told, I kind of expected this. I happened to read oohthethingsiveseen’s tumblr message the day before we left, and I assumed she meant to leave us some kind of message. The return of Blake’s flashdrive, I must admit, was not my anticipated method of communication.

Long story short, she deleted all his files except for some pictures he took of me and the park near our apartment, and added a new one. After some consideration, I played the audio file, entitled CHRISTMASPRESENT.wav. I would have posted it directly here, but WordPress insists that I waste my money to do so, and thus, Blake and I now have a YouTube Account.  Here is the message:

If you can’t see the video, here’s the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n-7eh9Ckjsw.

For whatever reason, the Bitch seems to think we’d be home for Christmas, which at least gives me the relief of knowing she can’t have been watching us for long, or spying on us very well as of late.

Still, it gives one something to ponder.

Playing 20 Questions

First and foremost, I will address the previous post and assuage any possible concerns.

Blake and I are, of course, on speaking terms. We are not hostile housemates, I am not keeping him locked up, and neither of us are in eminent danger of dying or killing. I tested negative for pertussis, but I was given a course of antibiotics (or some such medicinal garbage) as a preventative measure, to ensure that I wouldn’t play Typhoid Mary; Blake tested positive at the beginning of the month.

Blake suggests I thank you for your concern. So on his behalf: thank you. In my opinion, none of it was your business, and since the only reply to Blake’s post came from The Bitch, I assume you all knew that.

On to why we’re here tonight:

I feel the need to post this because I haven’t heard it addressed in other media.

To begin with – I insisted that Blake stop posting and that we play blind toward the things going on around us. It has worked for me in the past, to pretend that nothing is there; perhaps not as a permanent solution, but it has WORKED. He would find me and follow me, creep around in the dark and whisper his awful things, but I could will him away.

That’s the first thing: no one else has mentioned this to my knowledge. I am by no means entirely fluent on the little games circulating the internet revolving around him and his victims, but I have read and watched my share. Has anyone  experienced anything like this? Even the illusion of control?

The second thing: as I’ve said, I HAVE read some of the other… stories… posted around the internet. Some are quite good and others are, suffice to say, not worth the free web space hosting them. But there is, it seems, something like a rash spreading among those who claim to have seen the Slenderman, in which they have begun seeing something entirely Else. These stories range from the mundane to the obscenely stupid (tumblr seems to home for half-witted and ill transceiver tales in this vein). Many of them – of you – call this Thing  ‘the Rake’, but none of you can seem to put a bead on what it is. Is it a dog? Is it a naked, wild man? Does it speak? Does it kill?

If it is hairless, wild, like a Great Dane without fur and far too long of tooth, its paws too prehensile to be just paws, then I would hear more of it. And I would hear especially of it’s behavior. If it’s hungry.

And finally: to those of you idiots who call yourselves  ’employees’, ‘servants’, ‘disciples’, or whatever demented thing you think of yourselves as in the service of our slender friend… I’d like to know just one thing.  I would like to know if a single one of you can give me a rational word telling me you know what you’re doing. Enough of your pretend madness, enough pretend split-personalities, enough SILENCE. At least Marble Hornets’ masked man had the good grace to keep his acting straight. The rest of you are more irritating than anything, so I dare you, send me word that you know what you’re doing and you’re serious about it. And tell me you’re not pissing yourself in fear, sincere as you want me to believe you are.

If anyone has answers, comment here or email me. aaronsummac@gmail.com