Disclaimer: This blog is a work of fiction. No people, places, or events are meant to mirror any real people, places or events in any way. Any similarity is coincidental. The creators of this content do not condone violence and did not write any of this with the intention of inciting violence. If you are reading this and feel inspired, don't. Go seek help.
Two days ago, I followed Collector into the Rift. I trust him, don’t care what anyone thinks about it; he’s my friend and he’s got this idea, this crazy idea that I’m an important piece of the puzzle, all of us are pieces of a puzzle. Six of us: Austin, Alana, Courtney, Josh, Stephen, Tyler. His Collection.
There can only be six, so we’re looking for a seventh: Emet Rotter. That’s why we’re here. That’s why we stepped off into the abyss.
Collector showed up at my door a week or so ago, I knew he was coming. Ever since my friends dropped off the face of the earth, I’ve been able to see; I’ve been Listening with Open Eyes. I found the Youtube channels, the Twitter, this blog. He’s different now, Stephen, but he’s still there. Collector assimilated him, he didn’t overwrite him and that is exactly why I feel I can trust him.
He asked me a bunch of questions when he showed up, if I had been seeing anything or if I had been hearing voices. I told him yes. There is a man, a tall man that I keep seeing in my head, or at least I assume in my head. No one else seems to notice the guy standing there, just smiling and smiling at me. He’s got eyes, but they’re never the same colors and they’re pushed in kinda like he just up and took someone else’s and shoved them in his skinny face. He’s so fucking thin, like a goddamn skeleton in dark clothes made for a man.
I hear things when I see him. I look at him and I hear screaming, bones cracking, women and children pleading for their lives. Mostly children. I’ve been seeing him since it happened, since Stephen went missing and his dad was found cut up in a ditch.
Anonymous asked: As for help, you need me, the one who can stop his kind in their tracks, so you have to earn it, but that seems so unnecessary as I am too comfy in my seemingly normal existence, his pain is quite an interesting one. -Gifted Mortal
With the trailer of Prometheus being released, I fear the possibility of not being able to see it. One of you lot on Facebook (whose name will not be mentioned without his express permission), suggested that my ashes be sent to him to be smuggled into theaters should I die before the film is released. I made a stupid joke, he made one back, and then I felt compelled to create this image.
Needless to say, I’ve been feeling well, being with a friend has helped alleviate much of the stress I’ve been under. I am dreading the thought of actually going in to find Mr. Rotter, but it must be done. I won’t rush things until Dreamer starts complaining, though. Fuck him, I’m on vacation.
It’s been three days since I picked up the journal, one for you lot. Ms. Hudson’s home was built on top of a Rift. That makes three, then. Three rifts I’ve come in contact with: There’s the first in the lake, through which the Creature survived and I came to this place; the second at Mr. Harris’s home, God only knows which part of the universe his family has buggered off to; and this one at Ms. Hudson’s house.
The Rifts, Dimensional Bleeds, whatever you want to call them, exist in places where the “Slender Man” has moved.
He’s been watching since the Angel’s Game, manipulating things. The temporal distortion and the appearance of the Dreamer before Alana’s death— it could have nothing at all to do with Emet. I won’t know for sure until I sort out this notebook, get a better camera, laptop, and another set of eyes.
If I have to look for this guy inside of the rift, I’m going to need help.
The house was like something out of a horror film; not in the scary way, but more of the everything-is-so-terrible-that-it’s-unbelievable way. I went back to Alana’s old place. It was a lot like I had found it the first time through: Bare walls, naked floors. Nothing but insulation, studs, and concrete. Really, the only thing different was the vines and sprouts creeping in, repossessing the space. That, and bird droppings, lots and lots of bird droppings.
I didn’t have much trouble seeing, light poured in through the empty window frames, casting inescapable judgment on the barren war-zone that had once been my friend’s home. I don’t know what was more cruel about it, that she had been killed in such a way, or that every memory of her had been purged from the earth. Cruelty may be my specialty, but no one deserves to have their story taken from them. Even in death, my victims’ stories were shared, and they lived on in the hearts and minds of thousands of critical observers.
I’m a sentimental guy; sentimental and lonely.
After searching the area where Ms. Hudson was killed and finding nothing, I decided to try her old bedroom. Like the others, it was a blank space, but there was something about it structurally that threw me off. The window across from the doorway was positioned high on the wall, and a tree was planted just past it so that it would come directly between the sun and the opening. The light that came in was faint, almost blue, and it cast strange shadows, as far as the studs jutting from the “walls” were concerned, that danced with every movement of the tree outside. The studs themselves were constructed incorrectly, each being a few degrees askew, and the boards warped by some external force, with the overall effect of making the room almost seem to breathe, its “walls” contracting in and out like the lungs of some beast.
I walked to the center of the space, holding my arms out as I did so. There was a draft coming in from somewhere. I moved to the window and checked for faults in its construction. I could find none. I tried the “walls” next, and again was unable to locate any opening that air could pass through. Frustrated, I punched a hole in the insulation, something not entirely resembling a sitting room showed through. At that point, I was losing my patience and I closed my eyes while tried to catch up with my temper. I was still facing the wall, and when at last my thoughts grew calm, I felt a bit of air brush against the hairs on the back of my neck.
The only direction the draft could be coming from, being that my head was sunk against my breast, was upward. Above me was a hideous mass of fuzzy, pink insulation and air-conditioning duct hanging eight feet over the concrete foundation.The duct came down with little effort, and out spilled a pound of dust, a dead rat, and a gray notebook filled with riddles, lies, and hate. I reached into the putrid pile and retrieved my prize, something I had torn through the fabric of spacetime to find: