Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Caveat utilitor

In answer to your suggestion Opal, it works.
Sort of. One situation where the cure might be worse than the disease.
For one, I slept about three hours longer than I intended. Might need to experiment with the dosage.
Another problem, I feel horribly ill upon waking up and I have a splitting headache. I'd take something for it, but I'm having difficulty keeping liquids in my stomach.
One step forward, two steps back.
Perhaps further experimentation is warranted.

Tuesday, August 30, 2011


Six days. Okay, so it's a lot to catch up on.
Raven's obviously trying to get himself killed. Theorizing like that? Testing theories?
That's not a safe place to stand.


seriously not a safe place to stand.

He posted that Truth bit. So, I have a problem. Anything more than a few minutes worth of sleep? Bang, dreaming of the fucking Forest. WHY IS THERE A FOREST IN MY HEAD?

I woke up... this afternoon I suppose. The last thing I remember was trying to stay awake, apparently this was almost a week ago though. My boots have dried mud on them. I was absolutely starving when I woke up. Weather sites say the last rain we had was earlier in the week. Real downpour by the looks of it.

So while I was gone, Raven's been posting inanities here. And maybe I have, I don't think he could do that good a job of faking that pretentious BS of his. It's positively oozing through the last couple posts here.

My arms and knees are pretty banged up. Some nice bruises. Really sore. I have not been lightly used. Which worries me. Checked my things. The gun is where I left it. It's a little dusty. Which is a good thing. None of the pointy things in the house have been moved.
Also good.

I have no idea what happened during those six days. See if I can keep up this particular stretch of wakefulness a bit longer. I don't want to sleep. I am terrified of going to sleep. There is something in that forest. And I really don't want to find out what.

Obvious problem. If I sleep, the forest is waiting for me. I don't want to find out what happens if I try to stay awake that long again.
No cryptic writing on my forearm this time. That's a plus I suppose.

Monday, August 29, 2011

It's the 29th of August, 2011.
This has to be some kind of joke.
Six days. Where the fuck did I go WHAT WAS I DOING FOR SIX DAYS


Sunday, August 28, 2011

Exit The Captain; Enter A Raven

A moment, ladies and gentlemen, of your time.
Assuming no one minds.

I didn't think so.

Our dear Captain, who has so recently departed from the play, will return shortly. Assuming all goes well. Of that I will assure you. But the rest of this particular scene is mine. He may be a little worse for wear, but I believe that will not last. Most Stalked have remarkably resilient minds. I suppose it's a necessity.
Act 1; Scene 2

Enter A Runner; followed by A Proxy and a Second Proxy
The Runner stumbles and falls.

The Proxy draws a knife.
The Proxy Stabs the Runner
Exeunt all but the Runner
Enter Slender Man
Fade to black

End Scene 2

Incidentally, Mr. Fitzgerald, I would advise you to check your mail. I prefer polite correspondence to this particular variety of theatrics.
There is, after all, no shame in asking for help if you can't work out the problem yourself.

The Truth

Raven, or whatever is making me write on my arms, has unnervingly accurate information.
So, truth will out, in any case.

The truth, is that the dreams have been getting worse. I can't avoid the forest when I sleep. I wake up with a cold sweat, screaming bloody murder.

The dark forest is always waiting.Twisted, blackened tress with their black and shrivelled leaves. The trees are too close together to see anything coming at you or plot a course. And there's always something watching you, moving just at the corner of your eye.

Whatever it is, you can't hear it coming. The drumming sees to that. Incessant drumming from the black, soulless heart of that forest. Like a pulse. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. The wind rustles the leaves as well, a senseless susurration that never quite stops.

There is no discernible source of light. No sun, stars or moon light the canopy overhead. Instead, the light sems to come at you from every direction, a sort of green-yellow-grey ambience that pervades the entire forest, and casts no shadows.

I don't want to go to the forest He livesi n the trees the trees are too close theyretryingtogetme

The storm is coming.

Saturday, August 27, 2011


The transmission of TPF from person to person can be said to at most resemble a disease, and it is on this metaphor that we must draw in order to understand. Like any metaphor, while not being strictly accurate, it may aid the understanding of an otherwise complex topic.

To begin with, the Affliction must be transmissible from person to person in some way. These, as with any disease, are what will be called "vectors", agents that carry and transmit the disease.

The most obvious means of transmitting the Affliction is word of mouth, but it is also among the least effective, the least likely to ensure that the Affliction will find a new host. Compare this to brushing up against someone with a cold.

The next most transmissible means is incidentally-related media, forms of parody or artistic works which, while channelling TPF in one way or another, do not entice in the way that other vectors do. Fictional characters which seem to channel some of the nature of TPF are included in this group. Compare this to being in an elevator while someone coughs.

This is followed by the most widespread vector. Indeed, this particular symptom is rampant. The spread of media related to TPF and his affliction. Records of the Affliction, or works of fiction that depict it mostly accurately, are easily accessible through the internet. Vlogs, Blogs, Fiction, ARGS and artwork depicting TPF all fall under this category. It is here that the lure is almost at its full strength. The way that this information is accessed, it is very easy for someone to dig through and find still more information. Compare this to being in an airplane for a few with someone who has a cold and is coughing and sneezing.

The most infectious vector, indeed the most insidious is that of the Quarantined. This vector manifests itself as a set of behaviours within a Stalked that will most likely lead to a continued infection. The creation of notebooks and other cryptic data, combined with the death or disappearance of the Stalked individual make the draw often irresistible. Compare this with a direct injection of the infectious agent.

The obvious symptom of the disease is the mere apparition of TPF. This is the only true way to confirm an infection. Other common symptoms, the presence of black-outs, the urge to keep a notebook or record information in some way. Repeatedly drawing operator symbols or other representations of TPF, paranoia, the presence of Turned or Agents, drawing or writing that one does not remember making but which has almost certainly be done in their hand. The need to
record everything is not an uncommon one. Symptoms may develop of a second illness 'the Slender-sickness' as well as degeneration of mental stability.

The Affliction is usually a terminal one. The patient either succumbs to the mental component of the Affliction and becomes a Turned carrier, or dies. The only known "treatment" has been to expunge the knowledge of TPF from the mind using amnesiacs. This seems to be largely ineffective as re-infection progresses much more quickly a second time than it did the first. It is, at best, an emergency measure and at worst a grand error in judgment.

Friday, August 26, 2011

Archetypes; Cont.

The previous post described different types of Stalked as "stances" rather than "archetypes" as a result of a temporary failure of my own vocabulary. I've left the previous post as it is, but have changed the terminology here to make the information more clear.

A Runner is not to be confused with a Stalked, no matter the propensity for Agents and Turned to use the terminology as though it were interchangeable. The former is an archetype representing a certain form/type/mindset of Stalked, while the later is a blanket term for any individual who finds themselves exposed to TPF on a regular basis.

A Runner represents the urge to flee, rather than fight. The prototypical runner tends to emphasize continued movement and overall mobility as a means of safety. Left with no other choices, a Runner will likely turn to violence, but they may also do this if they feel they are being left with Hobson's Choice.

Runners tend to exhibit a sort of combined fatalism and pragmatism, which can be difficult to explain or quantify. On the one hand, many runners seem certain that they will be unable to keep running forever, but believe that to stand against TPF is a more immediate end. On the other hand, Runners seem to be practical in ways that other Stalked may not be. It could be that constant travel forces them into this mould out of necessity, or it could be that the type of mind that best exemplifies the archetype is simply well suited to a pragmatic way of life. This most often exhibits itself in the obvious ways, a tendency to travel light and with few (if any) companions and a tendency to value continued safety above other goals.

The most obvious example of a runner is M. Learn.

Not to be confused with the entity of the same name found in Tribe Twelve. An Observer is an archetype that seems to best exemplify the active, inquisitive mind. Observers seem to accept the situation as real more readily, but paradoxically also treat it with skepticism.

In it's purest form, an Observer is an individual given to theorize and test those theories whenever possible. To what end they theorize or by what means they conduct their tests varies from individual to individual. Older information may be drawn on by an Observer, but they do not seem to actively seek it out unless it directly confirms a theory.

Observers may demonstrate a detached quality, at its worst this may be identifiable as some manner of sociopathic behaviour. As well, Observers seem to fall prey to one of Nietzsche's famous quotations "If you gaze into the abyss the abyss gazes into you." Those who study TPF seem to be those who are the most changed by it. Observers may also share a lack of regard with

Jay is/was an Observer. Avalesca is a less morally gray but more self-destructive example.

Librarians are an odd archetype. While initially they may refuse to acknowledge their situation, TPF, or even the very existence of certain phenomenon, Librarians inevitably will accept the veracity of their situation.

A Librarian may also be considered a form of archivist or recorder. Some Librarians seem to form a type of "living memory" for the Stalked community at large. Librarians seem to prefer to collate and collect pre-existing knowledge, and are not given to experiment in the way that Observers may.

The Messenger seems to be a typical (if unusually morbid) Librarian

Once again, not to be confused with former or current participants in the 7 Trials (hereafter the specific capitalization of RABBIT will be used). Admittedly, the Trials have been somewhat amusing in a morbid sort of way.

Not everyone can run. Not everyone is willing or able to fight. So where does that leave you?
Science says the brain decides between one of two states when it's afraid. Fight, murder the sonnovabitch before it gets you, or flight, getting the fuck out of dodge. So where do you go when you run? Back to the warren.

A Rabbit will designate a location that it feels safest in, and proceed to stay there. While some may continue forays out into the world beyond their warren, others may simply barricade themselves within as a method of protection from mundane threats associated with TPF, namely Turned and Agents.

Those Rabbits that exit out into the world tend to exhibit typical prey behaviour, perhaps moreso than other Stalked. Nervousness, a predilection to nyctophobia, marked increase in caution and suspicion are all typical. In extreme situations these may manifest as paranoia, obsession with remaining in areas which are lit, panic attacks, anxiety and even outright agoraphobia.

None of this should be taken to mean that a Rabbit is one that will not fight, just that they do not tend openly or actively aggressive unless, like any animal, its is directly threatened and unable to escape. It should be assumed that the first reaction a Rabbit will exhibit to threat, provided it is an option is flight. This does not mean that the Rabbit will proceed directly to its "Warren" merely that it will attempt to reach it in a safe manner, which may include violence against pursuers, or attempting to "shake off" those pursuing it.

M is not a Rabbit, while The Mad Ventriloquist is .

Quarantined Stalked are curious. They are the most common form of vector by virtue of their eventual disappearance. A Quarantined Stalked is usually one with at least an inkling of what will occur if they expose others to it. Other times, they believe themselves insane and attempt to hide their "condition".

One thing Quarantined share in common is the expression of their infection in code. Whether or not this is an attempt to remain sane amidst the madness or a symptom of the madness itself, the Quarantined seem compelled to produce notebooks, artwork (loosely used as it encompasses everything from crude children's drawings to paintings) and other vectors, often containing encoded messages and other cryptic bullshit. Quarantined also seem to be the least likely to notice black-outs until well after they've begun.

The eventual fate of a Quarantined varies, they often seem to become Turned and disappear, leading to the eventual affliction of others with TPF. The interesting thing about the way Quarantined act as a vector is the the transmission is often much more "concentrated" so to speak. The obsession that the disappearance or odd behaviours of a Quarantined can generate is much more efficient than casual exposure to media of any sort.

The most obvious example of a Quarantined and its effect as a vector may be found in Just Another Fool

Volcabulary Lesson

Put on your thinking caps kiddos.
Runner: Noun; 1. A person presently on the run due to being stalked 2. A stalked individual

This is a problem. Since the second definition is used interchangeably with the first, I prefer the addition of the following word.

Stalked: Noun; A person being hunted/stalked by TPF.

Stalked may assume one of several stances upon realization (or even without realization) of their situation. Stalked can be grouped under several different headings, based on the stance they assume as a reaction to being stalked. It is possible, and expected that one can find a mixture of several stances within individual stalked.

Runner: A stalked that assumes a stance of movement. This is the "flight" portion of the fear dichotomy of flight/fight. This is not to say that a Runner will not or is unable to fight, merely that their initial and continued reaction to a stalking is to avoid it by changing location.

Fighter: A stalked that assumes a stance of combat, whether dedicated offensively or defensively. This is representative of the "fight" portion of the fear dichotomy. This is not to say that a runner is unwilling or incapable of retreat, merely that they are more likely to respond to a stalking with force of some sort.

Observer: A stalked that assumes a stance of study, whether of TPF itself, other stalkings, their own stalking or any number of related subjects. There is a tendency to experiment, or theorize inherent in the observer stance, as it seems to promote the acquisition of new knowledge, rather than mere indexing or collection.

Librarian: A stalked that assumes a stance of collection. This stance is often paired with that of the Observer, for obvious reason. The tendency is to discover, or rediscover and study existing knowledge, rather than to work to create new data.

Rabbit: A stalked that assumes a stance of retreat, as response to a stalking. Whether by external or internal pressure, a stalked may become incapable or unwilling to fulfill the fear dichotomy, and will neither flee in a conventional sense or fight. This stalked is more likely to adopt a form of high ground or asylum to fortify, and defend themselves from within it, rather than try to fight. Not to be confused with those participating in the 7 Trials.

Quarantine: A stalked that assumes a stance of withdrawal as a means of avoiding "infecting" friends or family with TPF. This stance often leads to the opposite as a Quarantined stalked may be assumed to be missing. Searches of their effects will almost inevitably lead to the discovery of notebooks or other vectors.

Turned: A stalked whose will and identity have been damaged in some way by contact with TPF and now seem to perform its bidding. "Dumb" proxies.

Agents: Broad terminology applying to Stalked who have chosen or been coerced to join TPF. These retain a much larger degree of autonomy and free-will compared to Turned, but do the bidding of TPF in one way or another. "Smart" proxies.

Sickness/Scourge: Broad term used to describe a varied set of symptoms exhibited by Stalked, most often in connection with exposure to The Path or to TPF.

Vector: Broad term used to describe a means of "infection" with TPF. Notable vectors include the notes/notebooks/blogs of the Stalked, Marble Hornets, EverymanHybrid, TribeTwelve and related media generated as a result, including various forms of parody (Concrete Giraffes). Prolonged contact with a Stalked is also a likely vector, as is verbal explanation.

Black-Out: A period in which TPF or some other force seemingly directs the actions of a Stalked without their memory or consent.

The Path/The Path of Black Leaves: A seemingly extra-dimensional space, presumably controlled by TPF. The Path seemingly allows transportation throughout the world, and possibly through time. While the Path may be used by Stalked, it seems inimical to humans, possibly as a result of its connection to TPF.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011


There are a group of lifeforms on the planet that are capable of remarkable things.
They are among the oldest living lifeforms on the planet, and the largest.
They can metabolize carbon dioxide and exhale oxygen, pump water from under the ground and throughout their bodies without a single moving part.
A tree can be an entire habitat unto itself. A forest? A hundred-fold that.

Let me tell you about forests.

I'm scared to death about forests.
That's really all there is to say.


As much as it's all been said before, we're looking at this problem in entirely the wrong way.

What separates man from animals. More to the point, what separates man from predators?

Well, when you look at the average plains ape, we don't have a lot going for us.
Bipedal motion tends to be slower than quadrupedal and less stable.
As far as our senses go, we have piss poor night vision, no sense of smell to speak of and our hearing isn't that accurate either.
We have no fur or other hide to keep us warm, and no natural weapons.
We live in large groups and prefer the company of other our animals of our kind.

Do you know what this makes the average human? In the grand scale of things, it looks a lot like we're a prey animal.

The only thing a human has going for it, is the ability to reason and use tools. And we've sort of milked the last one dry haven't we?

So, our approach to Slendy has been as an "entity" of unspecified malevolence and provenance.
But we're doing it wrong. Because we're still thinking like apex predators when the position happens to be a rung higher on the ladder.
There's always a bigger fish.

Tall, dark and slender is an apex predator.

From what we can tell, it has the brute strength to rip apart a person limb from limb.
It has some of the most perfect camouflage we've ever seen.
It can drive a person stark raving mad.
It can move seemingly ignoring the normal laws of physics.
And it might just have a sense of humour.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Stupidity & Doodles

More weird writing. Woke up later, despite going to sleep earlier than typical.
This is becoming depressingly obvious.
I'm missing blocks of time while I sleep. Or should be sleeping.
And apparently being drawn on in whatever fugue state I'm in. Maybe whoever is doing it (me?) has a sense of humour.

The newest arm doodle (thank you by the way, it's at least easy to cover with a shirt).
A tally count of seven, another admonition to "tell the truth" and an operator symbol.
Hey, Raven, work out what you're going to write on my arm before you write it. Dumbass.

Also, the post-its. We have a further admonition to "Tell the Truth" from yesterday and "Stop lying NEMO" More operator symbols instead of Os.

This is really vanilla guys.

Monday, August 22, 2011

Pictures, Cryptic Bullshit

So, pictures first.

I woke up this morning a bit later than usual, went to sleep later than usual though, splitting headache, and cryptic shit all over my right arm.

The stuff on the inside of my arm might be a little hard to read. It says
then there's a tally count of six
then an Alice in Wonderland quote
"How is a Raven like a writing desk?
On the outside of the forearm, we have "Tell the truth"
And somehow, on my elbow has been written "Stop lying"
All of the Os have been crossed through into operator symbols.
It was written in permanent marker.
The big question is "who done it?"

I'm betting the featherbrain.


It feels like someone is slowly and ineffectually trying to drive a railroad spike into my brain. With a toy hammer.
I can't find my painkillers.

Oh, and I woke up with some weird stuff written on my arm in permanent marker and a post-it on my door.

Pictures later. Need to stop this headache.

It worries me that I'm more concerned with the headache than with the cryptic bullshit.

Sunday, August 21, 2011

Ha ha, it is to laugh

Alright Chuckles.
It's a Nautilus shell.
Very funny Raven. HARDY HAR HAR.
Woke this morning to something tapping on my window.
That was an hour ago. Curtains were drawn, so I never got a chance to see it. Second story window. No easy handholds. Believe me, I tried.


Cough- consistent
Breathing difficulty- aside from cough, resolved. Cause unknown. Possibly air in subway tunnels.
Shakes- no longer present. Suspect the lack of sleep had something to do with that.
Elevated body temperature- Seems to be a marked decrease in my to cool myself down naturally. May just be the humidity.
Light-headedness- Gone. Probably poor eating habits/lack of sleep.
Bruises- Healing nicely.
Forearm cut- likewise healing fairly well. Keeping it bandaged and clean.
Blotches- no longer in evidence. Cause unknown.

Paranoia- marked increase. Still justified.
Sleep-deprivation- no longer in evidence
Headaches- resolved. Sleep-deprivation and lack of proper food likely causes.
Feeling of being watched- persistent
problems with focus- resolved, sleep deprivation is most likely cause
linguistic impairment- not in evidence, blame sleep deprivation.

Saturday, August 20, 2011


There's a thunderstorm outside.
It's worrying me.

I used to love thunderstorms, and now they only seem to make my paranoia worse. I feel watched when it rains.

Surprisingly, I'm still not having difficulties sleeping. No forest ruining my sleep. Knocking back a solid few hours at a stretch. I've been sleeping about three hours at a time. I can tell it's starting to take its toll.

The Second Boot

The second piece of footwear, I found taped to the inside of my bedroom window. On the second storey of the house.

Thankfully, this one contains no operator symbols, and doesn't appear to have been written with a sharpie.

It's a little hard to tell. There's a sort of spirally pattern up at the top. Looks like a shell.

The rest is a quote from Hamlet.
This above all — to thine own self be true;
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.

The image in the bottom right hand corner is a bird of some sort.

Three guesses as to whom the letter is from.


I've been giving my situation a lot of thought. And one thing has occurred to me.

There seems to be a certain type of mind that attracts the Slender Man. A specific lack of mental immune system, that lets him into your head.

Everyone started with one little breadcrumb. The EMH kids, Marble Hornets, Seeking Truth, White Elephants, Just Another Fool. Gateways. Not just into the mythos. Gateways for him. The Slender Man is as much a mental entity as a physical. You don't see him unless you know. Children of course, are willing to accept the implausibly tall, faceless man in a suit.

Once you find that first little bit, once you're in the know? You open a door for him, just a crack. The more you learn, the more that door opens, until eventually you step smack-dab into Mr. Trim and Slim. And there's another problem. Curiosity. The minds that seem to find the Slender Man all possess it in one measure or another. Detectives, journalists. It just takes a little step, once you find that first bit, you're drawn to the next breadcrumb like iron fillings to a lodestone.

Picture a forest. A dark forest, filled with trees with black leaves. You walk into the forest one day, only to find that you can't remember your way out. You could pick a direction out at random, but all you do is lead yourself deeper into the forest. At in the forest lives a terrible monster. If you try to find your way out of the forest, you run the risk of running right into the monster. Or you could simply stay away from the monster and hope you find the outside edge.

It's paradoxical. You need to know more about him to survive. In fact, it's a drive to understand that will probably kill most of us in the end. The more you learn about him, the more you open that door up. Why do you think Strahm, who was once brave enough to try to shoot the Slender Man, has become what he is? Knowledge. Why is it that the bright ones always burn out, or worse, turn proxy of their own volition. The brightest, those with the most knowledge, are snuffed out. It's all about the knowledge.

It's why people like M, or Spencer and Co. will continue to survive. It's why you don't get better. It's why there's no way out of the forest. And the storm is coming.

Friday, August 19, 2011

The other shoe

It just dropped.
Another note showed up.

I'm not sure what to make of it.

I have pictures, I'll upload them sometime tomorrow. Time to move around a little.

An Offer

I doubt many people read this blog. Up until recently, I was responsible for a small IRC channel which some of us used to plan and discuss the events revolving around Clair and the others.

We weren't the most effectual group, I'll grant that. I have my own neuroses, and what seems like an unfortunate habit of taunting homicidal maniacs. That lost Royce two fingers.

The channel is still there. Sitting unused. I haven't been hanging around it much, but if you're reading this, drop by. I know the stalked don't get out much, and for some of us, there isn't anyone to talk to.

The channel can be found here


I'm a few hours off of what one might consider a normal sleep schedule at the moment. (In all honesty, normal used to be sleeping from midnight to seven.). Trying to normalize that a little at least. Still no dreams, slight graces I suppose.

A review of what I've been watching closely.
Up until today (see the earlier post) VentingHate and Forever My Sarah had been the objects of my attention.

The Tutorial, or the Gospel according to M has been in my sights for a while.

Once again, thank you to Mr. Fitzgerald. His particular brand of madness, and that of his fellow couriers can be found at Return to Slender
Spencer, I know you read this. I have no idea what the hell you're doing, but honestly, cut it the hell out. You're scaring people.

Let me tell you about the poor bastards at 23 Seconds. They may just be some of the unluckiest people I've ever heard of. I'm not of a particularly pious bent, but I do say what passes I suppose for a prayer for these guys every once in a while. It doesn't seem to help.

Likewise, Make it Count, Celeste's rather less depressing situation than most, has been a source of considerable comfort.

Zeke Strahm, though he doesn't seem to be getting better, occupies another chunk of my reading with The Mystic.

This list would not be complete without making note of one final bastard. I'm speaking of course, of Raven. Raven has borrowed my handle, and set up this travesty on tubmlr. He appears to be occupied with Spencer and the rest at the moment, though occasionally deems fit to link over to something here, or drop a comment.
Raven, you cryptic son of a bitch. Cut it out.

New on my radar are these two:
I Like Trees, currently run by a clever bastard who may or may not be in a rather unpleasant forest in japan.
My Half of Life, about a for lack of a better word, unusual proxy who goes by Atalanta.

Thursday, August 18, 2011

A few more steps

They're gone.

Lyric, Royce, Sarah, Clair, Nate. All of them That timeline is the only evidence we have that they existed right now, apart from some mazes, a few images and a handful of chat logs.

If it were any other day, any other situation that the current, I'd say give them a moment of silence. But we can't do that. He's waiting, isn't he? So, we throw some dirt over the bodies, and say a few words as we walk on.

I don't mind speaking ill of the dead. They can say their piece when I next see them.

Lyric, you murderous son of a bitch, as much as it twists a knife in my gut to say it, you will be missed. A good sparring partner is hard to replace. Messed up, cannibalistic, mad scientist though you were, you were as good a teacher as any.

Royce, you were one paranoid bastard, I'll give that to you. It's a shame you didn't live longer, and a blessing. God knows how your condition would have played out. You were a trooper, but you were also a vengeful moron. I'll see you around.

Clair, I never really met you, but girl you managed to break whatever voodoo Lyric had. Points for that. You may have had a more than a few bolts loose, but from what I could see you had fight in you. Good on you.

Sarah, you were dead long before I came along. You didn't really have a chance, and for that, I'm sorry. You and those other unfortunates to stumble into this mess deserved better. Requiescat in Pace.

Nate, you were one of ours. I don't know what became of you. Maybe Tall, Dark and Slender got you. Maybe you got out. Maybe you're on the other side. That doesn't matter. For a while at least, you stood where some of us runners once did.

No funeral. montage is complete without some music for walking away with. This seemed appropriate. Hope no one minds.

The Lessons of Clowns and Fairy Tales

Clowns. Yes, clowns. Those supposedly adorable things that everyone was secretly terrified of as children.

Psychologists say people are terrified of clowns for a few reasons. The first off? Big feet and hands, hair and noses. Giant baggy pants? It's like a blowfish, puffing itself to look... what's that word... oh year SCARIER.

The second is the facepaint. See the thing about the facepaint is it further distorts the proportions of the body. The paint around the eyes, the giant mouth that grins. The other thing is that the face underneath the paint doesn't necessarily match up. The face underneath the paint could be enraged but that dumbass clown would still look like he's wearing a shit-eating grin.

These two qualities, the outsized proportions and the way the facial expressions don't necessarily match up place clowns *quite* firmly in the Uncanny Valley. We interpret them as human-seeming, rather than human. Which in children, translates to a monster that looks like a person. Pennywise the Clown (of Stephen King's IT) is of course the quintessential example (though Ronald McDonald isn't too far behind (the creeper).

The other thing children have going for them is fairy tales. There's a lot of really important lessons you learn in fairy tales. And people seem to forget them as they grow up. Let's take a look at some of my favourites.

Hansel and Gretel: At first inspection, the story of Hansel and Gretel is intended to teach you that: A. Stepmothers are EVIL; and B. Don't talk to strangers. That's the lesson an adult would find in it. Look a little deeper, and there are two different lessons.
1. The woods are dangerous.
2. Stay together.

Little Red Riding Hood: Once again, at first inspection Red Riding Hood tells us to A. Listen to your elders; and B. Don't talk to strangers. Again very adult lessons. The second one is still important, but lets look at the other two.
1. The woods are dangerous.
2. Monsters can look like people.

Goldilocks and the Three Bears, Sleeping Beauty, Snow White (the disney version at least, the character's name was stolen from another fairy tale). If the story has woods in it, odds are the woods are where bad things live. Fairy tales tell us that the woods are dangerous. Witches and wolves and beasties of all shapes and sizes live there. Some of them even look like us. But we've forgotten the lessons of fairy tales, haven't we. We thought we'd tamed the trees and the forest had no more surprises. How wrong were we?

So Nemo! What does this have to do with anything.
It has to do with Tall, Suited and Faceless. What do we know about him?
Much like a clown, he's right in the uncanny valley. Even the people who don't know what they're dealing with say he's impossibly tall. That should be the first hint. Also like a clown, his expressions don't necessarily match his intent. Trim and Slim has been described as looking like he wants to give you a hug.

Forests belong to him. He lives in the trees.
He's a monster that looks, vaguely, like a person.

If, as some claim, trim and slim is old and germanic? Then maybe we should start changing the morals of our tales. After all, Hansel and Gretel are german first and foremost. Perhaps the brothers grimm meant to educate about a certain tall, dark stranger, rather than step mothers.
The Gospel according to M has his three rules for Runners. Get up high, keep moving, keep your eyes open.
Rules in sets of three invariably bring me to Asimov's Three Laws of Robotics. In Asimov's case, a very clever robot devised what he called the "Zeroeth Law". A law that superseded all others by virtue of primacy. A robot may not harm the human race or through inaction allow the human race to come to harm.
Let me add a Zeroeth Rule for the Slenderstalked. I'm sure you're all familiar with it, but make this a reminder.

He lives in the trees.


Wednesday, August 17, 2011


Spent the weekend in near constant motion. Now I've stopped.

Avoiding sleep for four days was a mistake. It's fucked up my head something solid. Might as well have brained myself with a railroad spike. The sleep earlier was good. Dreamless. I can't spend too much time asleep though.

Today's mail included an envelope, hand-delivered, for me. Contents? An SD card, and a photograph of me that night in the park. I'm not going to pull a Noah here. I'm going to find another computer to open it up on. But I didn't see anyone else near that playground.


Six hours worth of it. My thoughts are already a bit more coherent.
Need to get some food into me.

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

The Weekend in Review; End

Other than the dead tiredness, I'm pretty fine. Some bruises and scrapes from tackling the proxy.
As far as I can tell, there haven't been any more blackouts. I've been keeping track of my time spent awake. I check in with my notebook every hour on the hour.

One proxy dead, another proxy demasked and beaten up.

Why do I feel like there's another shoe about to drop?

Oh right. Paranoia.

The Weekend in Review; cont.

There isn't much more to say about my weekend.
I rode transit a lot. Spent my afternoons frantically snatching what little sleep I could in libraries or malls. The four hours I got was on a subway train, riding back and forth along the long U shape that makes up the greater part of the subway. I drifted in and out of sleep, but for the most part, my sleeping remained uninterrupted.
Except for the dreams. The black, twisting forest. The storm, approaching somewhere in the distance, the wind pushing it carries some kind of smell. I recognize it but I can't name it. There is a sound, somewhere in the forest. Like drums pounding. And I wake up.

I switched trains and directions regularly, until it got to the point that I wasn't always sure where I was going. I got off the train and headed topside for air only to find that night had fallen. I might have been on Front street at that point. Wandering along the street looking for a bus stop, I happened across an old bit of graffiti on a bench.

"I'm sorry. HABIT made me do it."I'll admit. It was dark. I wasn't thinking straight. I could be wrong. This is what I believed I'd read. "HABIT made me do it."

I headed back to the train. I can sympathize with rabbits. Too exposed topside. The subway station was a few blocks back, and I hoofed it. Back inside the tunnels. Space here is contained, controlled. I know it better. Sun Tzu wrote quite a bit about fighting on your own terms rather than that of an enemy. I feel the box-cutter in my pocket. Not much of a weapon.

Not much else happened that night. The trains were safe, relatively quiet, and they kept moving. I snatched handfuls of sleep when I could. Never more than a few minutes at a time. I didn't want to go back to the forest. I still don't want to go back to the forest. He lives in the trees.

Monday, August 15, 2011

The Weekend in Review

I haven't been back to my house since Friday. Since then, I've slept all of four hours uninterrupted, maybe another three or four hours on top of that, broken up into bits and pieces.

I think I'm going crazy. I know there's something wrong with me. Perhaps that's the best place to start.

In review; Physical Condition

-Bruises: knees, shins forearms and elbows
-Reflexes are slow
-Shallow cut, two centimetres long, left forearm
-Inconsistent bouts of light-headedness
-Signs of illness: Loss of appetite, persistent cough, difficulty breathing, red blotches on the upper torso, elevated body temperature, shakes.

In review; Mental Condition
-Thinking is sluggish
-difficulty remembering words
-Persistent feeling of being watched or observed
-Difficulty maintaining focus
-Spacing out/overfocusing

Music is helping me stay awake and focused at the moment. A caffeine crash at this point would knock me right out.
So to summarize. I haven't stopped moving since Friday. I've stayed mostly in Toronto and the surrounding area. Moving around on transit, staying in public spaces, malls, libraries, train stations. I've been getting most of my sleep on public transit as well.
Friday evening, I was working on my bicycle, when I heard a noise out in along the side of the house.
We're on good terms with the neighbours, so there's no fence between the two yards.
There's a foot-high wall that we're on the low end of that their whole yard is level with the top of. There's also a faux-riverbed filled with stones between the deck on our house and the top of the wall.

It was pretty dark that night, and if you were stupid, you might have missed seeing the planter on the other side, over-corrected and stuck your foot right in that shallow ditch. We keep a sledge-hammer in the garage, but its big and heavy and I have very little measurable upper body strength. No, I reached for one of the knives that stays out there for the barbecue and stuck a box-cutter in my pocket just to be safe.
There are only two kinds of paranoia. Whoever it was was wearing a mask. Creepy, white, featureless except for the holes for the eyes. I say whoever it was because I didn't recognize the person wearing the mask. It was obvious what it was.


The idiot had tripped and hit his head on the deck. Served him right. I bolted around him, down the driveway and out into the night. Admittedly, not the smartest thing to do, but I wasn't thinking straight. There was a proxy in my backyard.

I'm sure the veteran slender-stalked (I'm looking at you Fitzgerald.) might not think this is much. You've dealt with proxies. But I mean. It's different. Knowing what's going to happen. What might happen, what will happen, and having some masked prat staring you in the face.

So yeah. I ran. Across the road, through a townhouse complex, and into the yard behind the local school. As I turned around, sure enough, there was the proxy. There was a playground not too far away. I'd visited it dozens of times. I sprinted for the park, lungs burning. I'm not in very good shape. Under the bridge that held the road above, and up the side of the hill.

Fear is a very good motivator, and I some how had managed to reach the hill first. I hid behind a rock and waited to hear him on the pavement. It wasn't long. I wasn't thinking clearly, as I jumped out from behind the rock, I saw the knife in his hand immediately, and knew it was too late. I threw my arm up to protect my face and charged into him, knocking us both back down the hill.

The proxy landed with a heavy sort of thud at the bottom, wheezing. In hindsight, I suppose it just wasn't his night. I'd skidded to a stop, rather unceremoniously, on my ass a little further up the hill. He wasn't going to be getting up fast. I dropped my knife back on the deck. There was a stinging feeling on my forearm, a rather nice nick from whatever he'd been carrying.

Looking down at the ground, I saw it. The knife I'd dropped back on the deck (of course).
Note to self, edged weapons are sharp. Don't let other people get yours. Seriously. Dumbass.
The proxy on the subway platform was a fluke. He charged me and fell off the platform. Dumb luck: not a commodity one trades in easily. This one, I couldn't kill. Still, I was in better shape than he was, I could stand up (though I was certain to be sore later) and he was having trouble breathing.

I stomped on his chest. And kicked him a few times. I'm not going to stop kicking a fucking proxy because he got knocked down. In fact, yes, I'm going to kick him because he's down. I took his mask off. I don't recognize the face. I roll up his sleeve and slice him across the arm, about the same place he got me. Another stomp on his chest.

"If I see you again..." I couldn't think of a threat to go with it. I kicked him one more time for good measure.

I booked it back home, grabbed my bag, made an excuse about seeing a friend for the weekend and left the house.

Let me tell you about my bag. Survival experts recommend what they call a "bug-out" bag. A bag which contains the essentials to survive for 72 hours. My bug-out bag is a leather duffle-bag. It probably wouldn't keep me for 72 hours out in the wildness, but it's not mean to be a proper survival bag.
-A Book
-First Aid Kit
-light rain coat
-four water bottles
-a bottle of juice
-various tea stolen from work
-train pass
-tokens for the subway
-tickets for the busses
-the charger for my phone
-a spare pair of jeans
-the gun (thank you Spencer)
- a small toolkit (monkey wrench and allan keys)
-a tupperware container with cutlery
-and whatever food I can scrape up as I'm leaving.

And I was gone.

Friday, August 12, 2011


Apparently that belongs to him. So he's gotten spencer to give me a gun and a prybar. Gordon Freeman I am not you feathered bastard. But if I find you? I'm going to do my very best to shoot you. Of course, I doubt my aim is very good. It probably won't be fatal.

Here's the fun part.
Raven's used my email and one of my passwords.
Well played you sonnovabitch. Or daughter, if that floats your boat.
You know what. Until proven otherwise, I'm going with masculine.

Thursday, August 11, 2011

The Bloor-Danforth Subway was closed for two hours this afternoon. There was a body on the tracks. Body belonged to proxy following me. Sick to stomach.
Not much else to say

There are

Two kinds of paranoia

Justified. And insufficient.

I don't remember falling asleep last night.

No Win Situation

There was a proxy. On the train.
I'm almost sure of it. Not the same one from the street.

Fear, as some may know, creates a whole slew of responses within the body. Adrenaline wakes you up, the eyes widen to take in more light, your hair stands on end (a throwback to when we had fur) to make you look bigger and more intimidating. Your brain starts processing one of two options. Fight and hope you can kill or scare off whatever it is, or flight. Run your ass off until you fall over or it catches you.

Fight or Flight.

What if neither is an option?

Wednesday, August 10, 2011

The same proxy is in the street. Watching the third floor. I can't quite make out its face. It's waiting for me. I'm glad they're looking in the wrong place. I don't know if M is right about Tall, Dark and Slender being stupid. All evidence would seem to point to the contrary.

I am, at least, away from windows and provisioned with a means of escape, should things go horribly wrong. What I am not is armed. I feel it may be necessary to procure some better means of defence than that afforded by what little wits I have and a stout and well-broken-in pair of boots.

I can't run yet. It's too soon.

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Proxies, Thunderstorms, Floods

In light of that bit of morbidity, courtesy of the cannibalistic madman who I hold partly responsible for my present situation, an update. I think I saw a proxy today. Standing outside of the building I work in, staring up at the third floor. I'm glad the mail room has no windows.

It's been raining too much. There's been flooding in the area. I'm worried.


Monday, August 8, 2011


Note to self: In the future, taunting the possibly sociopathic madman who is willing to experiment on girls? Not a good idea.

Sunday, August 7, 2011

Correcting Mistakes

So, figured, OH HEY. Let's get ourselves involved with a few people, maybe get some good done in the world. Help some people that are dealing with tall, dark and slender. Only, he's like a disease. It's infectious. The more you come into contact with it, the more you open the door to the possibility that he's just going to step right through.

You know? I wanted to help save the girl. That's what got me into this mess. I'm certain of it. I'm paying that price. Here's the thing though. I'm guilty of screwing over other people. It's summer right? I'm with my damned family.
I haven't seen it yet. I'm certain I don't have more than a seasonal bug. It doesn't get worse. It's just there. Not the same sort of hacking that other people exhibit. I haven't blacked out. I have no compulsion to film myself or create a journal. And the first thing I do tomorrow morning? I'm burning that damned note.
I need to hold out for a month, then I can start taking larger steps.

I think I know the game. Time to play.

The Note

This note is what I found on my front door.
Good times.


I'm an idiot.
There's been someone outside. It's raining, so it's quite easy to tell.
There's been someone outside, and they left a note.
Had to get involved. Didn't I? Pictures to come.