The Slender Man (7 page)

 “You want me to sneak you your homework too?” I chuckle.

 She moves her head back and forth as if pondering.

“Just come? Keep me company?” she says. I nod.

“Every day,” I say. She smiles.

“I haven't seen Denise once since you guys came.

“We tend to ward evil spirits away,” I joke. The door opens,
and I turn to see Mom entering.

“We need to get going,” she says rather glumly. Perhaps they
ran out of good things to say about Denise and can't handle the awkward silence
any more. Before I can respond, Shana hugs me tight.

“Come here straight from school.” I am about to ask if she
still wants food but then I realized just how little she ate of her favorite
dishes today and figure I won't say anything.

“Promise. I'll walk if I have to,” I say. Mom escorts me
downstairs and we see Dad putting his jacket on, saying his goodbyes to the
Hawthorns. Mom and I take our turn and then head out. Dad has already started
the car. The drive home is silent, aside from the radio talk show. It's a local
radio channel and three guesses on what's still the main subject for the local
news? Right.

As I gaze out the window my mind is stuck on Denise, or at
least the Denise-apparition. I've got to figure out what's really going on.
Maybe the hallucinations really have something to do with the sickness, or
maybe ghosts are just real? I've always taken an agnostic approach to ghosts
and things like that, but if these visions aren't ghosts, then what are they?

As we get close to home the radio starts to fade out.
Static! I look right and left, looking for… it. Dad is closing in on our
driveway when he slams on the brakes. Does he see it?

“Adam!” he roars. He and Mom both jump out of the car. I
follow suit. We get out and I walk up to them. There is Adam, cast and all,
walking in the middle of the road. It's like he didn't even see us! As I
approach, my parents are saying things like

“What's wrong with you?” “Where's your Bubbe?” or

“You're going to tear open your stitches,” but I'm not
focused on them. I'm still looking for it, but I can't find it, or sense it,
anywhere.

“I'm going to check on Hannah,” says Dad. “Alyssa, take your
brother inside,” he orders as he busts in through our already open front door.
Mom goes back to take care of the car. I walk over and take Adam's good hand,
but it's limp, as if he's not holding back. He's not even looking at me, or us.
He's looking down the road... at the forest. Suddenly his hand shocks me. Not a
normal contact shock, but that static wave comes through me. He snaps out of it
before giving me a confused and terrified look, but he doesn't say anything. He
starts to walk along with me, and we go inside the house.

I can hear Dad yelling at Bubbe.

“What were you doing letting him run around in the road? He
shouldn't have been out of bed at all!”

“Well I tried to feed the child but he was too sleepy so I
laid him down and went up to bed myself!” she shouts back. I decide to let them
argue as I escort Adam upstairs and back into bed. It's not her fault. It's
something to do with that static shadow, these ghosts, and the illness that's
going around. After I tuck him in I feel something slide out of my shirt and I
check to see the front page of the essay Shana wrote in my name has fallen.

“Oh right, gotta copy this,” I say reluctantly. I chuckle to
myself. If I'm too lazy to copy it, then I'd have had no chance to write it
myself. Where would I be without Shana? My little moment of humor leaves me as
I see the despairing topic she wrote about; The Salem Witch Trials.

I don't like how melancholy Shana's essays are. The first
time we were discussing the project the mood was cheerful, but when I look at
these essays I feel saddened. It feels like Shana really does have ghosts
haunting her, almost dictating what she writes. Our roles in the Salem Witch
Trials are very different. She's one of the women accused of witchcraft, and
gets executed for it, but I am a woman who only sympathizes with the witches. I
feel like that plays into what happened when she lost Denise, and I kept Adam.
She's not jealous, but she's been hit harder than I have.

The story tells about how she's accused and I work hard to
protest and defend her, but in the end I'm hanged as well.
Is she trying to
tell me something with this?
Is that why she wrote the essays so
diligently? Is this her way of telling me not to help her? It's ironic, I can
figure out that something supernatural is going on around here quickly, but I
can't read in between the lines my best friend has written.

I almost don't want to turn these essays in, but if I care
about our grades, then I really have no choice. Beggars can't be choosers, as
my Bubbe likes to remind me when I’m being picky. I'm walking from the bus to
the school with Shana's essay, and my copied version, when I see something.
There is a cop questioning one of the students at the school. I get closer and
recognize the officer as Deputy Yew, the policeman who drove Shana and me to
the hospital.

When I enter his field of vision he looks up at me and waves
me over. I walk up to him and catch the last phrase of his conversation.

“...then let me know if you hear anything. Thanks...
Alyssa,” he says.

“Good morning,” I greet. He didn't cut himself when he
shaved this morning.

“I'm afraid I have some more bad news,” he said.
Bad
news? About who
? It can't be Adam or anyone in my family because I saw them
not thirty minutes ago. Wait a minute. Shana!

“Is she alright?” I ask immediately.

“She? Who? This is about Mr. Douglas, and some missing
students,” he says.

“Oh, go on,” I say, relieved.

“We've received reports of some missing children, teenagers
mostly. We can't launch a formal investigation, but all of the missing teens
are related to some of the deceased,” he explains. I nod.

“Alright, now one of those missing teens is Jason Larch,” he
says.

Jason is missing, that doesn't sound like bad news to me. 

“Jason had a court date this morning that he missed, even
his parents showed up. They assumed he was with a friend,” he continues.
Well
that's what you get when you don't raise your kids right.

 “It just so happens, that Mario Douglas was reported
missing from the hospital around three in the morning last night. The hospital
staff say Mario was about to be released as he had some relatives ready to take
care of him, but he disappeared,” he says.

“So you think Jason and the others had something to do with
this?” I ask.

“Yes, and we're hoping maybe you've seen any of these kids?
Jason is the only one in your grade, but do you recognize the other two?” he
asks. He shows me pictures of Jason and two girls that look a little older than
me. There is a fourth picture in his hand, but it's of a chubby boy that looks
like he might be in the fourth or fifth grade. Jason looks like the only one
that would be interested in murdering Mr. Mario, but I guess you can't judge
people by their pictures.

“I'm sorry, Jason is the only one I recognize, and I haven't
seen him since yesterday when…” I stop.
Jason said he was going to help
Kenny!
“He told me he was seeing his brother,” I say.

“You mean like…”

“Like he saw his brother in class, and he said that his
brother needed his help. He told me that he was going to help him,” I explain.

“Wait, so are you two close? No one I've spoken to has said
anything about this,” he says.

“No, he- he thought I saw Kenny too because I jumped up in
fright from a- a spider. He must have 'seen' Kenny at the same time. He was
very aggressive about it. You can ask my Dad.”

He raises his hand to stop me. “I believe you. He's not the
only one that's reported seeing things and that story about adds up,” he says.

“It does?” I ask.

“A few people said they last saw him talking to you, and
everyone that's seen him says they last saw him at school yesterday. If he left
school planning on helping Kenny, then he might have gathered some followers
and planned to sneak into the hospital. It all adds up, we just don't have
proof that he's responsible. If you see him, or any of these kids,” he says,
waving the photos. “...let me know.”

“Right, will-do,” I say. I hear the bell ring.

“Better run along,” says Deputy Yew, but it looks like he's
saying it more to himself than to me. I thank him, although I'm not sure what
exactly I was thanking him for-information? I shrug it off and head into the
school. I get to my classroom as quickly as I can. Before Ms. Alder can greet
me with
“Glad you could join us,”
I say, “Sorry was giving information
to the deputy.”

Ms. Alder looks up at me, and I hand the essays.

“Oh,” she says, a little surprised that I- well, Shana,
followed through.

“Well, glad you could join us, please take your seat.” I
wince at those words. I don't know why, but I have this pet peeve where if
someone has a certain catchphrase or something they always say, I hate being
the one to trigger it. School goes by far too slowly. There's no Dad to bust me
out before lunch period. Heck he's probably catching up on the work he missed
out on yesterday, whatever vice principals do. 

The whole school day I have my mind on what Jason could be doing
to Mario right now, and why those other students would help him, if they were
helping him. Are they torturing him, or disposing of his body? Those kinds of
questions run through my mind incessantly. When the final bell rings, another
bell dings in my head.
Time for Shana!
I realize I haven't told my
parents that I plan to go see Shana early today, so I go over to the vice
principal's office. The door's open so I walk in, on Ms. Alder talking to my
Dad, with our essays in hand.

 “Oh, Alyssa,” greets Dad, and his tone isn't happy
sounding.

“What's going on?” I ask.

Ms. Alder gives me a small apologetic smile. “I've just been
going over your essays with your father,” she explains.

“What's wrong with them?” I ask, although I already know
what she's going to say. “Well they…” but she stops and gives my Dad a look.
Wow, she can come behind my back and talk about these essays but she won't say
it to my face?

“I haven't, read the essays completely Alyssa, but Ms. Alder
believes the theme of these essays written by both of you are, well it doesn't
seem like two people wrote them,” he explains.

So wait, they weren't worried about the style, they just
aren't fooled by Shana's trick?

“Well we worked together on them. Like I said yesterday, we
were going to use the same event to-”

“Yesterday Alyssa, you hadn't even started your essay, so
that means you both would have to have put all of this work into it in one
night,” she says.

“In one visit that lasted barely more than an hour, and most
of that hour was spent on dinner,” corrects my Dad.

“So? What business of yours is it to go over and…” I try,
but Ms. Alder interrupts.

“What's the name of the man you were reluctantly arrested by
in this essay?” she asks. I hesitate, because I don't know the answer to the question
off the top of my head. Wasn't it Turnpin? No wait.

“Turpin?” I ask, although I probably should have declared
it.

“That's the name of the judge Alyssa,” she says.

“Did Shana write these essays?” asks Dad. He's glaring at
me, clearly not ready for any more lies. I just give him a look that says yes,
but without fully admitting it. He sighs angrily and rubs his forehead,
although you can tell he already knew the truth before I came in.

“This worries me though, the implications here,” she
continues to my father.

“What implications? They're just essays,” I protest. So not
only are they not fooled, they are worried about Shana now.

 “Alyssa, if you actually bothered to read a single one of
the seven pages of this essay,” Dad says snidely, “...then you would be worried
about your friend too.” He doesn’t know this, but I am worried about Shana.

“We need to bring this up with her parents. Maybe get her to
a psychiatrist,” suggests Ms. Alder.

 “She doesn't need a shrink, she's just... venting!” I yell.

“Alyssa!” shouts Dad. “Go home,” he says.

I am about to turn around before I realize that I had a
reason for coming in here.

“Dad, I need to see Shana. I told- I promised I'd head
straight for her house right after school,” I say.

“Well that's not going to happen young la- little girl,” he
says, correcting himself with the term
little girl
in order to
condescend toward me, and it's working.

“You're lucky if we even take you with us tonight after your
Mom finds out about your irresponsibility. Now get out of my face,” he
continues.

I shrug, with a few tears about to fall. There are a lot of
things I want to say, but when my Dad gets like this, he won't hear any of it.

“Probably already missed the bus,” I choke.

“Oh, well I can give her a ride,” suggests Ms. Alder, but I
cut her a hateful glare. The last thing I want to do is accept a ride from the
woman who just sold me out.

“Fine then, walk. Call me- from home, in one hour. When you
get home put your cell phone on my desk,” says Dad. I storm out of the office,
and slam it behind me.
Some help he is.
I walk down the almost empty
hallway, barely able to contain my anger as I exit the school. I head to the
forest line, but then stop. My hair is down, and I don't have anything to
contain it with, plus I'm wearing a skirt and some Chucks, and have no water.
I'm in no position to run, or even jog comfortably, and he expects me to be
home in an hour.  I sigh and move on. Let's hope I can walk through a few miles
of woods and get home inside an hour.

As I enter the woods through the dirt trail, I hear the
crunching of leaves underneath my feet. It takes me a while to notice, but then
I finally stop and look. The trail is almost completely covered in leaves. Most
of them still have a little green in them. It's late spring though, and the
trees are supposed to be springing- or sprung with leaves right now. I look up
at the trees above me and am surprised at just how bare they seem. They usually
don't shed this vigorously until autumn, and even then the leaves are generally
dead and brown before they fall.

“What's going on?” I say to myself. I continue on down the
trail, stomping on the leaves with my eyes pinned on the ground. It's taking me
much longer than I remember to follow the trail to the clearing. It must have
been years since I actually took the trail route home, so maybe my memory is
just foggy.

After way more of my allotted hour than should be is spent,
I finally reach that sharp turn, and step off the trail onto my route. I march
forward, into the clearing and slip. The extra fallen leaves have hidden those
sudden slopes or roots I'm used to seeing out of the corner of my eye and
avoiding them. I don't get up instantly. Instead, I pummel the ground with my
fists in anger. I want to go see Shana like I promised, but she lives like ten
miles from the school, and if I don't call Dad from the home phone, he'll
probably head down to the Hawthorns himself. What does he know? If there is
really a reason to be worried about Shana (and to be honest, with her visions,
there is), then having me there will help her.

I realize I'm only wasting time- although to be honest I am
not really worried about making it home within an hour. I jump up to my feet
and lean forward against a tree. My vision goes fuzzy and I feel a wave of
dizziness hit my head. I must have gotten up too quickly. When my vision
returns, I still feel fuzzy and shake out my limbs.

As I do, I notice something. The tree I was just leaning
against looms above me. It's not as tall as the other trees, only around
fifteen feet tall, but it's very... slender. It's so slim I can probably wrap
my hands together around it. It's dark, almost black, and its bark is very
rough to the touch. I don't recognize it at all. I look around to make sure
that I'm in the right clearing, and aside from the excessive amounts of fallen
leaves, and this tree, everything looks familiar. I take a step back to examine
the tree.

“What kind of tree is this?” I ask myself aloud. It only has
six branches. Two of them hang down perpendicular to each other and almost
reach the ground. They are both angled at the same point, as if they're
jointed. The other four branches have the same joint shaped, but are angled up
and all point away from the tree. At the top of the tree, or head of the tree,
is huge, gnarly, bevel. It sticks out like a large tumor.

“There's no way I wouldn't have seen this tree before,” I
say aloud, and it's true. If I saw a tree this weird-looking before I would
have noticed it, just like I do now. It's very creepy.

I realize I've wasted more time and begin to resume my walk.
I find my way down the slope, consciously recalling the locations that any
roots may be hidden. I'm at the bottom of the hill when I sense something, and
turn around. I only look for a second, but there stands the monster at the top
of the hill. In that second, so much terror fills my gut, I forget who I am. I
just run. I'm not worried about the hair in my face. I'm not worried about the
ripping sound my skirt is making, and I'm not worried about the slippery thuds
of my Chuck Taylor's landing against the leafy ground. I twist and turn and
angle around trees, tripping on roots, but my stride is so wide that I simply
land with my next foot before I fall. I feel as if I have to make myself breathe,
because if I don't consciously demand it, I'll forget.