⦻ Chrysalis.

Enthusiast of psychology · writer of creepypasta. 🇮🇹🇧🇷'

[chryssalise]

What do the proxies think of slenderman? Is he like an actual God to them? (Worship/cult/ritual stuff) or like just some guy. I have a feeling Tim hates him lol

It depends a lot on the proxy himself.

And like I said before — some proxies tolerate the Operator.

Others don’t.

I wrote about this once, in an old post — and I still find it fascinating.

The way He plays with you like you’re nothing but a puppet on a string.

Tugs at you soft as a doctor’s smile, whispering “this won’t hurt a bit…” before He sinks the needle in anyway.

Some of them like it.

The ones who had nothing.

The ones already treated like lab rats.

The ones who already felt like an error in the system nobody ever bothered to fix.

Kids with no name left to save, no future to protect — children who never even pictured tomorrow.

And when He comes to them, quiet and cold, they swear it feels like grace.

Like someone finally saw them.

Finally called them something other than nothing.

You ever seen a sinner crawl to the altar?

It’s like that.

And really — how do you save something that doesn’t want to be saved?

How do you cleanse a soul that’s already nothing but sin?

How do you wipe a virus off a system that crashes every time you press a key?

They’re blind.

Led by Him.

And they choose to stay blind.

Tobias is a perfect example.

That boy didn’t have a damn thing.

Not a future, not a dream left — nothing but the sweetness of his sister’s hands holding his through the dark.

And when she died, he died too.

Not just her body in that coffin.

Toby E. Rogers went into the ground right alongside her.

That’s why he calls the Operator salvation.

That’s why he smiles when the strings pull tighter.

Because some kids can’t tell the difference between heaven and hell when both of them feel like someone finally seeing you.

But the ones who couldn’t tolerate it…

They had something.

A future.

A life.

God, you can still see it in Brian if you look close enough — the way his shoulders drop whenever someone mentions his school days or the sweet smell of his mother's hair before God abandoned him. Or even that little café he used to sit in every morning back in college, hands cupped around his coffee like it was some quiet little prayer.

That boy had a life.

He had a future.

And it was stripped from him — ripped out of his hands like a mother snatching candy from her child’s mouth.

Tim?

Tim can’t even bring himself to say His name half the time.

I reckon it’s because he still remembers what it felt like to be clean.

You watch him now and he’s tired — bone-tired — but he wasn’t always this way.

There was a time he still believed in mercy.

Still believed in forgiveness.

He even went to church, back then.

And now?

Every time he breathes the Operator’s air, he can feel it — the sin curling in his lungs like smoke, staining him worse than the cigarettes ever did.

And he doesn't care anymore. He knows that one day his skull will be the one buried beneath another pair of boots and that his gun will collect dust on that fucked up cabin.

The forest eats what it raises.

That’s the thing nobody tells you.

The ones who hate Him the most… are the ones who used to believe in something.

Because you can’t betray a man who’s already lost everything.

But you can break a man who thought he still had something left worth saving.

And that’s exactly what He does.

Every damn time.

So in my opinion — it depends on the proxy.

But one thing’s certain:

God doesn’t watch this far back.

You carve the ⦻ into your skin,

you bury your baptism name,

and you become nothing but one of His.

Until your name is forgotten in the roots of the trees that wrap around your skull — you're nothing but a little blade with a name.

You keep your gun oiled, your knife sharp, and your damn mouth shut. That’s all the Gospel you need out here. God doesn't watch this far back.

And remember: We all answer to something. Yours wear a suit.

Because in the end — we’re all just following Him, one way or another. And if you think you can run away, just remember that you're no smarter than these woods that witnessed everything — this forest swallowed people better than you and spitted their bones to their mothers to see.

We are all his children.

“We All obey Him — our Savior, our Lord, our Deliverer from the rot of this world. We are His hands. His knives. And we bleed so He doesn’t have to. He sees all. He saves all. And you will kneel and bow your head when the time comes — you'll carve the symbol into your skin with the sacred stench of these trees. I promise I will keep my mouth shut and let myself become nothing but your child, my Great Lord. We All promised the day we were born, God.“

⦻

[chryssalise]

What's your opinion on David near's (old) version of the proxies? If you've seen that voice video he did years ago

I’ve got a bit of a different take when it comes to the voices of the proxies themselves.

See — Brian wouldn’t use a voice changer. Hell, he wouldn’t even bother pretending to be “cold” and calculated when he’s talking to you. That ain’t his way. He laughs. Makes jokes that drip off his lips like battery acid burning into your skin. Sarcasm sharp enough to cut you open. At best, he’d carry on a casual little chat while he watches you crawl for your life — then fill you with bullets, one by one, until he’s kind enough to put the last one in your skull.

Better put: Brian is calm and sarcastic, not quiet and worn-down like Tim, not cocky and wild like Toby. He’s casual. Like putting a bullet in your heart is the same as kissing your hand and asking you for a dance.

Now, about his voice? I’ve always pictured him with a Southern accent — Texas, maybe. Not thick, but strong enough you’d hear it when he orders coffee at some roadside gas station and know exactly where he’s from. I imagine he’s got a tooth gap, too. Just enough that, every now and then, when he hisses through certain words, you can hear that little whistle. That’s how he sounds to me. That’s my version of him in the Slenderverse.

Now Tim… Tim’s a little different, but not by much. He’s got that same Southern R to his speech, that gravelly edge from too many cigarettes. His voice ain’t as deep as Toby’s, but it’s lower than Brian’s, and rough. Like him. He smokes so much his beard smells like tobacco smoke half the time — he lets it grow out in the winter, trims it back down in the summer. He doesn’t play games with you when he’s working. He’s tired. He just wants to go home, crack open a beer, and sit on the porch watching the foxes dance in the snow. If you hear anything behind you, it’ll just be his breath — right before you feel the bullet in your head.

I always feel like he hates seeing his time as “the Operator’s right hand” slipping away. Even though he’s still the brains of it all, even though Brian and Toby do the heavy lifting now… deep down, he wishes he could go back. Back to before it all rotted. Back to when he could still smell his mama’s hair and pretend the world hadn’t turned its back on him yet.

And Toby?

I actually agree completely with David Near’s take on his voice. Honestly, after he became a proxy, his ego shot straight through the roof. Yesterday he was some scrawny, angry kid getting his ass kicked at school — and now suddenly he’s under the gaze of a godlike entity that handed him the right to kill whoever he wants. You know what that kind of power does to a seventeen-year-old boy who’s already broken? Turns him insufferable.

He laughs when he kills. Makes jokes. Spits on the floor. Mocks your screams in a high-pitched voice just to piss you off — then chokes on his own words when one of his tics kicks in. Over time, though, he calmed down some. Became close with Brian. Picked up some of that quiet sarcasm from him, learned to keep himself a little more in check after the initial high wore off. These days, he likes to speak slow and draw it out when he’s scaring you — smiling when he sees you twisting in fear and agony. Even when his stutter slips through and ruins his little speech, he just turns it into another weapon.

But don’t get it twisted. You’re not safe with him. Not ever.

That’s how I see it. Of course, there are all kinds of interpretations of them out there, and that’s fine. But to me, they’re so much more than just names or masks. They’re characters worth digging into. I genuinely love studying psychology just so I can figure out how each of them works, and how to dig even deeper into who they really are underneath it all.

Thanks for asking. Hope you have a good day!

[chryssalise]

You sure you still want to be a proxy?

Sometimes you ask yourself how you ended up here, in this life.

Same routine — wake up, patrol the forest, kill, hunt, come home, clean your weapons, sleep. The cycle repeats. Every. Damn. Day.

Some proxies like it.

Most who tolerate it had no future to begin with — just another broken child, another failure, another horror in the system.

They had nothing.

They were “saved” by the Operator — that blessed excellence that drains you every day — the cancer under your skin.

Those who couldn’t tolerate it... they had something.

A future.

God, you still remember how Brian’s shoulders used to drop whenever someone brought up psychology, or that café he used to go to every morning during college.

He had a future.

He had a life — and it was stripped from his hands like a mother taking candy from a child’s mouth.

It’s pathetic.

They all fight for space, for approval, for survival in the woods — forgetting that deep down, they were all the same children who heard doctors whisper to their mothers that there was no cure.

Gurneys, gloves, syringes, files.

All lab rats.

All puppets.

All clawing for scraps from a man in a suit behind a desk, sending mission after mission just to see what the human mind does when it breaks.

You see how Tim comes back—exhausted.

He can’t take it anymore.

The dark under his eyes says it louder than his mouth ever will, or the way his cigarette keeps slipping from his trembling fingers.

You used to ask how his night went after his endless patrols through the woods.

But his eyes told you everything:

God doesn’t walk these woods anymore.

Run — or be consumed.

You see how Brian returns — mud on his camera, blood on his hands, breath heavy.

His eyes cut into your skin every time you dare speak after he walks through the door.

You remember it well — his worn eyes while he cleaned the barrel of his gun.

"Clean the barrel, or let it jam when it counts. You decide."

He taught you how to clean a weapon.

He taught you prayers won’t sanctify your blood — but a tourniquet just might.

God is not in these trees anymore.

But out of everyone — out of every soul working under this cursed thing —

it’s him that unsettles you.

The twitching boy.

The one with the tangled hair.

The bloody axe.

The filthy hoodie.

The leather boots.

The fucked-up jokes.

Goddamn — he’s a fucking maniac.

He kills.

He enjoys it.

He comes back brighter.

He feels pure curiosity in the face of agony.

And you ask:

Does he feel guilty?

Guilt?

He chews the word like cartilage stuck in his teeth.

Guilt is for those who pretend they had a choice.

He didn’t choose this.

He became it.

Like rot becoming part of the bone.

Like rust becoming part of the blade.

Like the axe becoming part of his anatomy.

Like the Proxy symbol carved into his skin like a cancer — slow and patient.

And it’s fucking terrifying.

But still — you think you can fix him.

Patch him up like some broken doll, spit out and painted over, left to rust in a scrapyard collecting dust for eternity.

You always think you know everything, don't you?

You think you're above it — smarter than the roots, the moss, the stench. You think you're sharper than every single bone buried beneath your snow covered boots.

You always think you were smarter than the trees — but they think you taste the same as the others.

Now you know it. You carve the symbol, you bury your name, remember that.

But you aren't afraid of the woods anymore, don't you? You know them. You walk like you belong here now — maybe you do.

That's why you did it.

You walked to his cabin in the dead of night, feeling the cold air graze your skin, the wind whispering in your ears — as if the trees were greeting you.

You sat on the couch in that godforsaken cabin.

The air stank — like rotting meat soaked into the walls.

Ash-covered tube TV.

Ashtrays filled with crushed cigarettes.

Torn carpet.

That old brown couch with holes exposing the yellow foam inside.

And the fireplace still burned — not for warmth, but maybe to keep something worse from crawling in.

And there he was.

Sitting.

Sharpening the blade of his axe.

Tic after tic.

Laugh after laugh.

You couldn’t help but watch him — every line of his face, every twitch of his mouth, every ripple of muscle as the whetstone kissed the edge of steel.

You remember that night clearly — the firewood crackling like bone under pressure.

The silence chewing into your skin like teeth in slow motion.

You remember the question.

"Why do you use an axe?"

And what you got back was just a low laugh — a twitch at the mouth, then the shoulder before he answered.

"B-because it’s f-fun. Nh-h-hm… G-guns end too f-fast. Kn-knives s-s-slip. But this?.."

He lifted it slightly — like showing off a pet.

"Y-you f-feel it... down t-to the bone. They ss-scream and crawl and — nh-hhh — th-that’s the b-best part.

He chuckled — raising the axe in front of him like a muse, like something holy.

"It’s fun to w-watch ‘em… l-listen to th-them plea… b-beg… ffuck—sometimes they cry."

And you could see the memories crawl through his eyes.

Hell, you could almost hear the screaming — right before the skull split down the center.

And it was that night you finally understood.

There are no rosaries in these woods to cleanse you.

No saints to hear you.

No angel names strong enough to stop the blood from warming against your neck.

The forest only respects the sound of a trigger — and the silence that comes after.

You shoot before you cry.

You bury before the crows arrive.

You learn to scrub the blood off your coat before the cold freezes it stiff and shatters you with it.

Because in this land, climbing up is just a slower way to drown.

You rise through the ranks on a staircase made of rib cages and broken promises.

Each step is a name you forget.

Each rung, a piece of you that never comes back.

And when you finally reach what you thought was the top — there’s no light.

Just more woods.

More eyes.

And one truth carved into your soul:

God doesn’t walk where the mud swallows the crosses.

You are no different from the others who fight to survive.

You just bleed quieter.

You run with clenched teeth.

You learned not to scream when the blade goes in.

Everyone here kills to eat — or dies to teach.

No one’s special in the woods — not even you.

The only thing that keeps you from rotting next to the others is how well you carry your own silence without losing your mind.

And if one day you think you’re stronger, smarter, chosen — remember this:

The woods eat the proud before the weak.

Because the weak pray — but the proud answer.

And here? The ones who dares to answer vanishes.

You survive because you’ve accepted being less than human when needed.

Because you know an empty stomach is more merciful than a stranger’s bullet.

Because you’ve killed with a shiver down your spine and hunger in your eyes — and didn’t apologize after.

In the end, it doesn’t matter if you cry or spit.

If you pray or bite.

If you carry a rosary or a blade.

Everyone turns to dirt just the same.

And in the end, there is no purity left.

Not the name they gave you at baptism.

Not the smell of your mother’s kitchen.

Not the memory of her smiling before the world turned its back.

What’s left is what you did.

What you lost.

What you left behind just to keep breathing.

Because when the blood dries on your knuckles, and the trail swallows your footsteps — you realize you were never the exception.

You were never the victim.

You were never the curse.

You were never the salvation.

You’re just another body in motion.

Another weapon with hunger.

Another silence with legs.

You are no different from Brian. From Tim. From Toby.

Not by choice.

But because now — like them —

you’ve gone too far to come back.

[chryssalise]

You don't understand how terrifying Toby E. Rogers is.

Tim Wright? I've seen him being called Slenderman's right hand more times than I can count. Brian too — always listed as the tactical one, the logical one, the camera in the dark. Both strong. Skilled. Ruthless. But Tobias?

You don't talk about Tobias.

No one ever does.

Maybe that’s the most terrifying part.

Tim is frightening. He's tall, trained, deadly accurate with a firearm. If you're unlucky, he might shoot you in the leg just to watch you crawl and sit there beside your dying body, lighting a cigarette with hands still stained from his last kill, staring at you like you're a problem that refuses to go away. He doesn’t enjoy it. He’s just tired.

Brian? He’ll mock you. Record your cries, laugh at them later. He’ll put a bullet in every inch of you until you’re crawling, desperate, broken. And when he’s done, he’ll casually meet Tim for a drink, chatting about ammo like you weren’t even a person. He doesn’t need a reason. He’s cruel for the sake of it. Detached. Emotionless. He'll shoot every inch of you until you're no longer human — just something twitching on the floor.

But they feel pain. They tire. You can fight them, hurt them, stall them — they can still feel that bullet stinging on their skin, they can still feel blood dripping out from their shoulder, they can still feel your punch on their stomach for hours.

But Tobias?

Tobias is something else entirely.

Toby doesn’t feel pain.

Let me say that again: he doesn’t feel pain.

You can stab him, shoot him, snap bones — he won’t flinch. He won’t stop. You won’t even slow him down. Heat exhaustion doesn’t touch him. Pain doesn’t register. He's wired differently. Completely.

He’s spent years throwing axes. His aim is terrifying — eagle-precise, deadly. You think your weak arms and ragged breath will help you escape him? you’re trembling, you’re gasping, lungs burning, legs cramping, hands slippery with your own blood. And he's still walking — not running — walking after you, laughing, muttering nonsense between vocal tics as the blade in his hand scrapes along the wall behind him.

This man laughs, twitches, and stutters his way through an entire bloodbath without blinking.

You think shooting him will stop him? you think pleading will slow him down? you think crawling to the door will earn his pity?

You’ll only hear: "li-little buh-biitch" — before his axe swings down, smiling down at you, like a hunter who just killed his first prey, his first prize.

And even then, he won't finish you. Not right away. He'll throw an axe into your back, then rip it out slowly. He wants you to feel it. He'll let you crawl a little. He likes the chase.

He'll follow you, limping with purpose, murmuring through his ticks. He’ll scrape his axe along the ground, letting you hear the metal sing behind you. The floor becomes a canvas for the trail of red he leaves behind.

Toby isn't a saint. He's not a sunshine-and-rainbows proxy. He wasn’t born for this — he was twisted into it. He was never meant to be saved. Not when he was forced to become a proxy to survive.

He won’t soften for anyone.

He won’t declaw himself for you.

He won’t stop sharpening his teeth just to make sure he can still tear something apart.

He enjoys watching blood drain from your body. He smiles when you scream. He stares with fascination when you cry — not out of pleasure, but out of curiosity.

Because he’s never felt it. So he wants to see it.

So tell me: if you were Slenderman, and you had to choose between Brian, Tim, or Toby.

Who would you trust to be your hands?

Your eyes?

Your wrath?

....

You already know the answer now.

[chryssalise]

I get so mad that I'll never be a proxy bro.

Living in the middle of the forest in a hunter's cabin, white and transparent curtains that are torn and dirty, a messy bed, the smell of cigarettes, guns on the table, a forgotten coffee mug on the sink, muddy boots, plaid coat thrown over a chair, slenderman's pages all over the walls that I forgot to nail to the trees. No contact with the outside world. Driving with Brian, patrolling the woods with Toby, smoking cigarettes with Tim. I was supposed to be like this, not studying Excel.

It hurts when people ask me what I'm going to do with my life and I answer "oh, medicine" and not "become a proxy" shit i was MEANT to be a fucking proxy.

Every child's dream that was there when the creepypasta fandom was at its PEAK was becoming a proxy (still is). I want to stop growing up and go back to when i used to be afraid of slenderman and thought ben drowned was watching me through my telephone and was in love with me.

My 7 minutes before death will be this because nostalgia is consuming me and i can feel its teeth devouring each atom of my soul bro.