There are times when one will think they are being watched. Late at night-- perhaps alone, within the safe confides of their own home. They are warm and comfortable. Until there's that feeling, that odd hint appearing within the mind. It whispers in one's ear.
To look over your shoulder.
What is that shadow of movement in the corner of your eye? It may indeed be your imagination, it may be a trick of the light. It may, quite frankly be nothing. But then again, there will always be that certain anxiety. That perhaps it was
s o m e t h i n g.
A child cries in the night; there's a monster under their bed, in their closet, behind the door. Of course their isn't. There is nothing lurking in the corners, keeping to the shadows.
It is lurking in full view instead. At the end of your bed, at your window. And it is hungry. It wants your mind. And it will never stop.
And hand ghosts forward through the dark; it reaches for the lonely wanderer, the drifter. The one that will miss their sanity. It does not touch them, but hovers close to their shoulder. A breath on their neck, a snap of a twig.
Slenderman is but a passing thing, one that in time, they will brush away. Ignore. But for now, he will simply follow them, towering high above them.
Don't look up, Children; for someone is above. A pale face. Delightful.
