Rotting with the Moon
Chapter 11: You
Dawn had washed the forest in pale gold, but inside, the light came softer. Mist curled low along the ground, blurring the edges of the cabin where Jeff and Grey had taken shelter. Pale light filtered through the trees, muted and gold, catching on the glass of a cracked window. The smell of damp wood and ash still hung in the air, soft and lingering from the small fire they’d built the night before.
Grey stirred first. Their breath fogged faintly as they blinked toward the ceiling beams — the old wood groaning faintly in rhythm with the wind. Their body still ached from the fall, from the running, from everything. But for the first time in a long while, they felt… safe.
Jeff sat cross-legged beside the small hearth, sharpening his knife not out of need but to quiet his thoughts. The sound — steel on stone — filled the silence, not in threat, but habit. He turned it over, letting the light slide across the blade. His hair hung in dark, unkempt strands that half-covered his face. When Grey sat up, he looked over immediately.
“Didn’t mean to wake you,” Jeff murmured, voice low, almost tender.
Grey shook their head, rubbing their eyes. You didn’t.
The silence between them felt different now. Not heavy, not empty — just… quiet. The kind that lets breath slow, the kind that means survival.
Jeff gestured toward the cracked mug beside him. “Water’s from the creek. Not great, but it’s clean enough.”
Grey smiled faintly, taking the mug and sipping. The cold slid down their throat, grounding them.
“You should rest more,” Jeff said. “You barely closed your eyes last night.”
Could say the same to you, Grey wrote, the motion small and slow, fingers trembling slightly from exhaustion.
He gave a ghost of a smile. “Guess I’m not much of a sleeper.”
They both laughed — quiet, careful, like the forest might listen.
Outside, birds began to stir, their calls faint but hopeful through the fog. The moment felt fragile, but real. Jeff found himself holding onto it — the soft light, the warmth of shared breath, the almost domestic peace of it all.
For a man who’d lived in the shadows, it was dangerously beautiful.
Every time he looked up, they were there: small and pale in the oversized hoodie he’d found for them, legs tucked beneath them, tracing letters in the dust beside their knee as they sat next to him by the hearth.
When they noticed his stare, Grey smiled — a tired, soft curve of their mouth that struck something deep in his chest.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he said quietly, voice rough. “Like I’m worth something.”
Grey tilted their head, unsure. They reached toward him, spelling something slowly against his sleeve with their fingertip.
Jeff’s throat tightened. For once, he didn’t look away.
The morning passed quietly. They found a loaf of stale bread and split it, eating without words. Jeff didn’t need them. Everything Grey felt was written on their face — the calm, the fear, the flicker of something else when their fingers brushed his by accident. Every soft breath between them was threaded with a fragile warmth he didn’t understand but couldn’t turn away from.
He caught himself memorizing details — the way light pooled in their seafoam eyes, the faint freckles beneath their lashes. The way they watched him as if waiting for him to say something, he didn’t know how to say.
He looked down at his hands instead. “I used to think I couldn’t feel anything anymore,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Then you looked at me like I wasn’t a monster.”
Grey’s lips parted, but they didn’t move to spell anything. They just reached out, fingertips brushing the scar at his jaw. The touch was feather-light, reverent almost.
Jeff shivered. No one had ever touched him that gently.
The day stretched into quiet hours — the kind that made the air hum with things unspoken. Jeff showed them how to write more letters in their notebook, taking small notice of how full it was getting. They wrote slowly and unevenly, the lines trembling, but each letter came clearer than the last. When they finally finished, Jeff smiled. “Perfect.”
Grey beamed with pride before going back to the notebook, writing both their own and Jeff’s name. The letters look almost perfect.
Jeff leaned against the wall, eyes closed, soaking in the weak sunlight that slipped through the boards. He could almost pretend the world outside didn’t exist — no static in his mind, no figure in the woods, no echoes of things he’d done. Just this moment: the rustle of Grey’s movements, the crackle of fire, the faint hum of birds in the distance.
Grey, meanwhile, scribbled in the notebook — not words this time, but shapes. The cabin, the trees, the outline of a person with messy hair. When Jeff leaned over to look, they flushed faintly and tried to cover it, but he only grinned.
He laughed quietly. “You didn’t make me look half as bad as I do.”
Grey looked up, meeting his eyes. Didn’t want to make you sad.
Jeff smiled as a chuckle left him for a second, and his gaze softened. “You’re something else, you know that?”
Good or bad? They wrote, teasing faintly.
He chuckled — really chuckled, the sound awkward and boyish and human. “Good. Definitely good.”
They smiled, a little brighter now, and the air between them lightened.
Outside, the forest seemed peaceful — the sunlight like melted honey through the branches. But somewhere deep within the calm, there was an echo. A pull. Something in the silence that didn’t quite belong.
As evening began to fall, the light in the cabin turned amber. Dust floated in the beams, glittering like drifting embers.
Jeff sat near the window, sharpening his knife — not out of need, but restlessness. Grey had fallen asleep curled against the wall, the notebook open beside them. Their breathing was soft, rhythmic, almost fragile.
He watched them for a long time, chest tightening.
There was something about seeing them like that — so peaceful, so alive — that terrified him. Because part of him already knew peace never lasted. Not for people like him.
Outside, the forest grew quieter. Even the birds had gone still. The air felt heavier, thicker — as if something unseen was watching through the trees.
Jeff set his knife down. He looked at Grey again, reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from their forehead. His hand lingered longer than he meant it to.
The memory of their words flickered in his mind, uninvited but grounding. He smiled faintly at the thought — the echo of their stubborn courage.
“You say that a lot,” he whispered.
A laugh slipped from him — the first in a long, long time.
By the time the last of the light slipped beyond the treetops, the forest had gone utterly still.
Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Jeff stood outside the cabin, staring into the dark. The mist had returned — thin, white ribbons curling low around the trunks. Every sound came warped, muffled by distance. He could feel it again now: the static crawling along his skin, seeping into his veins like cold fire.
He didn’t need to look to know who was out there.
Jeff felt it before he heard it: a faint ringing behind his ears, like the hum of static trying to wake. Static crawling at the base of his skull. His shoulders stiffened. He knew that sound.
Behind him, the cabin door creaked open.
Grey stood there, barefoot and pale in the dim candlelight. The hoodie Jeff had found for them was too big — sleeves swallowing their hands. Their eyes searched his face, reading what he didn’t say.
Jeff nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
For a moment, neither moved. The night pressed close, the smell of pine and rain thick between them.
Grey stepped closer, their hand brushing his arm. Their fingers spelled shakily against his sleeve: We can run.
He shook his head. “It won’t matter. The forest’s wrong. I’ve seen this before. Once he decides something’s his, he twists the world until you can’t leave it.”
Their throat worked as they swallowed. Then what do we do?
Jeff hesitated. His jaw clenched. Then quietly: “We run anyway.”
They tried. God, they tried.
Grey grabbed their notebook and Jeff’s hand — and together they pushed through the dark. The forest seemed endless, shadows folding over themselves, every path leading to another that looked the same.
They ran until their lungs burned, until the mist became a wall of silver. But no matter which way they turned — left, right, uphill — the same crooked tree appeared before them again and again.
Grey stopped first, chest heaving. Jeff, they wrote, trembling. We’re back…
He turned in a slow circle, eyes wide. The air buzzed faintly with static now — faint whispers threading through the trees. It sounded like radio noise, like voices beneath the world.
“He’s closing it off,” Jeff whispered. “He’s caging us in.”
Something inside him shifted then — fear tangled with fury. His hands curled into fists. “He can’t have you,” he growled, voice rising with something raw, something breaking loose inside. “I refuse.”
Grey reached for him, desperate. Their fingers traced frantic letters against his arm: What do we do?
He turned to Grey, hands trembling. “You need to run. Please. He’ll kill you if you stay.”
No! Their hands slammed against his chest. He’ll kill you!
He smiled then — soft, broken, but real. “You think I care about that now?”
Grey’s breath hitched. Jeff—
“I’m serious,” he said, voice cracking. “He can take everything else from me. Not this. Not you.”
The static deepened, curling through the air like smoke.
Jeff turned toward the fog, eyes dark and wild. “Run, Grey. Please.”
They shook their head violently, tears catching the faint moonlight. No.
He touched their face, thumb trembling against their cheek. “Don’t make this harder.”
The words stopped him cold. He almost laughed — the same laugh that had surprised him hours before. “You say that a lot.”
Grey smiled faintly, even through tears.
He leaned forward and kissed their forehead — soft, lingering. “I promised that I would always protect you, and I don’t plan on breaking that now. Please run, and I will come find you…”
They nodded once, slow and sure. He wanted to say it — the word clawing at his throat — but it felt too fragile to speak aloud. So he kissed them instead, slow and shaking, their tears tasting like salt and smoke.
When they pulled back, their eyes were wet, and their fingers spelled the word one more time: Stay.
Jeff’s voice broke as he whispered back, “If you stay, he’ll hurt you.”
The letters wavered but held. Don’t care.
For a moment, the world felt impossibly still — the kind of stillness before lightning strikes.
Then the static screamed.
Jeff shoved Grey back, just far enough that they stumbled into the brush, and turned to face the mist. Grey hesitated for a moment before they turned and ran into the dark.
Jeff waited until their footsteps disappeared, then turned toward the shifting silhouette in the forest.
Grey ran until their lungs burned, until their legs gave out beneath them. But the forest wouldn’t let them go — every path curved back toward the same clearing, the same cabin. Panic bloomed in their chest. The trees whispered his name like static.
They fell to their knees, gasping, tears stinging their eyes. ‘Jeff,’ they thought, breathless. ‘Please...stay alive…I still need to tell you how much I love you.’
They looked around the forest and ran for a while before turning back towards the clearing.
‘You never left me. So I’m not leaving you. I won’t ever leave your side until death rips me from you!’
And then — through the fog — came the sound of fighting.
Shapes flickered in the dark — long, shifting limbs that moved wrong, like smoke made flesh. The air split with the sound of splitting static, white noise that made Jeff’s head throb.
“Come on!” he shouted hoarsely. “You wanted me? I’m right here!”
The mist folded inward — and then, for just a heartbeat, Jeff saw him.
The tall figure between the trees. No face, no eyes, but Jeff felt him staring. His body went rigid, his breath hitching in his throat as invisible strings coiled around him — Slenderman’s control tightening like barbed wire through his veins.
His limbs jerked once, against his will.
“Stop it,” he gasped. “Stop!”
The static responded with a cold voice that wasn’t sound but thought — a pulse in the air.
Jeff grit his teeth, shaking, forcing his arm back down. “Not anymore.”
“I saved something!” he screamed, his voice tearing. “For once in my life, I—”
The static surged. His body convulsed, one knee hitting the dirt. Blood pounded in his ears, his vision swimming in black and white noise. The voice hissed through the trees. I made you.
“Then you should’ve made me stronger,” Jeff spat. His grip tightened on the knife.
Jeff lunged forward, swinging at the dark shape flickering between the trees. The blade sliced through air that felt too thick, too alive, and something shrieked in response — a sound that wasn’t human.
He caught glimpses of him between the trunks — tall, pale, moving faster than light should allow. Each time he struck, the fog rippled and reformed.
Jeff’s knife flashed in and out of the mist. Slenderman’s form rippled between the trees, impossibly tall, each movement bending the air. Jeff’s strikes were fast but desperate — every swing met with a force that sent pain lancing through his arms.
You could have ruled beside me.
Jeff spat blood onto the dirt. “I’d rather burn.”
“They’re not a target!” Jeff shouted, voice cracking. “They’re—”
He stopped himself. The word pressed like fire against his teeth.
Say it, the whisper hissed. Say what you’ve become.
Jeff’s knife wavered. “I love them,” he whispered, trembling. “Do you hear me? I love them.”
The forest erupted — branches snapping, air shattering into a thousand threads of sound. Slenderman lunged, but Jeff was faster — barely. The knife tore through shadow and smoke, meeting nothing solid.
But pain ripped across his side anyway, unseen claws tearing through flesh. He dropped to one knee, breath ragged. “You’ll never touch them again!”
A flicker of movement — Grey’s figure breaking through the mist. “No!” Jeff’s scream tore through the clearing as they stumbled toward him. “Run—!”
Slenderman’s control clawed at him again, snapping through his nerves, forcing his arm to jerk sideways. His knife slashed wild — a shallow cut across Grey’s shoulder as they ran toward him, crying out.
Jeff froze, horror flickering through him. “No—!”
Grey’s hand pressed to the wound, small fingers trembling but alive. They were okay. They were okay.
He didn’t have time to breathe before a new shadow loomed behind them.
The figure’s limbs lashed through the mist, fast, silent. Jeff tried to reach them, but the static hit him like lightning, knocking him to his knees. His head screamed with white noise. His vision shattered into fragments — flashes of trees, blood, Grey’s eyes wide and wet, a voice that wasn’t his saying end it.
The static cut out. The forest was deathly still.
When Jeff’s senses returned, Grey was collapsing into his arms.
He caught them before they hit the ground. The world tilted sideways, the night’s edges blurring into dark and gold. He held them close, his breath shaking, their weight too light in his arms.
Their hands shook as they pressed against his wound. Their tears mixed with the blood on his shirt. “You shouldn’t have come back,” he rasped.
Grey’s head shook — defiant, trembling. Their hands rose to his face, spelling against his cheek with shaking fingers:
Their fingers trembled against his cheek, smearing his blood across their skin. For a long moment, they just looked at him, as if memorizing his face. There was no accusation in their eyes — only peace. They looked at him the way they always had, like they already knew how this was how it would end.
“No—no—no—” His voice splintered. “Please—stay with me—please—”
“You were never supposed to matter,” Jeff whispered, choking on the words.
Grey smiled faintly, lips trembling. “Then why…”
Their voice was soft, raw, almost broken from disuse.
Jeff’s breath caught in his chest.
“Then why do you matter so much to me?” they finished, their tone a whisper more felt than heard.
Jeff froze. “You—you spoke…”
Grey’s hand trembled against his face, tears cutting through the dirt on their skin. “Practiced,” they rasped, their voice a whisper of wind. “Wanted to… surprise you.”
A sob broke from him, sharp and raw. He pressed his forehead to theirs. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve protected you better. I should’ve—”
They shook their head faintly. “Don’t. I couldn’t… leave you.”
His breath hitched. “You idiot,” he whispered. “You beautiful, stubborn idiot.”
They smiled, small and real. “I love you, Jeff.”
He broke then — the sound that left him wasn’t human, wasn’t sane, just pain made into air. “I love you too,” he whispered, and then louder, desperate: “I love you!”
They leaned up — just barely — and their lips met his. It was trembling, soft, filled with everything they didn’t have words for.
When they pulled back, their breath shuddered once more. “You… found me, then,” they whispered.
Jeff’s tears fell onto their skin. “I will always find you.”
Their eyes fluttered closed, breath fading against his lips. The last sound between them was a quiet, broken laugh as their eyes closed. Their hand slipped from his cheek, falling gently against his chest.
The forest around them seemed to exhale — the static fading, the wind sighing low through the trees.
For a moment, everything was quiet. Peaceful.
Then the world came apart in a scream — Jeff’s scream — echoing through the warped forest, tearing through Slenderman’s realm like thunder. Splitting the static and shaking the world apart. The distorted air burned white with grief around him.
By the time the sound faded, the mist had thinned. The air hung heavy with silence.
Grey lay still in Jeff’s arms, their hair brushing his wrist, their blood cooling against his sleeve.
He pressed his face to their shoulder, whispering things only they would ever hear — half apologies, half declarations of love.
Somewhere behind him, a camera clicked — faint, distant — and Jeff’s head lifted sharply.
In the fog stood Grey’s father, recording, eyes wide with something between horror and greed.
Jeff rose slowly, the air around him trembling. His voice was low, hoarse, trembling with the last of his humanity.
The man took a step back.
“You’ll get it,” Jeff whispered.
Behind him, the forest darkened again — Slenderman’s shadow looming, stretching tall behind the human shape.
Jeff turned toward it, knife in hand, his body a ruin of grief and fury. “They were never yours,” he hissed.
The candle in the cabin flickered once, then went out.
Only the static remained.
3253 Words
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