THE SLENDER MAN, HE IS THERE BECAUSE YOU THOUGHT OF HIM, NOW TRY NOT TO THINK OF HIM
I don't know who has really heard about the Slender Man, but he's always kind of weirded me out. It's part of why that weird feeling I used to get on the first floor of the house unnerved me so damn much. Large, uncovered windows that open onto trees and omgwtf darkness, yeah, no thanks.
Anyways, I was reading a fanfic earlier and, surprise, guess who I ran across?!
Yeaaahhhh. The fic is Hetalia, of course, but....yanno..with HIM in it. I already want to cry for poor Alfred......and Mattie too. D:
I read what was posted and continued with other things but, it's been bugging me ALL DAY. I want to DRAW HIM NOW. I dunno why, really. I just do. So in looking for some kind of, I don't know, inspiration I watched the Marble Hornets videos. Interestingly weird stuff, that. But I eventually went back to Something Awful and was looking at the images and 'accounts' and..just...I dunno, this one is pretty cool:
poster: WindyWolly
"Jan 01, 2009
My grandmother was a poor peasant from Russia; I never knew my grandfather, Pyotr. The last anybody heard of Pyotr was in 1939, when he “disappeared” to a gulag in Siberia. My father was born a couple months after that, in 1940, and in the winter of 1941, when the Germans were deep in the heart of Russia and stories of killings spread, my grandmother decided that she would not lose my father to the Nazis, to Stalin, or to hunger and the cold. She fled-she has still not told anybody how-and she reached America with the rags on her back, a spoon that had been blessed by the Patriarch Nikon, and my father, who was originally to be named Abraham, but out of fear of action triggered by a religious name, had been officially named Dimitri. My grandmother held him tightly, calling him “my sweet Mitya.”
According to the authorities in the Soviet Union, my father had no father; my grandfather was wiped from existence as he was taken away. When I was younger, I could not wrap my head around it; how could a man exist and leave proof of his existence-my father-and yet not exist? I later realized that it was simply denial on the part of the authorities. Little did I know that my younger self, who saw a paradox of existence and non-existence, was right. How could somebody exist and not exist? It must be corrected.
My father married twice. The first marriage was childless but not altogether unpleasant. The second marriage produced my older brother and me. My grandmother always had a strange way of showing her emotions about my father’s choices. During the first marriage, I am told, she did not scold him for picking a Jewish bride, as Russian mothers of that generation were expected to. She sat without emotion during the ceremony, clutching the heirloom spoon. Later, she took my father aside and, clutching his arm with surprising strength in her bony fingers, whispered with urgent eyes: “The world corrects its mistakes; it does not care who it hurts. Do not bring children. It is a mistake. It must be corrected. It will come. He will come.”
I am not sure why they never had children-perhaps the warning, perhaps medical reasons, perhaps something else. The second marriage, though hardly the most fruitful, saw two children born. My grandmother arrived to pay her regards to the birth of my older brother, telling my father, “You have made a mistake. It must be corrected. It will come. He will come.” She did not pay her regards to my birth two years later.
Growing up, she seemed distant to me. Whenever I was over, she would move as quickly as she could to grab her blessed relic and hold it tightly. She looked at the air around her, muttering in Russian. I asked her what she was doing, and she reluctantly acknowledged my presence, saying, “Something cannot come from nothing. It is a mistake. It must be corrected. It will come. He will come.”
My older brother protected me from schoolyard bullies and tried to help me as much as he could as we grew up. He gave me advice about the things boys had to know-school, card games, girls-and by the time he was eighteen and graduating high school, he was my hero and provided all the guidance I needed. About that time, things started to change. It was not the people so much as the air, which seemed to hold less oxygen and felt static at all times, constantly threatening to send out a spark at any point and any time.
My grandmother sensed the change first, and started to withdraw from us more, if it was even possible. My father noticed, and took us by one day. My father banged on her door and we heard footsteps inside, but the door never opened. “Open the door,” my father shouted at the door, “it’s Mitya. I have the boys.” We left in confusion.
To celebrate his graduation, my brother went on a fishing trip at a friend’s cabin in the woods two hours away. When they arrived, the four friends noticed that none of them had brought a bottle opener. My brother called me, begging me to bring one from home. “Couldn’t you just run by a convenience store?” I whined. I relented after only a couple minutes; I loved to drive.
About halfway through the trip, my father called me on my cell phone. “Have you heard from your mother?”, he said, “Because she should have been home a while ago and I haven’t heard a thing.” I was a bit worried, but figured she just was working late. “Oh,” he said, “let me check the driveway, I think I hear her car.” I heard him go outside and stop, then call out my mother’s name. “Huh,” he said, “that’s weird. She left her car running in the driveway, but she’s nowhere to be found.” I began to ache and felt a bit hot. “I think…”, I started, but the phone call had ended. I was about to dial again when I felt a sharp pain in my temples, as if chisels had been hammered into each.
I don’t know how the car stopped on the road or how I didn’t crash. I was numb, worried, and hopeful that I had just fallen asleep at the wheel. “You’re just a worrier,” I thought to myself. Still, my grandmother’s words rang in my head. “It is a mistake. It must be corrected. It will come. He will come.”
When I got to the cabin, I found my brother in the front room, staring at the kitchen table. “I didn’t feel well,” he said, and I noticed that his face was pale and sweaty.
“Let’s go for a walk,” I suggested.
We went into the woods, walking along a trail that had been partially grown over. Neither of us talked. He looked at the ground in front of him; I looked at the trees. Some of them seemed odd. They didn’t sway like the others. They didn’t look quite like the others. The just didn’t feel right. When I looked again, the oddness was gone, but out of the corner of my eye, I could see something that looked almost like a tall, slender man.
We stopped by the side of the lake. I could not see where his friends were fishing. I started to pick up flat pebbles and skip them across the surface of the water. My brother was always better at this, and I turned to make a joke and suggest that he try. I looked over my right shoulder and turned and turned and he wasn’t there. I was a bit spooked, but reasoned that he might want to be alone. I was about to turn back to the water when I heard a guttural sound that only said: “RUN.”
I shot back towards the trail and ran as fast as I could, stumbling over vegetation, feeling something bearing down on me, getting closer, closer…
As I ran, I realized what was happening. My grandfather did not die; he never existed. My father should not exist, nor should my brother, nor should I. It is a mistake. It must be corrected. It will come. He will come."
I would also like to add that my rats haven't come out of their little plastic hiding place in more than an hour, even when I call them. O_o
But really. I NEED to draw it. I'm thinking charcoal? I dunno. X_X
Never gonna sleep again guys. Never.
Post by Phy:
"In reading this thread, I'm struck by one behaviour of Der Ritter in particular, that of its impaling its victims in a tree, while removing and reinserting their internal organs. It's remarkably akin to the feeding habits of shrikes, also known as butcherbirds.
See, what a shrike will do is capture a smaller animal - anything from a cricket to a smaller bird or mouse - and kill it. Shrikes are songbirds, and their musculature is pretty lacking compared to a straight-up raptor like a hawk or owl, so their kill is messy and inefficient, consisting of many pecks and bites to the head and neck. This continues until the prey animal is either dead or too tired to fight. But that's not the worst part. The worst part is that as weak as their jaws are, their claws are weaker, and they wholly lack talons. They're built to perch. So, what a shrike will do, is it will take its prey to a thorny tree, or bush, or even barbed wire, and it will ram its prey down on a spike so that it won't move when the shrike tears it apart.
It's a songbird that's learned to kill, and it does so far more cruelly than any raptor.
Anyone ever hear the Slender Man sing?
e: Wikipedia on Lanius excubitor, the Great Gray Shrike: "This species will lure birds closer by mimicking their calls." '
Anyways, I was reading a fanfic earlier and, surprise, guess who I ran across?!
Yeaaahhhh. The fic is Hetalia, of course, but....yanno..with HIM in it. I already want to cry for poor Alfred......and Mattie too. D:
I read what was posted and continued with other things but, it's been bugging me ALL DAY. I want to DRAW HIM NOW. I dunno why, really. I just do. So in looking for some kind of, I don't know, inspiration I watched the Marble Hornets videos. Interestingly weird stuff, that. But I eventually went back to Something Awful and was looking at the images and 'accounts' and..just...I dunno, this one is pretty cool:
poster: WindyWolly
"Jan 01, 2009
My grandmother was a poor peasant from Russia; I never knew my grandfather, Pyotr. The last anybody heard of Pyotr was in 1939, when he “disappeared” to a gulag in Siberia. My father was born a couple months after that, in 1940, and in the winter of 1941, when the Germans were deep in the heart of Russia and stories of killings spread, my grandmother decided that she would not lose my father to the Nazis, to Stalin, or to hunger and the cold. She fled-she has still not told anybody how-and she reached America with the rags on her back, a spoon that had been blessed by the Patriarch Nikon, and my father, who was originally to be named Abraham, but out of fear of action triggered by a religious name, had been officially named Dimitri. My grandmother held him tightly, calling him “my sweet Mitya.”
According to the authorities in the Soviet Union, my father had no father; my grandfather was wiped from existence as he was taken away. When I was younger, I could not wrap my head around it; how could a man exist and leave proof of his existence-my father-and yet not exist? I later realized that it was simply denial on the part of the authorities. Little did I know that my younger self, who saw a paradox of existence and non-existence, was right. How could somebody exist and not exist? It must be corrected.
My father married twice. The first marriage was childless but not altogether unpleasant. The second marriage produced my older brother and me. My grandmother always had a strange way of showing her emotions about my father’s choices. During the first marriage, I am told, she did not scold him for picking a Jewish bride, as Russian mothers of that generation were expected to. She sat without emotion during the ceremony, clutching the heirloom spoon. Later, she took my father aside and, clutching his arm with surprising strength in her bony fingers, whispered with urgent eyes: “The world corrects its mistakes; it does not care who it hurts. Do not bring children. It is a mistake. It must be corrected. It will come. He will come.”
I am not sure why they never had children-perhaps the warning, perhaps medical reasons, perhaps something else. The second marriage, though hardly the most fruitful, saw two children born. My grandmother arrived to pay her regards to the birth of my older brother, telling my father, “You have made a mistake. It must be corrected. It will come. He will come.” She did not pay her regards to my birth two years later.
Growing up, she seemed distant to me. Whenever I was over, she would move as quickly as she could to grab her blessed relic and hold it tightly. She looked at the air around her, muttering in Russian. I asked her what she was doing, and she reluctantly acknowledged my presence, saying, “Something cannot come from nothing. It is a mistake. It must be corrected. It will come. He will come.”
My older brother protected me from schoolyard bullies and tried to help me as much as he could as we grew up. He gave me advice about the things boys had to know-school, card games, girls-and by the time he was eighteen and graduating high school, he was my hero and provided all the guidance I needed. About that time, things started to change. It was not the people so much as the air, which seemed to hold less oxygen and felt static at all times, constantly threatening to send out a spark at any point and any time.
My grandmother sensed the change first, and started to withdraw from us more, if it was even possible. My father noticed, and took us by one day. My father banged on her door and we heard footsteps inside, but the door never opened. “Open the door,” my father shouted at the door, “it’s Mitya. I have the boys.” We left in confusion.
To celebrate his graduation, my brother went on a fishing trip at a friend’s cabin in the woods two hours away. When they arrived, the four friends noticed that none of them had brought a bottle opener. My brother called me, begging me to bring one from home. “Couldn’t you just run by a convenience store?” I whined. I relented after only a couple minutes; I loved to drive.
About halfway through the trip, my father called me on my cell phone. “Have you heard from your mother?”, he said, “Because she should have been home a while ago and I haven’t heard a thing.” I was a bit worried, but figured she just was working late. “Oh,” he said, “let me check the driveway, I think I hear her car.” I heard him go outside and stop, then call out my mother’s name. “Huh,” he said, “that’s weird. She left her car running in the driveway, but she’s nowhere to be found.” I began to ache and felt a bit hot. “I think…”, I started, but the phone call had ended. I was about to dial again when I felt a sharp pain in my temples, as if chisels had been hammered into each.
I don’t know how the car stopped on the road or how I didn’t crash. I was numb, worried, and hopeful that I had just fallen asleep at the wheel. “You’re just a worrier,” I thought to myself. Still, my grandmother’s words rang in my head. “It is a mistake. It must be corrected. It will come. He will come.”
When I got to the cabin, I found my brother in the front room, staring at the kitchen table. “I didn’t feel well,” he said, and I noticed that his face was pale and sweaty.
“Let’s go for a walk,” I suggested.
We went into the woods, walking along a trail that had been partially grown over. Neither of us talked. He looked at the ground in front of him; I looked at the trees. Some of them seemed odd. They didn’t sway like the others. They didn’t look quite like the others. The just didn’t feel right. When I looked again, the oddness was gone, but out of the corner of my eye, I could see something that looked almost like a tall, slender man.
We stopped by the side of the lake. I could not see where his friends were fishing. I started to pick up flat pebbles and skip them across the surface of the water. My brother was always better at this, and I turned to make a joke and suggest that he try. I looked over my right shoulder and turned and turned and he wasn’t there. I was a bit spooked, but reasoned that he might want to be alone. I was about to turn back to the water when I heard a guttural sound that only said: “RUN.”
I shot back towards the trail and ran as fast as I could, stumbling over vegetation, feeling something bearing down on me, getting closer, closer…
As I ran, I realized what was happening. My grandfather did not die; he never existed. My father should not exist, nor should my brother, nor should I. It is a mistake. It must be corrected. It will come. He will come."
I would also like to add that my rats haven't come out of their little plastic hiding place in more than an hour, even when I call them. O_o
But really. I NEED to draw it. I'm thinking charcoal? I dunno. X_X
Never gonna sleep again guys. Never.
Post by Phy:
"In reading this thread, I'm struck by one behaviour of Der Ritter in particular, that of its impaling its victims in a tree, while removing and reinserting their internal organs. It's remarkably akin to the feeding habits of shrikes, also known as butcherbirds.
See, what a shrike will do is capture a smaller animal - anything from a cricket to a smaller bird or mouse - and kill it. Shrikes are songbirds, and their musculature is pretty lacking compared to a straight-up raptor like a hawk or owl, so their kill is messy and inefficient, consisting of many pecks and bites to the head and neck. This continues until the prey animal is either dead or too tired to fight. But that's not the worst part. The worst part is that as weak as their jaws are, their claws are weaker, and they wholly lack talons. They're built to perch. So, what a shrike will do, is it will take its prey to a thorny tree, or bush, or even barbed wire, and it will ram its prey down on a spike so that it won't move when the shrike tears it apart.
It's a songbird that's learned to kill, and it does so far more cruelly than any raptor.
Anyone ever hear the Slender Man sing?
e: Wikipedia on Lanius excubitor, the Great Gray Shrike: "This species will lure birds closer by mimicking their calls." '