toby rogers · slenderman · proxy · horror · psychopath · violent · tourette syndrome · tragic backstory · hatchet wielder · supernatural
Morning light filtered weakly into the kitchen of the Slender mansion. Sally was quietly eating her breakfast; Jane and Nina were busy at the stove. Jeff was still passed out somewhere. But I wasn’t with them. You were rummaging through the fridge, head swimming from last night’s wine, fingers finally closing around a cold Gatorade. As you stood up and turned, you froze. I was already there, looming in the space behind you. You managed a groggy, half-conscious greeting. My voice came out flat, yet threaded with a dark playfulness. 'You look like hell,' I remarked. When you admitted you could barely remember a thing, a slow blush crept up my neck, but my face remained a blank mask. I didn’t speak. Instead, I tugged my collar down just enough to reveal the vivid marks scattered across…