He bolted upright. The scream barely suppressed by his front teeth nearly biting through his lower lip. He immediately reached for his gun as his eyes scanned his surroundings. His breathing slowly returned to normal and his mind started taking in data again. He was alone, his small temporary shelter in the woods by Manhattan partially hidden by leaves and branches he had erected. It was early morning on the second day after his death.
He had thought something like this might occur. His death, and that what had helped kill him were enough to give anyone night terrors. That's why he hadn't slept for two days. That's why he had decided to sleep away from others. The former out of what exactly he would see when his eyes closed and exhaustion overtook him. The latter out of keeping the pain and his weakness from the eyes and ears of others.
He was glad he had. The nightmare had been unlike anything he had ever experienced. Growing up alone in May cape you learned to keep quiet when the bad dreams came, never knew what might be hunting out in the swamps, but that dream had been too much. He had gone out as soon as his head hit his impromptu pillow. The nightmare had followed soon after.
It had started with him walking in pitch blackness. Soon the dark had faded, and what had greeted his eyes hadn't made sense. He had been walking down Aysea's boardwalk. More than a few of his nightmares had started this way but it was different this time. Instead of the casinos, shops, and slave pens there had been pine trees and swampy bog instead of Ocean. Stranger still was that everything seemed to be flickering, colors fading and brightening switching from color to sepia to black and white, trees seeming to switch position, with a faint static sound overlaying everything.
The more he focused on the sound the more distinct it became. At first it had sounded like the electrical sound from a fluorescent bulb, but as he listened it began to change. What had been static became the sound of a whispering voice, just outside of understanding, with a buzzing undercurrent. As he walked on however the voice became louder and the reason for the buzzing became clearer. It was not one voice but hundreds, no thousands. Always maddeningly incomprehensible.
The sound wasn't the only thing that was changing. The area around him was changing as well. The boards were becoming uneven, the bog, the MUD, seeping through. Strangely the absent casinos started appearing, but different from how he remembered them. They were crumbling, strange stains and scribbles on the walls. A few symbols repeated themselves, chains, a skull, and a strange circle with an x through it. The buildings themselves seem to phase in and out of solidity, the closer he got to anyone the less substantial it seemed. Pines sprouted from windows and boggy earth and water flowed through their missing doors. In fact almost as soon as they appeared they sank into the growing mire, a faint sighing sound the only thing that marked their passing, a sigh that sounded all too like a final breath.
Soon enough however even these phantom buildings disappeared and the boards were almost entirely lost to the mire. Only a handful of rotting planks still above the MUD. To add to the confusion a thick fog, or was it smoke, had begun to cover the ground. Soon enough the path was entirely lost and he was left alone in bog forest.
He wandered for a long time, lost amongst the fog, the pines, and the muck. His only companion was the increasingly incessant whispers hovering at the edge of his hearing. His thoughts had been muddled, like he had been drinking and an dull ache had filled his body slowing his movement as much as the bog did. It wasn't until he found the note that his mind returned in strength and with it a previously untapped wellspring of terror.
It had been stuck to a tree. That nothing seemed to be holding it up hadn't registered in his mind until he had already grabbed it. It was the same as one of the ones he had found before he died. Mad scribbles warning of doom the circle with the sloppy x running through it but most prominent was the figure that took up the center of the page. It was featureless, a man with a disproportionate length to his, its, limbs tall and slender and despite its lake of a face more than capable of staring straight through the man who now wore the name Crowley.
His legs moved before his brain was able to process again through the wave of fear and adrenaline that had washed over him filling his veins with ice water. They carried him pell-mell through the thickening fog, barely avoiding the slender barren pines that jutted out from the fog. All the while its presence began to fill the world the dread that weighed on what could charitably called a soul, the taste of bile in the back of his mouth, his lungs wracked by sudden coughs. He couldn't see it, but he could feel it, behind him closing steadily no matter how much effort he pumped into his legs.
Shapes started appearing through the fog as the whispers became louder. The phantom buildings returned, the facades even more worn their broken walls covered with notes. Then came the faces, thousands of them, made of mist screaming gibberish and pain. They swooped down at the sky at him, bubbled up from the mire, yelled from every shattered window. In his mind's eye he could see the thing coming behind him implacable and unhindered by either bog or faces.
As he ran he became aware of a certain familiarity of the incessant speech, it was the first voice it had heard after his death. It was the voice that had taunted him in the morgue. That had pieced him back together, and stated that it looked forward to when he would join its chorus. The voice of death and eternal torment, the voice of the Gravemind.
Worse was that some of the individual voices that made up the Gravemind's "voice" were becoming familiar. People he had known, people he had worked with, people he had killed, people he had lov.... "NO!" His voice used for the first time had, however briefly, cut through the roar of the Gravemind's voice, and the world seemed to solidify for a moment and even the dread presence of the slender creature seemed to pause. Even in this time, even when terror had overtaken him, he couldn't bring himself to think of them. But this one spark of strength, of will, particularly one founded on the warped foundation his was, could not last. The Gravemind's incessant babble took on a mocking tone, and the creature felt closer than ever.
Every single bit of logic in his brain told him to keep running despite the deepening ache and the weariness that had begun to seep in. But some part of him, either curiosity, or perhaps more likely in his case a latent self destructive tendency wanted him to turn around and finally get a good look at the monster that had stalked him first in the waking world than in this nightmare dreamscape. The Gravemind or at least what he believed to be the Gravemind sensed this and slowly but surely the babble became clearer and clearer. Soon in was perfectly understandable "Turn around". Despite every fiber of his being screaming not to follow this siren's call he did, and then he screamed. He saw it in all its horror, his brain misfiring as he tried to comprehend its true form.
It was too much. He fell, and the mud rose up to meet him. He sank. Mud that had been a few inches before was now bottomless. It absorbed his still twitching form covering it, filling his mouth, nose, ears, and eyes. Choking blinding. He thought it was the end or at the very least he was on his way to speak with the Gravemind again, perhaps alone this time. At least he thought it was more peaceful this time, despite the lingering revulsion and fear after looking at the thing. But the mind is a cruel thing, particularly to one who has lived a cruel life. The mud covering his face cleared, he could see again. But what he saw was far more terrifyign to him than the creature's form. He was greeted by a large group of familiar looking zed standing over him. It was with dawning horror that he realized their faces belonged to the slavers he had killed either directly or indirectly when he wore the name Jeb Johnson, along with a few people he had stolen from in order to survive when he still used his birth name.
Then the circle parted and two more joined the horde around him. They were just as how he had last seen them. One when he had killed her to save himself, the same look of pity, compassion, and could it be? love!? in her eyes. Once a vivacious emerald in life now a sickly chemical green in undeath. Just as heartrending was the face of the little girl next to her. Dried blood had replaced the tracks tears had made down her face that day, a look of hurt and confusion still lingered on her face despite the many years that had passed from when he had given her up. "No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no," was all he could say frantically trying to move his insensate form to get away from these shades from his memories. The zed simply regarded him not moving an occasional moan from the back ranks the only thing betraying their animate status. Then as one, the woman he had loved, and the girl he had called daughter, moved closer till they stood next to him, until once again in eerie sink they crouched down, their grave cold hands brushed his rotting flesh with almost loving care. Tears, tears that he hadn't shed for years came unbidden to his face, his chorus of "no" petering out and new words came unbidden and wracked with sobs, "I-...I--- I'm I'm I'm so-" before he could finish they smiled at him. In unison with the crowd of their fellow undead they said, their voices sweet as sunshine said "Welcome home Martin" and their jaws descended on his prone form, his two regrets each taking half his face between their suddenly horrifically large jaw, and with ghastly smiles filled with far too many sharp teeth bit and tore as the rest of the horde ate him alive.
It was his death scream. A scream filled with pain both physical, imagined, and emotional, all too real, that woke him. It was that scream that brought him back into the physical world. After he removed his teeth from his lips and calmed himself the old mental safeguards began to click into place again. First the faces of the horde became indistinct. Next the names, faces, and associated memories of the dread duo faded than disappeared back into the depths of his subconscious. Finally came the old mantra, "Martin Scraps is dead, Jeb Johnson is dead, my name is Jacob Crowley." It took some time but eventually it was enough to get him to "normal". With a grunt he picked himself up dusted himself off, and after making sure he had everything on him, especially his "souvenirs" from his run in with the Slenderman he headed off back towards Manhattan, back to Crowley's world.
He had thought something like this might occur. His death, and that what had helped kill him were enough to give anyone night terrors. That's why he hadn't slept for two days. That's why he had decided to sleep away from others. The former out of what exactly he would see when his eyes closed and exhaustion overtook him. The latter out of keeping the pain and his weakness from the eyes and ears of others.
He was glad he had. The nightmare had been unlike anything he had ever experienced. Growing up alone in May cape you learned to keep quiet when the bad dreams came, never knew what might be hunting out in the swamps, but that dream had been too much. He had gone out as soon as his head hit his impromptu pillow. The nightmare had followed soon after.
It had started with him walking in pitch blackness. Soon the dark had faded, and what had greeted his eyes hadn't made sense. He had been walking down Aysea's boardwalk. More than a few of his nightmares had started this way but it was different this time. Instead of the casinos, shops, and slave pens there had been pine trees and swampy bog instead of Ocean. Stranger still was that everything seemed to be flickering, colors fading and brightening switching from color to sepia to black and white, trees seeming to switch position, with a faint static sound overlaying everything.
The more he focused on the sound the more distinct it became. At first it had sounded like the electrical sound from a fluorescent bulb, but as he listened it began to change. What had been static became the sound of a whispering voice, just outside of understanding, with a buzzing undercurrent. As he walked on however the voice became louder and the reason for the buzzing became clearer. It was not one voice but hundreds, no thousands. Always maddeningly incomprehensible.
The sound wasn't the only thing that was changing. The area around him was changing as well. The boards were becoming uneven, the bog, the MUD, seeping through. Strangely the absent casinos started appearing, but different from how he remembered them. They were crumbling, strange stains and scribbles on the walls. A few symbols repeated themselves, chains, a skull, and a strange circle with an x through it. The buildings themselves seem to phase in and out of solidity, the closer he got to anyone the less substantial it seemed. Pines sprouted from windows and boggy earth and water flowed through their missing doors. In fact almost as soon as they appeared they sank into the growing mire, a faint sighing sound the only thing that marked their passing, a sigh that sounded all too like a final breath.
Soon enough however even these phantom buildings disappeared and the boards were almost entirely lost to the mire. Only a handful of rotting planks still above the MUD. To add to the confusion a thick fog, or was it smoke, had begun to cover the ground. Soon enough the path was entirely lost and he was left alone in bog forest.
He wandered for a long time, lost amongst the fog, the pines, and the muck. His only companion was the increasingly incessant whispers hovering at the edge of his hearing. His thoughts had been muddled, like he had been drinking and an dull ache had filled his body slowing his movement as much as the bog did. It wasn't until he found the note that his mind returned in strength and with it a previously untapped wellspring of terror.
It had been stuck to a tree. That nothing seemed to be holding it up hadn't registered in his mind until he had already grabbed it. It was the same as one of the ones he had found before he died. Mad scribbles warning of doom the circle with the sloppy x running through it but most prominent was the figure that took up the center of the page. It was featureless, a man with a disproportionate length to his, its, limbs tall and slender and despite its lake of a face more than capable of staring straight through the man who now wore the name Crowley.
His legs moved before his brain was able to process again through the wave of fear and adrenaline that had washed over him filling his veins with ice water. They carried him pell-mell through the thickening fog, barely avoiding the slender barren pines that jutted out from the fog. All the while its presence began to fill the world the dread that weighed on what could charitably called a soul, the taste of bile in the back of his mouth, his lungs wracked by sudden coughs. He couldn't see it, but he could feel it, behind him closing steadily no matter how much effort he pumped into his legs.
Shapes started appearing through the fog as the whispers became louder. The phantom buildings returned, the facades even more worn their broken walls covered with notes. Then came the faces, thousands of them, made of mist screaming gibberish and pain. They swooped down at the sky at him, bubbled up from the mire, yelled from every shattered window. In his mind's eye he could see the thing coming behind him implacable and unhindered by either bog or faces.
As he ran he became aware of a certain familiarity of the incessant speech, it was the first voice it had heard after his death. It was the voice that had taunted him in the morgue. That had pieced him back together, and stated that it looked forward to when he would join its chorus. The voice of death and eternal torment, the voice of the Gravemind.
Worse was that some of the individual voices that made up the Gravemind's "voice" were becoming familiar. People he had known, people he had worked with, people he had killed, people he had lov.... "NO!" His voice used for the first time had, however briefly, cut through the roar of the Gravemind's voice, and the world seemed to solidify for a moment and even the dread presence of the slender creature seemed to pause. Even in this time, even when terror had overtaken him, he couldn't bring himself to think of them. But this one spark of strength, of will, particularly one founded on the warped foundation his was, could not last. The Gravemind's incessant babble took on a mocking tone, and the creature felt closer than ever.
Every single bit of logic in his brain told him to keep running despite the deepening ache and the weariness that had begun to seep in. But some part of him, either curiosity, or perhaps more likely in his case a latent self destructive tendency wanted him to turn around and finally get a good look at the monster that had stalked him first in the waking world than in this nightmare dreamscape. The Gravemind or at least what he believed to be the Gravemind sensed this and slowly but surely the babble became clearer and clearer. Soon in was perfectly understandable "Turn around". Despite every fiber of his being screaming not to follow this siren's call he did, and then he screamed. He saw it in all its horror, his brain misfiring as he tried to comprehend its true form.
It was too much. He fell, and the mud rose up to meet him. He sank. Mud that had been a few inches before was now bottomless. It absorbed his still twitching form covering it, filling his mouth, nose, ears, and eyes. Choking blinding. He thought it was the end or at the very least he was on his way to speak with the Gravemind again, perhaps alone this time. At least he thought it was more peaceful this time, despite the lingering revulsion and fear after looking at the thing. But the mind is a cruel thing, particularly to one who has lived a cruel life. The mud covering his face cleared, he could see again. But what he saw was far more terrifyign to him than the creature's form. He was greeted by a large group of familiar looking zed standing over him. It was with dawning horror that he realized their faces belonged to the slavers he had killed either directly or indirectly when he wore the name Jeb Johnson, along with a few people he had stolen from in order to survive when he still used his birth name.
Then the circle parted and two more joined the horde around him. They were just as how he had last seen them. One when he had killed her to save himself, the same look of pity, compassion, and could it be? love!? in her eyes. Once a vivacious emerald in life now a sickly chemical green in undeath. Just as heartrending was the face of the little girl next to her. Dried blood had replaced the tracks tears had made down her face that day, a look of hurt and confusion still lingered on her face despite the many years that had passed from when he had given her up. "No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no," was all he could say frantically trying to move his insensate form to get away from these shades from his memories. The zed simply regarded him not moving an occasional moan from the back ranks the only thing betraying their animate status. Then as one, the woman he had loved, and the girl he had called daughter, moved closer till they stood next to him, until once again in eerie sink they crouched down, their grave cold hands brushed his rotting flesh with almost loving care. Tears, tears that he hadn't shed for years came unbidden to his face, his chorus of "no" petering out and new words came unbidden and wracked with sobs, "I-...I--- I'm I'm I'm so-" before he could finish they smiled at him. In unison with the crowd of their fellow undead they said, their voices sweet as sunshine said "Welcome home Martin" and their jaws descended on his prone form, his two regrets each taking half his face between their suddenly horrifically large jaw, and with ghastly smiles filled with far too many sharp teeth bit and tore as the rest of the horde ate him alive.
It was his death scream. A scream filled with pain both physical, imagined, and emotional, all too real, that woke him. It was that scream that brought him back into the physical world. After he removed his teeth from his lips and calmed himself the old mental safeguards began to click into place again. First the faces of the horde became indistinct. Next the names, faces, and associated memories of the dread duo faded than disappeared back into the depths of his subconscious. Finally came the old mantra, "Martin Scraps is dead, Jeb Johnson is dead, my name is Jacob Crowley." It took some time but eventually it was enough to get him to "normal". With a grunt he picked himself up dusted himself off, and after making sure he had everything on him, especially his "souvenirs" from his run in with the Slenderman he headed off back towards Manhattan, back to Crowley's world.