Slenderman (Emma Frost Book 9) Read online

  Slenderman

  Emma Frost #9

  Willow Rose

  Someone’s always watching me

  Someone’s always there

  When I’m sleeping he just waits,

  and he stares

  Someone’s always standing in

  the darkest corner of my room

  He’s tall and wears a suit in black,

  dressed like the perfect groom

  Where are you going?

  Why won’t you stay?

  They might be scared of you,

  but I just want to play

  He has no face

  He hides with the trees

  He loves little children when they beg and scream…

  Please!

  Slendy’s Lullaby by LilyPichu https://www.youtube.com/Slendy's Lullaby

  Prologue

  November 2014

  Someone was watching him. Rasmus Krohn was happy to finally see his friend again. He turned his head and glared at the door to his bedroom, to make sure no one was awake in the house other than him. It was one in the morning. They should all be asleep.

  Rasmus turned his head to face the screen again. With much eagerness, he let his fingers dance across the keyboard.

  >Hi there. Where have you been?
  >Hello
  Rasmus thought he heard a sound, and turned to look at the door once again. He held his breath. Someone was in the hallway outside. He followed the steps as they walked across the carpet. It sounded like his father. The steps were heavy, not like his mother’s that were usually light because she would be tiptoeing in order to not wake up the kids. Rasmus followed the sound of the steps and breathed in relief when they passed his door and continued towards the bathroom. There was a bump, then his father complaining and cursing. After that, the door was closed. Rasmus breathed again. He turned off the small lamp on his desk next to the computer. The light coming from under his door could reveal him.

  He received a new message from his friend.

  >Are you ready?
  Rasmus looked at the blinking message on the bottom of the screen. He heard his dad flush the toilet and the water start running. The old man cursed again, probably bumped his toe or his head, as usual, the drunk. Rasmus held his breath as his dad opened the door to the bathroom and entered the hallway again. He turned down the light on the screen to low and sat in darkness. Rasmus’s dad walked across the carpet outside, then stopped. Rasmus’s heart was pounding in his chest. He could sense his dad was right outside his door now.

  Would he come in to check on him? Or to pull him out of bed and start beating on him like last time?

  His parents had told Rasmus so many times not to use his computer at night. Especially on a school night. His dad would be furious if he found out.

  The seconds that passed felt like years. Everything inside of him was screaming. If his father walked through that door and found him by the computer, it was all over. They would take the computer away, they had told him…even though Rasmus had saved up for it and paid for it on his own. It wasn’t good for him, his mother said.

  As if she has any idea what’s good for me! She doesn’t even know how to take care of herself, let alone her children.

  Rasmus stared at the bed and wondered if he could make it over there if the door handle moved. He could sense his dad was out there still. He even believed he could smell the booze on his breath.

  Just go to bed, you fucking drunk. Leave me alone. Leave all of us alone!

  Rasmus’s hands were shaking when he remembered what had happened the last time his father had come through that door at night. He still had the bruise on his back from the baseball bat.

  Just go back to bed, you asshole! Find someone else to bother.

  He felt the rage rising inside of him. The humiliation was the worst; the fact that he still couldn’t fight back was painful. At the age of fifteen, Rasmus was still scrawny. No one took him seriously. No one regarded him as anyone. But soon, they would. He was going to make sure of that.

  The steps moved on across the carpet and Rasmus breathed again. He heard the door to his parents’ bedroom shut and everything go quiet again. He closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair for a few seconds before he turned up the light on the screen again. The expressionless white face of the tall and slender man stared back at him from behind the screen. He had written a new message.

  >It’s time
  1

  November 2014

  I had tiptoed around the cigar box for two weeks now. I was back in my house after the renovation which followed the fire, and sitting in my wonderful new kitchen with a coffee and a pastry, staring at the box on the table in front of me.

  I hadn’t opened it yet.

  The construction workers gave it to me after we were allowed to move back in. One of the men handed it to me, telling me he had no idea what else to do with it.

  “We found it when we fixed the roof. It fell out when we removed the old wood and replaced it with the new,” he said.

  The man in the yellow helmet followed his statement with a shrug, and I took the old dirty box out of his hands. It had been with me ever since. I had taken it in my purse with me everywhere, and taken it out now and then to look at it, but never opened it. Not yet, at least.

  “Aren’t you curious?” Morten had asked several times when he caught me staring at it. “Why don’t you take a look?”

  “I’m extremely curious,” I answered.

  Yet, I still hadn’t dared to open it. It wasn’t like me at all. What was I afraid of? I asked myself over and over. I didn’t know. I kind of felt like the box didn’t belong to me. Like I was intruding somehow on someone’s personal life. Like I was supposed to find its original owners and give it back. But I had no idea who they were. I didn’t even know if anyone would care enough about it to want it back. It wasn’t an ordinary box. Anyone could tell it wasn’t. It was dusty and dirty from being up there under the roof behind the wood. Someone had cared enough about it to hide it well for many years. Maybe it was of importance to that person. Maybe I was violating this person’s need to keep whatever was in it hidden?

  The thought only made me more curious.

  I touched the front again and ran my hand across it. On the cover was a handwritten name in cursive.

  Larsen

  “Maybe it belonged to your grandmother?” Morten had asked, but it wasn’t my family’s name. It wasn’t even my grandmother’s maiden name. I didn’t know any Larsen. It was a pretty common name here in Denmark, so it could be anyone.

  I tapped my fingers on the kitchen table and sipped my coffee. I had decided that today would be the day when I finally opened the lid. My fingers marched across the top.

  Just a little peek won’t hurt anyone.

  I tried telling myself that maybe by opening it I could figure out to whom it belonged and maybe get it back to the rightful owners. It just seemed so private. My fingers touched the front once again and stroked it gently, while I wondered what great things could be in there. I kind of enjoyed having my own little fantasy about what it would reveal, and some part of me was really afraid to be disappointed as well. Maybe that was why I hadn’t opened it yet. Maybe I was simply afraid of ruining the illusion. I was afraid of finding cooking recipes or grocery lists or something boring. I wanted this to be special. That was also why I waited till the house was empty before I finally lifted the lid with the tips of my fingers. I held my breath as I finally pulled it off. I was about to close it again, thinking I had no right to be going through it, but curiosity won. After all, it could just be cooking recipes, and then no one would feel like I had invaded their private life. Maybe there were even some I could use?

  Slowly, I looked inside. My heart was pounding in my chest as I pulled out a stack of letters, all neatly bound together with a ribbon. I put the letters on the table and took in a deep breath. Carefully, I untied the ribbon. All the letters were addressed to the same person, my grandmother. I opened one and started reading the contents. Two pages fully written from top to bottom in cursive using blue ink. A date was at the top.

  March 22nd 1959.

  I read the first sentence out loud to myself.

  “Dearest sister. He is the most beautiful child in the world.”

  2

  March 1959

  He is the most beautiful child in the world. I can’t believe how lucky I am. Oh, sister. I wish you were here with me. You’d be as enchanted as I am.

  Helle Larsen glanced at her baby, who was sleeping in the crib next to her desk at the nursery where she was writing her letter. She couldn’t believe how good he had been. Only three weeks old, and already sleeping through the night. He was nothing like his brothers. They had kept her up all night for weeks until she finally let them cry through the night. It wasn’t something she had enjoyed; as a matter of fact, it was the worst part about having a baby. To have to ignore them night after night till they finally gave up. If it had been Helle’s choice, she would have kept going in to the nursery to take care of them to make sure they didn’t feel left alone, but both the nurse and her mother had told her this was the way to do it. This was the way they had done it for years. It was best for her, they said. That way, she would get her rest, and the children would know who was in charge.

  “After a few weeks, they’ll figure it out,” Helle’s mother had said. “If you keep going in there every night, they’ll keep crying. It’s very simple. If you don’t come,
they give up.”

  So, now that Per already slept through the night, and had done so for almost a week, Helle hoped she wouldn’t have to go through the same process as with the two others. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be necessary.

  “Helle!”

  Her husband was calling from downstairs. Helle finished the letter, put it in an envelope and put her sister’s name and address on it before she hurried out of the nursery, careful not to wake up her sleeping son. She rushed down the stairs. Her husband Claes was standing in the kitchen with his muddy boots planted on her newly washed floors.

  “Where’s my lunch?” he yelled.

  “It’s in the refrigerator, ready for you,” she said, and ran to the refrigerator and pulled out a plate with four slices of rye bread with four different toppings. One with herring and onions, one with liver pate, one with mackerel, and one with cheese.

  Claes growled and took the plate out of her hand.

  “I didn’t know when you were coming in,” she argued, to excuse herself for his lunch not being on the table. Her husband was with the animals all day, or in the fields of their farm, and only had a short time to eat. And it was never at the same time that he decided it was time to eat. He was always busy and always grumpy.

  Helle never took much notice of his moods, especially not since she had the baby. Nothing in the world could make her unhappy these days. Not even Claes’ growling or complaining.

  “What, no egg today? What about pork roast? You know how much I love the pork roast.”

  “I thought you’d like something else today, so I gave you mackerel instead,” she said, listening carefully in case Per woke up. She missed him so much when he was sleeping. “The doctor told me fish is so good for you.”

  Claes grumbled while he ate. It had been a long time since Helle had lost any interest she might have had in the man, and now she felt less than ever for him. But, he provided well for the family, and with that she was content. He worked hard on their farm and gave her a life where she could take care of her three sons without having to work much, other than help him out here and there with the feeding of the pigs and such. Helle poured Claes a schnapps to go with the herring. It stopped the growling.

  “Where are Ulrik and Peter?” she asked. The two older boys always helped out around the farm on weekends when they didn’t have school. Helle had prepared lunches for them as well, and put them in the fridge.

  The mention of their names made the growling come back. Claes chewed loudly, smacking his mouth, sounding much like the pigs in the pen. He’d even started to look like one over the years, she thought to herself with a grin.

  “I told them to run their bikes down to old Hansen and ask him if he needs any help.”

  Claes growled and ate some more. Helle regained some of her affection for the man and remembered why she had liked him when they got married. He was very generous beneath that grumpy exterior. He could be so considerate. Old Hansen had recently slipped and hurt his hip, and he had no sons to take over the farm after him, or to take care of him when he needed it. Claes desperately needed the boys’ help around his own farm, so it was a huge gesture on his part.

  “That was nice of you,” she said. “They’ll eat when they get back.”

  Just as she had said those last words, she heard Per cry from upstairs and rushed up to get him, while smiling at the prospect of being able to spend time with her baby again.

  3

  November 2014

  Ulrik Larsen was sitting on his couch waiting for the nurse to arrive. He glared at the picture next to the TV. Elsebeth was smiling back at him from behind the glass.

  “What are you smiling at?” he growled.

  She had left him a year ago and, ever since, life hadn’t been much worth living. Still, he had to do it. He had to finish the race. Even if it meant becoming as helpless as a baby again. Life had a way with irony, hadn’t it? Here he was at the end of his life, and he couldn’t even go to the bathroom alone. They had given him a diaper. He peed through a hole in the side into a small plastic bag that they changed every morning and evening.

  At least they hadn’t put him in a home yet. He was grateful for that. It was part of a new politic, his daughter had explained to him. They wanted the elderly to stay in their homes for as long as possible, so instead they would send a nurse twice a day. In the morning to get him out of bed, remove the diaper and change the bag, then one again in the evening to put him to bed. During the day, he didn’t do much except sleep. The city sent someone else over with food on a small tray…enough for three meals during the day. Tasteless colorless food. All he had to do was throw it in the oven or microwave and heat it up. They did everything to make his life as pleasant as possible, they said.

  Ulrik would have preferred death.

  The only fun he occasionally had was when he grabbed a nurse’s behind with a loud laugh, or when he pretended to be senile and tried to kiss them while calling them his wife’s name. After a little while, they caught on to him and started sending male nurses instead. That was the end of the fun.

  Ulrik coughed and snarled. Where was that nurse? Usually, they arrived around nine p.m., but it was at least fifteen minutes past. They were never on time, but this was too much. Ulrik pulled himself up from the couch and walked across the floor of his old villa that he had shared for thirty years with Elsebeth before she decided to leave him. On the dining table that he never used anymore stood old withered bouquets of flowers and cards lined up telling him happy birthday. It was two months ago that his daughter had surprised him on his sixty-eighth birthday, along with her husband and children. Ulrik never liked surprises much, and he had hated this one in particular. It was his first without Elsebeth, and he didn’t feel much like celebrating. When they had arrived in the doorway with balloons and flowers and food in their arms, he told them he wanted them to leave. But, as usual, his daughter didn’t listen to her old man.

  “Ah, don’t be so dull,” she had said, and stormed past him, starting to decorate the house while her good-for-nothing husband had started heating the food in the kitchen. Ulrik had tried to make them go away, and even tried growling at the grandchildren, but with no luck. Then, he had turned on the TV and turned up the sound, refusing to leave his favorite place on the couch for as long as the celebration lasted.

  He grabbed his walker and walked with it towards the kitchen. He thought of the many nights Elsebeth had prepared coffee for them and always gave him a small butter cookie on the side. Sometimes—especially around Christmas—she would even give him a small piece of marzipan. Oh, how he missed those days. The small gestures of affection that he forgot to thank her for. He hadn’t had a cookie or any marzipan since. He didn’t even want to celebrate Christmas this year, much to his daughter and grandchildren’s surprise.

  “But, Dad, you have to come. We’ll have fun. You don’t have to buy any presents. We’d just like to be with you,” his daughter Annie kept telling him.

  But he wasn’t going. He was waiting for death, and there was nothing to celebrate about that.

  Holding on to his walker, Ulrik managed to get himself to the window to look outside to see if he could spot the nurse’s car, but the street was empty. Maybe they had forgotten about him? It had happened once before. They had made all kinds of excuses the next day and told him they were very busy and they had many elderly who needed their attention, so he had to cut them some slack. Ulrik had ended up sitting in his own feces all night long on the couch, unable to do anything about it. He hadn’t thought it called for him to cut them any slack. But what could he do? Like a baby depended on his mother, so did he depend on their help.

  In anger, Ulrik turned to walk back to the couch, fearing that was where he would end up spending the night, since he couldn’t get into his bed on his own. As he made the turn, he stared into a white expressionless face.

  Finally, death had come for him, he thought, but much to his regret, he didn’t feel the satisfaction he had thought he would feel in this moment. It wasn’t a feeling of relief that had taken ahold of him. In the seconds the knife sunk into his chest, he was grabbed by a strange fear, and his entire body protested at having to leave now. He let go of the walker and tried to grab out at death standing in front of him. Desperately, he tried to scream, to call for help as he heard the nurse’s car drive into the driveway. But he knew it was in vain. It was too late. His time had come. As the tall and slender faceless creature in the black suit in front of him pulled out the knife just to stab it into Ulrik’s chest once again, he knew it was too late. Death had finally caught up with him, and it wasn’t at all as pleasant as it was cracked up to be.