-August- Through the Loop.

It's... the 27th now. It'll probably be the 28th by the time I'm finished this. 

Christ, I'm so tired. We're all so tired. Tired and hurting and scared but... relieved, so immensely relieved. After the complete and utter hell that was the last... nearly 20 days, we're all lucky to be alive. Some are in better condition than others but that's alright. I've never been happier to walk freely around the House, each room exactly where I last remember it. 

Well, almost.

But if there's ever been a time when the phrase 'close enough' felt appropriate, this is it. We're all just about half-here right now, and even if I'm stopping every couple of minutes to empty my stomach or move some bandages or check on whoever is currently groaning or hissing or whatever else we associate with pain, we're together and hey, we're all alive. Rivers is short a leg and Doc is high on what I think is heroin, which is good because when she isn't, she's...

I don't want to talk about it.

Spencer is in absolute shambles and everybody else... isn't really faring much better. But those are their stories to tell, so I'm just going to recount what I can while I can. 

Started getting bad when Steele brought Alex and Rivers back. It got worse when Elaine and Elliott came around. Spencer said he was having trouble holding the place together already, and when he and the two from the forest started complaining about headaches and voices I knew something bad couldn't be far off. I think we all knew it, but here we are again proving our startling intellect and genre-savviness. Instead of getting out we sat like, well, like sitting ducks and waited for our world to collapse around us. I want to say you couldn't blame us for it but, really, couldn't you? Shouldn't you? We should have gotten everybody out when the walls starting shifting around. When the ceilings climbed higher and our third floor disappeared. When the kitchen moved to the first floor and the extension that contained my room, a bathroom and half of the dining room disappeared, taking with it half of our oak table and leaving it seamlessly attached to a wall covered in fleur-de-lis that I know I painted over in March. 

But we didn't. We sat and we worked and we pretended not to notice when the cornflower-blue bathroom tiles turned bleached white and when the right stairwell became four steps shorter than the left and when you walked through a door that used to lead to a bathroom brought you to nothing but a brick wall, you closed it and pretended nothing happened, only to turn around and realize the hallway you were in seconds ago is now the library, and you calmly run your hands along the bookshelves and wonder if there were always seventeen of them, and whether or not that window was always there, and doesn't that wall face the foyer why is there a window on it in the first place, and where did the door that leads to the garage go? And you tried and failed to will your hand to stop shaking and when you blinked the ground turned from hardwood to carpet and you found yourself in the living room, only now it's about two hundred feet long and you couldn't even see the ceiling, the vines and the trees have so completely filled this place. Your most favourite chandelier was pulled from the stucco of the domed room, which sent glass flying all across the ground and it cut your feet when you walked. You realized the room is nearly pitch black and the only light that comes in is filtered through a heavy screen of leaves and branches, and the entire room felt stuffed; the air was humid and hot and yet thin, so very, very thin that you felt your vision go fuzzy and your breath turn ragged; shallow and panicked.

But maybe there's another reason for that.

Maybe you've just caught a glimpse of the Figure, that Man who commands so much fear and respect that you feel the need to capitalize every He and His and Being and Figure and name, because you could think of about three dozen things to call this Tall Man, this Thin Man, the Slender Man, the One Who Walks, Slender, Slendy, Slends, Dr. Stalkopus, Betentacled Abomination, Eldritch Abomination, Monster, Killer, Murderer; names born out of spite, out of anger, out of fear donning a wretched mask and hiding away, because the second you behold His shoulders - whether it's across a highway or in the mirror or just out of the corner of your eye in a dark hotel room - your entire being beings to shake and sputter in revolt of this Being, instinct kicks in and your mind goes blank and two voices cry out in your head.

One screams, run.

The other, come. 

Neither uses spoken word, and neither possess a tongue or speech to which you could grant a name; it's more the feeling you get in the pit of your stomach; twisting knots wrapping your insides tighter than some South American snake constricting its prey, waiting, waiting, waiting for its heart to cease its ba-dum, ba-dum (though at the time it was more a badumbadumbadumba----badumbadumbadum) so it can feast. 

It's about that time, realizing the Being in front of me isn't in fact a single, timeless, inescapable being but seems to be made up of the same breathing, shifting, moving masses that plague our employer that I begin to hear screaming. At first I think it's mine - I really, truly think it's mine, because the moment your eyes meet the perfect, porcelain white of the Man 

everything 

grows

still.

The colour of the world fades from view and sudden there isn't anything but Him in the room, even your own being seems to be suspended. You're a floating consciousness and the voice that screams run, run as fast and as far as you can is quickly silenced, the boa constrictor that is your insides tightening more and more as each second passes, breath now in quick, hysteric huffs and your heart is skipping like a record, but you're 

calm.

So very, very calm. You don't notice the pain - you can't notice the pain, because there's something cooing in your head softer than the breeze of warm summer nights, ushering you forward and calling with gentle, honey-sweet notes of safety. You almost decide to listen to it, where somewhere in the back of your mind something finally clicks, the entire scene clicks, and the screaming comes back in a rush and no, no, it's not yours, it's far too distant and not nearly high enough to be yours, and like the last few flashes of a dream you grasp at, you can hear:

Remember, remember, the fifth of November...

Gunpowder, treason and plot.

I see no reason why gunpowder, treason,

Should ever be forgot.

It wouldn't be until you write this post up later that you ask yourself why that poem came up, why you know it, where you heard it and why it seemed to ring loud and clear despite what you rationalize later as the closest thing to a near-death experience you've had in a long time. 

I... things get fuzzy from here. After that the entire world's a haze through a veil of a film grain, 60 frames per second and each one is smouldered at the corners and your head's still floating on air. You think you head in the direction of the screaming, what you think is the basement, (though could you really tell anymore? Did anything make sense here anymore?) but somehow you end up in the old rec hall in the East Wing, other couriers beside you. Doc is swaying on her feet and more gone than here, Steele looks right pissed off - but it's the same mask, the same pretend anger of fear hiding, trying to be anything other than itself - Amanda is on her crutches and looks like she's bleeding, Sam is a muttering mess, Todd's expression never stays the same long enough to register what emotion he's feeling and Spencer is still nowhere to be seen. 

Something happens and we start walking. We're a shambling, scared, absolutely terrified mass of survivors who can see the edge coming up, but we're not going down yet, no, no, we can't go down yet, not when we still have the boss to think about...

Hallways. So many hallways. At least fifty, maybe more. Or maybe it's just one, and as we turn the corner we're dropped off at the beginning, each door we open leads us back into the same place we started, but eventually we open a door and we don't see the same thirty feet and three doors, two windows and neglected crown molding.

Let me expand.

The problem with the times when the House implodes, or we enter a Loop, or You Know Who makes his rounds: memory gets cloudy. Not just mine, Spencer's and Steele's and Sam's - our collective memory gets covered in fog and ash, like we're watching it through some smoky filter; everything's in black and white and the faces are blurred and the static builds higher until there's no sound, just action, and what little sound you do hear is like you're listening with your head underwater, deep and twisted Charlie Brown 'wahhh wahhh's of what might be voices but you can't tell. The entire thing feels like a dream and when you enter that door for what has to be the hundredth time you're shocked that you're not met with the same  thirty feet and three doors, two windows and neglected crown molding, we see white. White so pure and so brilliant it burns away the fog and the haze and the Charlie Brown 'wahhh wahhh's and the world is painfully bright again. And I suppose that's why we're I'm writing this up now. Why we blog. Why we write about all these horrible things, why we share our experiences. Because the moment we stop thinking about this it slips away, a fleeting dream drifting grain by minuscule grain through you fingers. Even as you write you can't type fast enough to get it all down, and suddenly something slips through the cracks between 'o' and 'w' and you can't remember if his eyes were amber or slate, staring up at Him with eyes wide in horror, sacred, terrified and you don't think you've ever seen him like that in the few months - but it's a year now, isn't it? - that you've known him. Some part of you asks if the others have seen him like this, so utterly helpless and broken and scared, but the solitary thought run at the forefront of your mind blocks that out, tucks it away, and another grain falls between 'a' and 'y' and you forget who grabbed him; Steele or Todd, and what happens after that is the scramble of seven people all turning tail and running at once, and the second we clear the threshold of the door there's a sucking sound of air being displaced, the room around us compresses so its nothing more than a dot of light, infinitely small and impossibly bright, then expands with an explosion that leaves our ears ringing and sound returns with the hiss and whrrr of a fridge starting - wait, wait, no, that is our fridge starting. The heat clicks on and below us there's the distant rumble of the water heater starting, the buzz of the washer, the lights flicker and we're home, we're home, everything is back to normal and we're safe.

And the drapes are in tatters and the tiles are stained with blood and dirty and the wallpaper is ruined and the left stairwell is destroyed. The living room is a mess of splinters and broken vases and our at least two hundred DVDs, blu-rays and CDs are everywhere but we're home and the kitchen is next to the living room and light is filtering in from behind so that must mean we're back on the second floor. 

"Wow...home..."

I'm not sure if Doc collapses after or while she utters those two words. Two perfect syllables that speak volumes. They say exactly what we're all thinking, and in obscuring smog of something not quite human we're all shocked that everything can snap back to normal so quickly, and I'm sure if we looked out the window the tree line would be exactly where it was before: exactly 22' 3/4" from the back wall. Nobody grabs Doc and she hits the tile with a thud. 

Home.

We're back. It's been... christ, it's been so long. Even after everything that's happened and the scars we have to show for it, it still feels like a dream. In all honesty, if it weren't for the maze the basement's become and the completely obliterated living room, not to mention the fact that about five rooms have gone MIA, I would have told you this was all a horrible nightmare.

-August- Remember How I Said We Must Have A Death Wish?

I was right.


Alright. Summaries going up... about a week later than we had thought. That's fine. Everything's been a mess at the House with Amanda's shattered legs, (Doc still isn't sure we'll be able to fix her, causing both she and Spencer to call in every favour they can think of in order to do what we can. Losing somebody is not high on our priority list right now.) Spencer's shattered fingers and a good amount of loopiness all around. Sam's sleeping in front of the East Wing again, Sybil and Grov are acting up (thankfully more Sybil, less Grov.) and everybody's got a fair amount of injuries. Doc's really done a fantastic job of taking care of everybody, and I'm doing what I can.

We've settled, at least for now. Readjustment's mostly passed and we're all back to our mostly normal selves (though I'm still sleeping with a bucket by my bed, and the stench of tar and mustard gas probably isn't going to leave my room for weeks) and even mostly recovered. A few bumps and bruises here and there, but that's fairly par for the course in our case. But to alleviate the worries of the small number of you who care, (god knows why you do it) we're all doing okay. A little worse for wear, but we're surviving.

(And that's worth a lot right now, isn't it?)

But, the delivery. Todd and Doc have covered a bit already, but there are some gaps to fill.

Firstly, we got into the building (and yes, it was a skull fortress. Teeth set in an angry scowl and sockets that cried lava and everything. In the middle of a forest.) by method of high explosives. Probably not the brightest of ideas - but we don't exactly have a reputation for being the brightest, do we?

(It would have been a shame to waste it, anyways.)

That's when the alarms sounded. Right overhead by the sounds of it, too. It didn't take long for us to be surrounded, no way of getting out of it without either killing or straight running.

We chose the latter.

I ended up in a crawlspace somewhere a ways away from where the fight had broken out. Radioed around. Couldn't get anybody until I heard Todd shouting, then tried to get him to calm down before he got more people on him again. You know what happened from there.

I needed to find somebody else. Todd was with Amanda and Sam at that point, but the others were still missing. Something about this place (I'm guessing it was the walls that seemed to be made of solid concrete and the fact that we were in a Loop) caused our radios to cut out if we were more than roughly 50 feet away from somebody, (something Doc and I tested once we had found each other) so I stumbling upon each other was more sheer luck than anything. Steele and Spencer were both silent, but Doc was somewhere not too far away. I could hear the hiss of interference but still managed to hear her loud and clear.

She said she'd overheard a couple guards. Something along the lines of 'taking the blond to...' and then she hadn't caught the rest. We slipped into a nearby break room (and raided one of the vending machines while we were there) to hopefully get out of the line of sight when a thought hit me.

Massive, needlessly complex fortress with military-level security?

Check.

Guards in identical uniforms with helmets that shield their faces?

Check.

Unfurnished hallways with dim, flickering lights and eerie suits of armour lining each corridor?

Check.

"What do you think are the chances of this guy having a dungeon?"

Realization dawns on Doc's face. "Very... very high."

There was some exploring after that. I'll save you the details and say that we found a guard, interrogated him, took a literal skeleton key off him and made our way down the nearest set of stairs, dim florescent lights eventually turning to torchlight (real torches with real fire. I had honestly stopped being surprised at that point) and the cold of the concrete walls upstairs turned to a damn, icy chill that sucked the life out of everything around us. Moss grew from the walls and there was an unidentifiable dripping somewhere in the distance. Something scurried and I tried my hardest not to see the figure off to my right.

Made our way down to the second level of cells. As we turned the corner, voices drifted from somewhere further down. I felt Doc grab my hand, putting a finger over her mouth. Hush.

"...that should do him for awhile. We'll check on his stupid ass later."
"I can't believe he tried to bite my ear..."
"I can't remember the last time we had a British dude in here."

Doc frowns. I grin. If that wasn't Steele, I didn't know who it could be.

We approach the cell. Sure enough, Steele's bound to a chair and out cold. No response to anything. Doc tries to unlock the door and...

Bzzzzzzzt. 


The next thing I see is her convulsing and falling to the floor. I manage to catch her before she hits the ground, softening the thud. She's dazed and her eyes roll for a second before she focuses on me again. It's only once I'm sure she's alright that we decide that the keys are floor-specific and that we'll need to find somebody with a key to this floor if we're going to break Steele out of there. And there was still the matter of Spencer...

It's then we hear a scream. Spencer's scream, actually. Blood-curdling and followed by too-high, too-loud laughter, to the point where I'd have been terrified if I wasn't so used to them by now. My only thoughts were 'it'd better not be his fingers' and 'oh, you have got to be kidding me.'

So we find Spencer in what I think Doc later described as 'the mother of all S&M dungeons.' And she's not too far from the truth on that one. We basically find Spencer chained to a chair with his hand in a... I don't even know. It looks like a clamp with five perfect holes for fingers and there's three of them around him and one is tightening it around his hand and there are already two bodies mutilated on the floor and he's laughing and laughing and...

I don't want to talk about it.


We manage to get him out and Doc drugs the remaining three. They'll be out for a solid twelve hours, she says. More than enough to get us out of there. Spencer's mostly incoherent and his hands are in ruins. Doc's got some basic first aid on her and we manage to wrap his fingers so they don't fall apart when he tries to move them and head on our way. From there it's a little bit of a blur - Steele's broken out, we escape and meet up at the rendezvous... there's an explosion somewhere along the way that I'm guessing is what happened to Todd, Amanda and Sam...

Something black drips on Sam's shoulder. There's this sick silence that hangs in the air for a second before we hear this... this noise. I can't really describe it. Almost a... a distant thunder. A rumbling that starts somewhere off in the distance, slowly growing in volume and intensity before the air around us seems to shake.

There's a loud crack somewhere far, far above us.

We look up.

Somewhere off in the distance, a piece of white falls from the sky.

Correct, a piece of the sky falls.

The sky is falling.

The sky's falling and a massive torrent of pure black comes down after it.

We watch it for what feels like forever, and there's a tiny, utterly terrified laugh from one of us - I think it's me. It doesn't take long before the crack spreads across the entirety of the white expanse above us, black lines clawing and tearing and spreading across the sky so fast that it takes less than a second for the entire view above our head to be marred with black lines line a spider's web. It's cracked like glass. The sky is cracked like glass and not a second after this happens, more pieces begin to fall.

Run.


That's what somebody calls. Somebody grabs my hand and rips me away, and suddenly we're all moving as far and as fast as we can. The cracking echoes around us and the entire world is screaming, tearing itself apart at the seams. The trees shrivel and turn from bark and leaves to flat lines on an endless white expanse. The world is vanishing and collapsing and we're going to collapse with it if we can't find a way out of here.

The ground disappears. More and more pieces of the sky, the distant edges of the world and the ground below our feet fall away. Nothing but blackness behind them. Nothingness. Pure nothingness. A crack, the loudest and closest yet. Right above our heads. Still running.

Darkness. Everything vanishes. No light. No noise. No gravity - I'm floating. No air - I'm choking. Try to call out. Nothing.

The ground rushes towards my feet.

Soft grass.

Dew.

... Moonlight?

We're in a field, the cars not far away. Somehow, we're out. We're out and we're alive and we have no idea how, but that's not what matters, is it?

It takes us a few minutes. We just sort of... sit there. Revel in the moment. Can't really believe it at first. How could we have possibly...

Slowly, mechanically, we get to out feet. Everybody's stunned to silence. Nobody wants to talk - or is it because we can't? How do you express what you're feeling at that moment? A jumble of relief, terror, joy, fear, anger and worry overall - worry for everybody else. Are they alive? Is everybody okay? Did we all get out?

We did. Amanda posted later and I'm sorry if we worried you. I'm going to cut this off here because... well, that's really all there is to it. I've already spent too much time on the computer. Doc'll need my help with something and I should really go make sure everybody's doing alright.

It's good to be home.

-Todd- All Better Now.

Well, as good as I can get.

Last night, Spencer and I got a handle on this whole multiple personality situation thing. I wasn't really planning on making a post about it, but when I was going through the drafts, I saw transcribed dialogue from the situation. All in lowercase. So, I did a little editing and added some things that needed to be added. Frankly, I just need something to keep my mind busy for a while.

It started with Spencer taking me to the wing. When we got there, he told me to close my eyes. I did. He said unto me, loudly and clearly, "The music coming up from the floor was our old friend, Ludwig Van, and the dreaded Ninth Symphony." Right then, I felt all the blood rush to my head. My knees almost gave out. It was evident something had changed. Spencer told me to open my eyes. I did.

A vast desert wasteland appeared before me. I rubbed my eyes at the sight of it, it was so alien, yet so familiar all at the same time. The sky was pitch black with no moon or stars or any identifiable source of light, but still somehow I could see for miles. Some sort of ambiance filled the air. I looked at Spencer.

"Spence? What the hell? How..."

"Triggers. Wonderful things, eh~?" He put a hand on my shoulder. "So, this is your head? A lot worse than I thought it'd be, granted;" (Which is totally what I wanted to hear) "you should see the inside of mine...."

"Spence, I don't think I want to see the inside of anybody's head. I'm trying not to think about this too hard."

"Well, we've got to make you stop hurting, right~?" He grinned, and started walking forward. "We've got some people to meet!"

It took me a split second to understand what he was talking about. I ran to catch up with him. "Wait, we're just going to go up to them? You don't think he's going to try and attack or something?"

He started to shake his head. "You''ll see what happens if he tries."

"You scare me, sometimes, Spence."

"As I should. Grov isn't the only monster living in The House." He stopped, and turned around on his heel "Going to come out to PLAY, my Hunter~?"

I turned around, almost positive Grosvenor would be standing there, but not exactly sure on what he would look like in there. But when I did, I just saw a little kid, looking frightened out of his mind. He looked at me, then at Spencer, and ran away. I turned my head towards Spencer. "Was that just...?"

"You've got it." He sighed. "So, I've pretty much set up your head as a controlable Loop, so to speak. As in, this is a set location now. You can make anything happen here. Want to try it out...?"

"So what you're saying is, I'm Neo right now, and you're Morpheus?"

"I did the best I could, under the circumstances." He laughed, the sound rough and deep. "Also, be careful. Grov has a wicked looking knife."

"How would you...?" I stopped myself. I decided to not question him at this point, seeing how he's obviously done this before. "Do you know where he is?"

"Of course I can! The question is, can you~?"

"Spence, I would really appreciate it if you could talk in plain English, and not cryptic questions right now." I looked into the distance. "This is my head, huh? And anything I say goes?"

"Pretty much. But don't overexert yourself or you'll get a wicked nosebleed."

"Oh boy."

"All very complicated. Point being, you're the boss."

I started walking in no particular direction.

"Can they know when I change things?"

"Of course. They live here too, you know." he said, almost in a melancholy tone.

I started walking a little bit faster. "So we should be quick about it."

"You should probably talk with them." he yelled, as he started taking a few steps to catch up with me.

I started walking a little faster. "Talk? I wanna get rid of the bastard."

"... no."

At this point, I normally would have stopped and looked at him. But I kept increasing speed, just slow enough that you couldn't consider it running, carrying my feet through the sand. I look back at him.

"What?"

As he looked at me, I could feel the coldness from his eyes send chills down my spine. "They're a part of you. You can't just get rid of them! You can control it, prevent them from causing you pain, but you can't just... make them leave!"

I turned around, still keeping a pace. "I don't care about the kid. He can stay. But that thing has go to. Actually, I don't want to make him go, I want him dead."

"I'm telling you, you can't-"

"What? I can't be in control of my own mind? Do you like the idea that one of these days I might" And out of nowhere, came Grov, tackling Spencer from the side,knocking him into a ditch.

"FORFUCK'SSAKEWAHTAREYOUDOING?!?" Spence yells.

Grov pulled a knife from a small sheath in his leg. "I'm fixing this!" He yelled, in a voice unlike any human one I had heard before. Spence gave a well aimed kick to the his stomach, jamming his heels into the man's armpits, throwing him off in one continuous motion.

"And how, exactly, are you planning on doing that?"

Grosvenor landed on his back, which you could tell knocked the wind out of him. "By... by keeping you in here, and getting out." He says in a pained voice.

Spence yells. "Me? How in hell's name do you think THAT'S going to happen?"

"Shut the fuck up!" He tried to upright himself "I will fucking destroy you. I don't care what you are." He picked up his knife..

"Todd, um, do your stuff?"

"Stuff? What stuff? How am I... what do I?" I yelled. Grov started hacking away at Spencer.

"Just make him stop!" he yelled back, blocking off the attacks.

I panicked. Thoughts raced through my brain. I couldn't focus on any one idea other than Oh God, anything to get this guy to stop. I felt a sort of rush through my mind, and suddenly, Grov stopped moving completley. He dropped the knife. From the distance I was at, I could see that some sort of plant was growing around him, over his hands and up his neck.

Spencer screams "No, fuck, Todd, NO!"

"Am I..." I walked closer to him. "Am I doing this?"

"For fuck's sake, not the tree-" he looks at me, eyes wide. "GET IT UNDER CONTROL!"

I looked at Grosvenor, covered in vine-like substance, completely helpless and afraid. "The tree? You say that like it's something important."

"The Bleeding Tree. And unless you want it's image in your fucking head, I suggest YOU STOP THAT RIGHT NOW."

At the time, I had no idea what the Bleeding Tree was, exactly, but I was pretty sure it wasn't good news. But still, I had the thing in my grasp. I could have gotten rid of it right there. "I..." The vines started retracting from his skin and back into the sand.

Spencer rushed over to him. "Grov. Grov, you alright?" He let out a gasp, catching his breath. The lower portion of his body remained frozen.

I became furious. "You're fucking sympathizing with this thing?"

"I'm sympathizing with something that can't help what it is." Spencer replied. "This is YOU, Todd. He... he's protecting you. The only way he knows how...." He tried getting a response out of Grov.

"Oh, fuck this." I ran towards the two of them, shoving Spencer out of the way. I tackled Grov, pushing him onto his back. As he landed, I could hear a very loud, very painful sounding crack.

".... heh." I looked back at Spencer. He was smiling."Fight it out, gentlemen." Bipolar prick.

I stood, ready to do just that. But as I drew back my fist, I noticed that Grov's legs were broken right above the calf. The bones were sticking straight through the fabric of his pants. It was too much. "What... the... FUCK."

Spencer spoke. "You see? Is this what you want to be, Todd? Beating up on the one person that, quite possibly, knows you best?" he calmed his tone a bit. "Accept him, Todd. Accept it all. Only then can you be in control."

Of any possible request he could have made, he made the single one I didn't want him to. "Spence," I said, breathing heavy. "I would really apreciate it if you shut the fuck up right now."

"You're going to kill him. you're going to end up a braindead idiot because you're stubborn. Is that what you want?"

"That... that wouldn't happen."

"You seem to be doing an awfully good job as it is!"

"You're ordering me to take pity on the guy who planned out individual ways of killing us all?"

"I'm ordering you to calm down and figure out what you want to do!" he yelled. "Look at him!" I did.

I saw a face covered in what looked burns, welts, scars, among other things. It showed pain. Looking at that face made time stand still, if just for a second. I started laughing."You know what I want to do?"

"I know what you want. But if you kill him, you might was well kill me."

I looked back at him. He had this grin on his face, but it wasn't his usual one.It literally spread all the way across his face. His eyes flashed auburn. "How about it, then? Going to destroy all the monsters?"

I felt annoyed. It was like he was showing off, and asking if I should kill everyone who had a fancier car then me. There was too much pride in his sentence. "Spencer, I will admit I'm horrified right now, but the things is, you've never threatened any of us. You're our leader. And as fucked up as you are, you couldn't possibly know what it's like to have a whole nother part of you, completley independent from yourself, wanting to kill everyone you love. But the thing is..."

"Well here's the leader that saved your life." he interrupted me. "Done a lot of good, done a lot of bad. But you know what? Grov has saved your life on more than one occasion. Are you just going to throw that away?" He laughed, the sound depraved and sick. The shadows behind him start growing.

"Do you know what they used to call me, Todd? Spencer isn't my real name. I never even HAD a name. no, they called me Teller... Storyteller....." Grosvenor started screaming in pain from the ground.

"Shut up," I ordered him.

He stared coughing. "Heh. Not the only one with an estranged identity, huh?" he said through gritted teeth. I gave him a look.

"You think Grov is a monster?" laughed Spencer. "Your leader, who you love so much is worse, has killed more people, is infinitely more dangerous!" I didn't respond. "Is that what it is? As long as it doesn't effect you, you don't care?"

"Me? I don't care about me. If he made me suicidal, I would give less then one shit."

"Honestly, you're so stupid! Everything he did, he did for you! To protect you! To keep you safe!" He took a step forward.

"Spence, get back. You're talking crazy right now. Being in here is not good for you."

"I'm not letting you hurt him. If you're going to take control, you do it properly. What are you, a child? give you a hint of power and you take a mile?" Anger resonates through his voice. "I DIDN'T. DO THIS. SO THAT YOU. COULD RUIN. EVERYTHING!"

His yell cleared the air and left only silence.

Grov began laughing painfully. I glared at him. Then back at Spencer. "You're saying... you're saying I can't kill him?" It came out really quiet, very frightened.

"No. He's you. You can't." he said softly. "This isn't his fault."

I looked back at Grov's mutilated legs, and the knife that was now at his side. I picked it up and marveled at it. "So, then. I can't kill him. I just need to... keep him under control?"

Spencer didn't like where I was going with that. ".... work with him. Surely, having an efficient killer at your beck and call isn't a bad thing?"

I became angry at that recommendation. "Well, if we're using your mentality, yeah." I held the knife close. After a second, of silence, I heard the snapping of fingers. The knife vanished.

"Don't be an idiot."

"No, no, you don't understand. I won't kill him. But... he's not a real, living thing. He couldn't die by bleeding out, right?"

"He feels pain. Why not make him loath you? Want to kill you? That's smart."

"Cut off his legs. His arms. Sew is eyes shut. Sew his mouth shut." I looked back up at Spencer.
"That sound familiar?"

His eyes went cold again. "Lock him up. I don't care. But don't hurt him."

I looked back at Grov. "You understand, Todd?" Spence snarled.

I didn't respond. "I'll ask you again. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!?" I felt all my emotions evacuate my body. My face went numb. "No. Not at all." Against my will, the vines began to grow around Grov again. Suddenly, they turned, and started growing around me. I heard Spencer take a step in the sand towards me.

"Listen," he whispers in my ear. "I got into your head with a phrase. What do you think it would take me to break it? Ruin it all? Make you my perfect little obedient employee? So listen to me, and listen close; I am telling you to not hurt him. You're not scared of the right person, Todd."

I could feel the anxiety well up inside me. "The question is, why should I have to be? I thought we all had one common enemy. I thought this was supposed to be the tale of how everyone fucking gets along until the Tall Man comes and takes them away. This isn't supposed to be so... fucked up. We aren't supposed to be this fucked up.

"What happens when you don't want to get the blood on your hands, Todd? What happens when it all becomes all too much? You can't run, not anymore. Hiding is a waste of time. So what did you do?"

"You're supposed to flop over and die. Accept it. Be a fucking man about it. You don't become... whatever you are."

"... and how about you? For the suicidal idiot you are, you wanted to live. But you just couldn't do that, could you? Couldn't accept your survival instinct for what it was worth! Your brain was forced to make a choice; kill or be killed... Guess which one it chose."

I didn't say anything. The vines began to retract back into the sand again.

"You know what I think, Spence?"

He didn't hear me. "He did this. This murderous psychopath, it's all for you. All so you could live your happy little life without having to deal with it." He stopped. ".... what was that, toddykins?"

"I think, fuck you. Fuck you, fuck him, fuck me, fuck Slender man." The vines were completely in the ground now. I started to walk away. Spencer didn't follow. "I'll be back." I yelled, keeping my eyes in front of me.

Apparently, the conversation continued on without me. All that's written here is the dialogue.

"... that could have gone better." said Spencer, I presume.

"I agree with what he said. Fuck you." replied Grov, I'm pretty sure.

"Hey. It was either that or you coming down with a bad case of the deads. Us psychopathic murderers have to stick together, riiiiiight~?"

"Please. Don't try and relate to me. Hey, get the fuck off of me, you...""

"Not trying to. figured you wouldn't want to die, though. If I were you? I'd run. He's going to be back, and I won't be here to talk him out of it."

"He wouldn't kill me. He hasn't got the balls. That's the reason he has me."

"Hahahahahahaha! You really think so? Best of luck, then, Hunter. I wouldn't put it past him. Remember...." Spence probably smiled right around here, I can just tell. "I chose them all for a reason."

"You... you shut up! Shut up! You know goddamned well he wouldn't! I'm the killer! He's just the scared kid! Shut up!"

"How does it feel, Grov? To know that he's one step away from not needing you~? After all, he's not calling your name anymore, is he?"

"I WILL MURDER YOU. HEAR ME? I WILL FUCKING CUT YOUR THROAT AND DRINK THE BLOOD THAT COMES FROM IT." A cough. "OR whatever it is you have for blood now."

"Temper, temper; So the hunter becomes the prey! Well, nothing more I can do for you now. You owe me, you know. For saving your pathetic, obsolete life."

"Fuck you. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you... I don't owe you anything, bastard."

"You owe me everything, and you know it. you'd be dead, Grovvie. Plain and simple. you're lucky the only thing I ask is that you keep Todd and Syb safe. Oh, and Grov~? You ever threaten my team again? You see what I can do when I'm not even trying. Anything Todd would do to you will look like child's play. Comprende?"

"I'll be sure not to threaten them first, next time."

"Sure. I was surprised you gave advance warning."

"But He's not the only one watching, you know."

"Yeah. I know. Don't let Todd kill you. Best of luck, Hunter. when's the best time for me to visit? Haven't talked with Syb in a while."

"You keep your fucking hands off of the kid."

"Still suspicious? Fine, fine... I'll have to show up unannounced... the things you make me do, sweetheart, honestly!"

"I swear to whatever God you worship, if you lay one finger on the child, I will rip you to pieces, regardless of whatever Superpowers you have."

"You seem to not understand my motives, Grov. Sybil, for all intents and purposes, is useless to me. I keep an eye on him. That's all. Innocenceignorenceinsanity, am I right? For an insane monster, you're sure protective, aren't you?"

"The reason I was made. But the thing is, I'm suspicious of what you do to people who are 'useless' to you. Nothing favourable, I'm sure."

"Have I ever laid a finger on Sam?" A sigh "I'm not your enemy, Hunter. It would be nice if you didn't treat me as such. "Well, at least, not yet. Do something stupid again and I'm going to make you wish you were never born."

"Good. That would make two of us."

"Cute. What would Syb do without you? So much potential.... you know, maybe he'd be useful after all.... Sam is turning out quite nicely..."

"Just stay away from him. If Todd and I go, nad he's the only one left, just let him go. He's better off without you."

"Well, you're just going to have to stick around, now won't you? You and Todd, friends forever. you won't react to your own safety? fine. Todd is mine. You are mine. And the kid...? Well, that's your choice, now isn't it?""

"Sick. You're sick. Did your mom not love you enough, sick bastard?"

"I never had a mother. This is all I know. Sad, isn't it?" (The word "smiling" is written next to this one... great.)

"Stop. Stop making us look similar."

"I'm not doing anything, Grov. Maybe we're both more alike than you think."

"Just stop it. Go. Go get Todd before he does something else stupid."

"He'll be walking back here in two minutes. Minds aren't very big." A sigh. "Best of luck, my Hunter. Seems that you're going to need it."

"Probably not. On account you're imprisoning me here. AGAIN."

The transcript ends there. I found myself back in the house again after a while. I haven't talked to Spencer since. I'm still trying to convince myself that staying here is better than going out there. But it's just a little annoying when you find out someone you've looked up to for a long time is making you become the killer even though the only reason you came to him is so you wouldn't.

I looked up the Bleeding Tree. Yeah, no good news there.

Look, Spence, I still trust you, but it's not blind trust anymore. If I had known I'd have to be a killer either way... I don't even know. Is it too much to ask for me not to kill anyone? Dammit.

God Fucking Dammit.

-August- Listen.

I love you all to death.

Words can't describe what I would do for you - what I have done for you. You're my family and I would go to the ends of the Earth and back to make sure you all came home safe every night.

But sometimes?

Sometimes you all just piss me right the fuck off.

Heh.

I promised myself I wouldn't post while I was angry.

Focus.

For reasons I'll go into later because they're not nearly as momentously important as what's going on right now, I've basically said 'screw the world' and holed up in my bedroom for days on end.

I see none of you have bothered to make anything more complex than frozen dinners since I was gone.

I swear, I leave you alone for a couple days and it's pure pandemonium. Who will wash our laundry? Cook our food? How in God's name do we get blood out of the carpet?!

Baking soda. BAKING SODA.

Ha. Hahaha. Gotta stay calm. You've been livid for long enough August, haven't you?

...


No! No I have not!

Because when I come downstairs because somebody is making a racket and I look and everything is covered in blood (and when I say everything I mean everything; the floors were slick and the door was covered and the walls were splattered with it and the carpet was soaked and that's not easy to wash, you know!) and I look and I see Doc passed out on the kitchen table, and when I go to make sure she's okay I slip on some of the blood and Sam screams like there's no tomorrow and she emerges from the basement, teary-eyed and shaking, looking like she's just seen a crime scene before running off to God knows where, and I can only stand in awe as I see the trail of blood that Doc left behind as she stumbled into the kitchen, probably thinking it was her basement judging by the blood on the cabinets and the plates and the cutlery - Jesus Rollerblading Christ, Doc, did you think they were your equipment? - and of course she's still bleeding. From her shoulder by the looks of it, and she's passed out and pale as a sheet and her breathing is so shallow I don't know if she's even alive so of course my first thought is to try and establish if the good old doctor still has a pulse.

"Hey. Hey, Doc?" I touch her (unwounded) shoulder lightly. I'm hoping my voice is calm and soft but I'm beginning to freak out at this point, so it's probably high and shaky. "You alright?"

No answer.

"D - Doc?" I nudge her lightly. Her skin is still warm. That's a good sign, right?

"Doc, please." I try again. If I wasn't panicking before I certainly was now.

She groans.

Oh thank God.

"You going to be okay, Doc?"

She mutters something incomprehensible in response. If she's lucid enough to do that, then she wasn't in danger of dying.

At least, that's what I'm telling myself.

Everybody on the team is trained in basic first aid, and there are kits in the kitchen and every bathroom. I took one of said kits and busied myself patching her up, at least until...

"Spencer! Get the fuck in here! This isn't like the last..."

... No.

No no no no no you have got to be kidding me.

"Todd?!" I call back, unable to hide how utterly afraid I am at this point.

Doc's arm is only half bandaged, but the blood seems to have stopped flowing. It would just have to hold because that voice filtering down from somewhere above me (his bedroom... ?) is Todd and he sounds like he's in very, very bad shape.

I run as fast as my legs will carry me, hitting a bloody spot on the floor and sliding into the railing with a thud.

And of course now I'm panicking even worse because the last what? Why is he calling for Spencer and not Doc? What's happened to Doc why did Sam scream and where are Steele and Amanda in all of this?!

I'm hearing more noises as I move further up the stairs. Todd is coughing and laughing and sobbing all at once and he's speaking, though I only catch the bits he shouts and the next part goes something like this, harsh and grizzled and completely insane:

"Yeah! GET THE FUCK IN HERE! I WILL MUTILATE YOU BEYOND RECOGNITION YOU WORTHLESS PIECE OF UNICORN SH..."

A coughing fit takes him over again and between the hacking and what I swear is him puking his guts out I can hear fits of mad laughter. That voice isn't Todd at all.

No. No. Nonononononono. No no Todd you're going to be okay and this is going to be okay and...


"NO! NO! SPENCER DON'T COME IN! NO! KEEP HIM AWAY!"


It's high and shrill and echoes heavily; choked by sobs and interrupted again and again by Todd coughing out his lungs and that laugh and all I can think is Spencer, Spencer, Spencer why why why does everything keep coming back to you?

I'm tired of covering it up.

So I burst into the bathroom in a fit of pure, unadulterated terror - terror for me, terror for Todd, terror for Doc and Sam and Steele and everything is falling apart again Jesus Rollerblading Christ.

And I realize I'm maybe the only one who's got a grasp of themselves.

I realize I probably shouldn't waste that.

Todd is bound with black wires and thrown rather unceremoniously in the tub. There's blood and black gunk everywhere and the bathroom stinks and he looks at me, grinning. It's all teeth, and none of it reaches his eyes.

"Oh, and so the pretty boy returns. Where's your fucking boss, you little shit? Too scared to face me?"

... Evidently, I'm not talking to Todd. He laughs and laughs and laughs and spits at me and it's black and sticky and smells like gin and a tire fire.

My brow twitches.

"Mr. August! Mr. August! I'm so glad you're here! Could you please untie me?"

Back to that shrill, childish voice. Whatever Steele dealt with hasn't subsided and now I've got two personalities screaming at me and I don't know where Todd is in this whole mess.

"August, it's about fucking time! Why am I tied up? Where the fuck is Spencer? WHERE IS THE FUCKER I'M GOING TO RIP OUT HIS INTESTINES AND WEAR THEM AS A - NO, NO! LEAVE SPENCER ALONE!"

Oh god no.

There's a needle with tranq sitting in the sink. Amanda and/or Steele had left it there with obvious intent, though at that time I hadn't figure out where either of them were. It wouldn't be until I looked at the blog (because god knows we're all horrible for blogging in the middle crises instead of. You know. Doing anything about them.) and noticed what Steele and Sam posted than I decided enough is enough and marched right to the basement to rip both Spencer and Steele a new one.

But at that moment I'm busy emptying another needle of horse tranquilizer into Todd. (Sybil? Grov? All three?)

For a couple seconds I almost felt relieved. Tragedy averted. Everything had been under control (for the most part) and I could go back to check on Doc again, this time careful to not slip on the blood for what would be the third time that night. (This night?)

Of course it's not allowed to stay that way, right?

Of course not. It's always something with us.

So now Doc is bandaged and even has some colour back in her. She's not conscious - at least, I don't think she is - but she's going to live. I know that for certain. Sam is... somewhere and I tell myself I'm going to go find her in a second, god knows where Amanda is, but if she was in trouble she'd let us know and Todd/Sybil/Grov was safely tied up. Spencer was...

Where was Spencer? And where was Steele?

... Well, the blog was usually good for these things.

And then of course Steele, the arrogant bastard that he is, puts up his little post and goes to have 'words' with Spencer.

There are no words in this house. Very few things are resolved with words in this house.

No, no, no, no, no. Spencer has his secrets. Steele has his secrets. Todd has secrets Doc has secrets everybody has secrets in what I so shakily call our 'family.'

It's at that point I'm shaking and my nails are digging so deep into palms I think they're bleeding because Steele what do you think you're doing?! You're dealing with things you don't understand - that I don't understand, that the boss keeps from us for a reason, you idiot, don't go doing something we're all going to regret later!

But it's never that easy. Christ, it's not allowed to be that easy. Convincing Steele to get off his high horse (even if he's completely right but we have to respect each other's privacy, morals be damned.) is impossible and Spencer is unhinged enough to do something seriously horrible to any of us under the right circumstance and that is not what we need and Steele you are not going to do anything to ruin this.

"...lem talking to me right now, monologuing like a bad comic villain about your own corruption...Maybe you WANT us to be surprised, you WANT us to be run down by the wheels you set in motion..."

Corruption?

... Oh, no.

Oh no. Spencer I told you to lock the door I told you to lock the door I told you to lock the door!

Of course. Of course that was what Sam was screaming about and I don't blame her one bit. Spence you idiot I know it gets bad but of all the times to forget to turn a key!

"...were your troops, you wouldn't have let us go into these situations completely blind..."

You can hear the anger seething in Steele, and Spencer completely out of his mind.

"Does this look like a gummie worm to you?"

Steel cutting flesh. He's probably got himself pinned open the idiot and he left the door wide open. Spencer, what did you expect to happen?!

When I step into the doorway, Spencer is the only one who seems to notice me. Steele is too busy fuming silently, glaring daggers at the man with his abdomen pinned open next to a bucket filled to the brim with what looks to be black slugs; writhing and crawling over one another to try and escape.

"Oh, hello August. nice to see you back in the land of the living."

One of the worms falls over the brim and lands on the floor, only to be crushed beneath Steele's foot.

"August, I'm seeing where everyone's loyalty lies. And Spence's is clearly not with us anymore."

I just glare at him, blood pressure rising with the heat on my face.

Calm, August, calm...

"You don't know what you're dealing with here, Steele. There's a lot more going on than you think."

And Steele?

Steele laughs.

"Who the fuck do you think you are? His fucking body guard?"

"Steele, you don't understand." My voice is shaking, but I don't know if it's out of fear or rage or both or... "This isn't what it looks like."

"Get upstairs, please? This isn't - Spence isn't anything like what you're thinking of. You're wrong." I say please, but judging by Steele's reaction it must have sounded more like 'die slowly.'

"Your blind loyalty isn't admirable, kid; it's stupid. And it's going to get you killed some day, or worse, judging by Spence's little game of Operation."

Steele, I'm sick of you at this point. Get off your high horse and get upstairs.

But I don't say that, do I?

"Steele, get upstairs. Now." It's finally begun to bleed through my tone to the point where I can feel it; the seething anger because he doesn't know what's going on and I don't know what's going on and everything's going downhill again and I know this won't be the last of it, but I'm shaking and fuming and if he pushes me anymore I'm -

"Piss off."

...

...

... Heh.

Hehehehehhh.

I take two steps towards Steele.

Look him dead in the eyes.

And backhand him so hard he sees stars.

And what does he do?

He turns around and puts his gun right between my eyes.

"Right back at you, girly."

My only response is three simple words.

"I dare you."

Time stands still. We're both just staring and I'm fuming and glaring at him, taunting him, daring him to pull that trigger and end it right there. Everything seems caught in that one moment, and I don't know how long we're standing there before...

Steele pulls the trigger.

I don't blink.

"Pow."

No bullets.

He smirks. The gun is returned to its regular place and Steele makes for the door.

He says nothing else. It's just Spencer and I left in the basement, and he's still merrily picking away at those things in his chest. What can I do but walk up to him and inspect the damage?

The eyes that meet mine are old and tired. His gray streak is sticking to his forehead with sweat, which is as pale as the rest of him.

I sigh.

"... I thought I told you to lock the door."

He's sweating heavily. His voice is strained.

"I did. Or rather, thought I did. you know how bad I get sometimes when I'm like that."

I do. I do all too well.

"Go, kid. You've got shit to do. Patch up our little broken family, yeah?"

I laugh. I actually laugh. A feeble little huff of laughter that's more exhausted than anything, but it's still a laugh.

"I don't really have any choice, boss. You're out of commission for a while."

I look into his exposed insides, swallowing the bile back down.

It never gets any less disgusting, does it?

"You got them all. Sew yourself up and I'll come check on you later, okay? Doc is... isn't doing to well."

I can hear my voice crack.

Hold on for just a bit longer, August.

It's Cam's voice.

"Go." Spencer sounds almost... proud. There's a small, strained smile on his face.

Who am I to question him?

I leave him to do... whatever it is he does. When I emerge into the kitchen, Doc is snoring softly. Upstairs Todd seems to have settled down, but Steele is off in the garage and I can hear him doing something, probably getting his rage out.

I don't blame him.

I realize I still don't know where Amanda is, and Sam is probably off hiding somewhere. Amanda can take care of herself; she seems to be doing pretty well considering what she found in the basement. Sam... Sam may be another story.

Everybody takes finding out about the boss'... condition differently. And Sam...

Well.

A mother's job is never done, is it?

If you'll excuse me, I'm off to go look through every closet in the house in search of a tiny female courier.

Good luck, everybody.

And good night.

-August- Bleach and Blood

We arrived in Austin a little over 48 hours after we left the house. While shifts of three hours, off six hours is usually a lot kinder than what we usually get on delivery, it still wears on the team, so a stop at a motel was necessary.

(Look at me, sounding like Spencer.)

The clerk wouldn't stop staring at me the whole time.

It's okay, though. When Amanda is tired she's about 20% bitchier than usual and she pretty much chewed him out when he said they only had one room with a single left.

Still, I didn't sleep. Couldn't.

So much for being there for each other, huh, Cam?

Rest in peace. The world is a shade duller without you.

Anyhow.

We're at an abandoned farmhouse near the Texas/New Mexico border. I can tell Amanda and Sam want to go back home but they're not really willing to raise an argument with me right now.

I'm perched on the windowsill of what used to be an office on the second floor of a flax-colored farmhouse. Most of the south half of the house has been burned to cinders, but the north portion stands eerily intact, and you can stare from the kitchen and see the charred remains of the walls of the guest bedroom.

A spring mattress' skeleton hangs precariously from what used to be the master bedroom. Queen sized. A patchwork quilt used to sit on top with an array of furs and other small blankets. One was stuffed with down. There will pillows as tall as a mountain, and an Indian-weaved carpet on the floors. The floors themselves were hardwood, a deep brown so polished that you could see your reflection. A painting hung above the bed. Fire-Swept Algoma.

The mattress skeleton is home to a family of birds now. The painting's frame lies in ruins on the floor below. Glass is scattered at least fifty feet in each direction.

A paper blows by me now. I catch it. A receipt. Scrap metal. Payment due: well over five thousand dollars. Dated 2004.

Sam and Amanda are downstairs, rummaging through the house for anything useful. They won't find anything. Drifters have scraped this place clean. It's been standing like this for months.

Passed the fields of what used to be corn (now just a mess of tangled weeds with the occasional angry scar of burned, uprooted ground) is a metal building. One of those as-seen-on-TV kinds. Inside there's a combine harvester. John Deere. The paint is rusting with the metal.

There's a warm breeze tonight. It glides over me and makes the scraps of paper dance around the office. Some are newspaper clippings.

"Children missing o-"

"-found dead in-"

"-ocking developments-"

"-no leads, says chief."

There's a common theme.

...

I grew up in Washington.

My dad was Japanese. My mom, Swedish. My dad worked with his father overseas, and my father was sitting on a massive fortune thanks to his electronics company. My mother ran a daycare for all of the other trophy wives, who went out and got their nails done and banged other, younger men behind their husbands backs.

My dad had a brother who was a little bit... unhinged. Nobody in the family liked him. He was unsuccessful and had dropped out of high school. He came to visit us over Christmas. We should have known something was wrong. His eyes were dark and he laughed at the worst times and it was all wrong, wrong, wrong.

On the third night of his visit, I woke up to my mother screaming. I ran into the kitchen. Slipped on something on the ground. The floor was covered with it. When I opened my eyes, my father's head was staring back at me.

I started screaming as well.

The floor was covered in blood and the cabinets were covered in blood and my father was cut to pieces. One arm was lodged down the garbage disposal. Another was laying on the floor beside his head. The torso had been torn open. Bleach was poured inside. I didn't know it at the time, but I could smell it everywhere: bleach and blood. Bleach and blood.

I still smell it sometimes.

My uncle had my mother by the hair and had taken her clothes off. No prizes for guessing what he intended to do, but he heard me fall and he heard my scream and he turned around. He was grinning, but it didn't reach his eyes.

My mother was screaming. Screaming for help, screaming for me to run, but I only stood there and stared.

And then my uncle spoke to me.

"Merry Christmas."

He took the same knife he had used on my father and lodged it through my mother's left eye. Then he stalked towards me.

You know what I did?

I ran.

I ran as fast as I could. Out of the kitchen and over the piles of presents under the tree and out of the house through the snow and the ice and out of the yard and into the neighbours and rang the doorbell until they saw me, little 12-year-old August, screaming and sobbing and begging for help.

They called the police.

It was all over the news the next morning.

My mother died. My uncle had gone back and finished the job. I went under witness protection and they found me a new home in Texas.

I never went back to school.

My new father's name was Allan. He lived on a cattle ranch and also grew corn. Briar Ridge Acres. That's what the farm was called. Allan was patient and loving. He let me sleep in the master bedroom, where I could curl up under the furs and the patchwork quilt and the down-stuffed comforter and pretend that awful, awful night never happened. He was patient when I didn't speak for almost two months after I joined him. He never protested when I called him 'Allan' or 'sir,' but never dad. I couldn't bear it. I wouldn't let myself forget. I learned how to cook and to clean to keep myself busy. I was trying to forget. I wouldn't let myself forget.

Eventually, I found out Allan was more than a cattle rancher.

Allan Sherwood was a specialist in UFOs and crop circles, and not in the zealot way. Allan Sherwood made and faked crop circles and UFO landings as an extra source of income. He taught me how to make the circles and how to assemble a working UFO. He taught me how to flatten an entire crop in a night, and when the two of us worked together we could create some of the most intricate and beautiful designs.

England had nothing on us.

We sold whatever of the crop we hadn't ruined and the cows would be abducted on a regular basis.

Well, eventually somebody caught on.

The government, who else?

They caught him for fraud and made him give back every dollar we had ever gotten from that business. We were left with scarcely a penny to our names, and it hit us hard. Allan started to sleep less and fell into a horrible sickness. He wouldn't stop coughing. His mental condition was getting worse, and a lot of nights I'd see him out in the fields where the circles used to be, just staring into the woods.

But that wasn't the money's fault, was it?

Turns out Allan had actually managed to find files on Slim and Trim while perusing forums on extraterrestrials. He became fascinated and... well, we all know how that ends.

We kept dogs. Five of them, actually. Three of which were half wolf. They were there to protect the cattle, and occasionally, us.

One day, we found one dead on our doorstep. She had been cut open and stretched out.

Bleach and blood.

Over the next couple of weeks, three others disappeared. The last one, Apollo, was with me the night I heard my father scream.

He was in his office. Apollo jumped up and started barking like hell itself had invaded the house. I barely had my eyes open before he tore off upstairs.

I followed suit, nauseous.

Guess who was standing with Allan in the office?

Bleach and blood. Bleach and blood.

I watched life drain away from his eyes. It was the first and last time I'd ever call him dad.

So it's Slim and Trim and me, seventeen, alone in a room.

A few things happened at once.

The air contracted, a hiss like the sound of a vacuum turning on. I could see the faceless man stand before me, unnaturally tall and alien yet somehow... comforting. Time is moving in slow motion. There is no sound after the hiss. I can't move. My head is in a cloud.

Bleach and blood.

There were ten of those tentacles screaming behind him, flailing and whipping up the papers on the table and the books on the shelves.

I read the headlines as they float by.

"Children missing o-"

"-found dead in-"

"-ocking development-"

"-no leads, says chief."

Silence is ripped apart.

There's an awful roar and a burning as I realize I'm being held by those black tendrils that adorn His back. He is standing there, indifferent, as I scream and, with horror, realize the house is burning.

I'm thrown against a bookshelf and it falls and breaks over me. My head is bleeding and I'm seeing stars, sobbing, mutters 'father allan dad mom oh god i don't want to die'

I can't run. I can't move. He's in front of me again. Slashes and burns like whips and I'm hurled out the window onto the roof. I roll onto the ground and hit with a damp thud.

My vision is gray and darkess is creeping from the corners. It doesn't hurt, but I'm panicking. I can't stop panicking.

Bleach and blood. Bleach and blood. Bleach and blood.

The house is on fire.

The Tall Man is staring at me through the window.

Vision nearly black. I'm picked up again. A woman's voice from behind. Pale arms. I can't see who's grabbed me.

Mom? Dad?

I think I'm dying.

Bleach and blood.

I'm listening through a pool of water. The world is monochrome.

Everything goes black.

...

I wake up.

I'm in a van, my body screaming bloody murder at me. Burns litter my body. There's a bad one on my wrist.

There's somebody in the front seat. A gray streak is in his hair, but he's far too young to have gone gray.

A woman with the face of an angel is applying pressure to my arm. I gasp sharply in pain, pulling it away, only to hit something in my chest and scream.

"It's broken for sure, boss."

Really? I couldn't tell.

That was the first time I met Spencer and Doc. Apparently, Allan had asked to have some files delivered, and then had stumbled upon me, crawling, crying, begging to be spared.

They took pity on me. Spencer said I 'might be useful.'

How did he know?

Maybe it's not my place to ask.

All I know is I've been working for him ever since. It's been enjoyable, even if the team is... oddball, to say the least. We're a family, and that's what matters.

I wouldn't have you guys any other way.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to try and find a hotel.

-August- Back Home

Well, that took considerably longer than I thought it would.

Almost a week longer than I thought it would, actually. All thanks to a note taped to the sender's door when I arrived on Wednesday night.

"To the courier -

Took the package myself. Hope the money will cover the gas cost.

God bless,

Stephanie"

I could already see this was going to be a nightmare, because of course I'm not allowed to just say 'oh, well, it's been taken care of' and take them money and run because of course it's never that easy, because there's no such thing as a normal delivery, especially if you're doing it by yourself and especially if you called us to do the delivery in the first place.

Oh, and the small stack of bills she left didn't even begin to cover the costs of travelling from the house to NYC. So there's always that.

... So I was going to hunt her down, then. A near impossible task considering the size of the big apple and the fact that Runners are usually really, really hard to find considering they're people who manage to stay mostly out of reach of Slim N' Trim himself.

Not exactly the easiest of tasks.

But as luck would have it, what do I hear over the radio as I start up the FREE CANDY van?

"... no evidence found. One child reported a man in a suit near the scene of the crime. Police are investigating."

After twenty minutes of staring hopefully at the radio, the story wasn't mentioned again. I didn't catch the location, but if the fact that this was a little too coincidental was anything to go by, I figured I could take a guess as to where the body had been found, and who the body belonged to.

I got to Central Park a bit before midnight, (Jesus Rollerblading Christ this is such a big city.) meaning most reasonable people had left and most of the police force had been sent out. I'll save you the details and tell you that the Central Park Police really know what they're doing.

Looks like I'd get lucky twice today, because the package was on the girl (or what was left of her) and I managed to get out without being caught.

I don't know how, either.

The drop-off was some little village called Mystic in Connecticut. (You may proceed to chuckle at the coincidence; I certainly did.) A five hour drive to avoid the mind-numbingly boring I-95.

But hey, despite having a case of wicked nausea that kept me pulled over every hour or so, (still haven't gotten all the Slendergunk out of me) I had Queen to keep me company.

She's a killer queen

Gunpowder, Gelatine

Dynamite with a laser beam

Let me tell you a few things about the village of Mystic.

The village of Mystic is not a recognized municipality.

The village of Mystic has a population of 4001 people.

The village of Mystic has a total area of 3.8 square miles.

About ten percent of that is water.

The village of Mystic is located within another city by the name of Groton.

And on top of this, there's also the village of Old Mystic, which is about two miles bigger and actually marked on a map.

Needless to say, it was really, really easy to miss.

And guess which one I wasted a whole day in, before driving back out to the larger town of Groton to ask somebody who might actually know what they're doing.

Well, I found it.

It was Sunday by then. I had split the driving up into two days (I think I would die driving for five straight hours. Three hours on and off when I go on delivery with someone else is torture) and wasted Saturday in Old Mystic, growing increasingly frustrated and loathsome of the tiny cardboard box in the passenger's seat. I had decided sometime around Friday evening that there would be nothing short of heaven on earth that would make this delivery worth it. Hunting down a victim, stealing evidence, hundreds of dollars in gas money and fast food.

There's a reason I learned how to cook, you know.

Maybe one day I'll tell you.

Ha.

But back to the delivery.

On the box was an address somewhere in the middle of the suburbs, (And by suburbs, I mean about fifty town houses clustered together with a park somewhere in the middle.) and guess who was waiting for me when I arrived?

Nobody. I was about ready to break into the house, steal whatever was of value, drop the box and get home when their neighbor, regarding the package in my hand, approached me.

"Excuse me, little miss, can I help you?"

He was in his late 40s; salt-and-pepper hair and crow's feet clinging to his eyes. A slight grin was playing on his face, brown eyes looking me up and down.

Creep.

"Delivery for mister... Church?" I ignored the middle bit of that statement. You're here to do a delivery, not to make enemies. Calm, calm...

His brow raised slightly. "Ian's not around, girly. If you step inside I'd be happy to sign for-"

"If you could just give me the spare key I can leave it inside."

Oh, you have got to be kidding me. Nothing in that man's eyes was to be trusted. I took a step back and cut him off, trying very, very hard to hide the obvious irritation in my tone.

Needless to say, I failed.

He didn't like this one bit.

"Now listen here, you gotta be a little more respectful than-"

"We have explicit instructions from both Ian and the sender to leave it inside. It's very valuable. Something about a deceased relative? Anyways, he wants it inside and told me one of the neighbors would have the key."

Blatant lies.

Spencer had taught me well.

(And the nausea's acting up again. Jesus Rollerblading Christ. I need to get into a bathroom. Quickly.)

He didn't argue much after that, retreating back into the house and returning shortly with a key. Grumbling and some less-than-savory language may have been involved in the process, but I was beyond caring. The end was finally in sight.

There was no note because no doubt Mr. Church had expected this package days ago. He was probably on his way to New York to see the sender and... well, he wouldn't like what he found.

I entered the kitchen and left the cardboard box on the counter, glad to finally have that thing off my hands.

And then I realized.

I didn't specify payment.

And how did I know this?

By the stack of bills sitting in a clip on the counter, marked 'FOR THE DELIVERY.'

Notes on the fridge, on the table, in frames on the walls and written on the floor told me this guy had horrible memory issues. Induced by Slim N' Trim? Maybe. But I really didn't care. Something told me this guy would need the money for himself, if only to buy more stickies to write down his name, his home address, and why he's living alone and what was in the package.

A wedding band.

...

Suddenly, this hell became completely worth it.

I didn't take the cash, but there were some fantastic Italian cookbooks in the drawers next to the kitchen. I grabbed a couple (and one East Indian, mmmmmm~) and left my own note.

The drive home would take me another nine hours. Again, I split it into two days.

So now it's Wednesday at 5 AM and I come home, and of course the house is still a mess because I can't expect them to clean, but somebody did the dishes and the kitchen has been scrubbed down, though the smell of vomit and Slendergunk still clings to the air.

I'm dead tired and collapse onto the kitchen table, realizing how comfortable the chair is and what a great pillow this table makes.

I realize the others will be up in an hour or so.

I realize somebody needs to cook them breakfast.

Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.

I drag my legs up from under the chair and practically crawl towards the fridge, stubbing my toe in the dark (because by now I'm used to the headlights of the van) on the counter and yelping like a puppy who's taken his first fall down a flight of stairs.

The light from the inside of the fridge burns my eyes, and I'm looking through two hazy slits.

What's sitting on the top shelf?

A piece of cake, covered in plastic wrap, garnished with a piece of paper.

"Happy birthday, August!

♥"

Awwwwww.

It's got strawberry frosting jesus rollerblading christ strawberry frosting is my favorite and it could be made of sand and garnished with dandelion heads and it would still taste like sweet, sweet, strawberry-frosted heaven.

Breakfast would have to wait a few minutes, and the slight sugar high made pancakes much, much easier. I also only ended up cooking for five of us seeing as Steele and Todd have flown the coup, (at least for now) which is good because I only made half the recipe.

Anyways, Spencer says we're invited to a wedding tomorrow? I guess I'll have to catch up on blogs some other time. I've got a week's worth of sleep to catch up on and an outfit to plan out.

...

Wait.

Spencer, I'm wearing a what?!

-August- Everything We Know About The Boss

Evidently, not a whole lot.

The boss is but one of many, many things in this house that seem to be shrouded in more mystery than the beef in Taco Bell's Spicy Gordita Crunch. Where does he get all his money? Where did this house come from, and how did Spence come to own it? What's with the east wing, and why does he willingly live in there? Why all the alcohol? And on the topic of all the bourbon, how is he not dead yet?

And what was that post yesterday about?

Well, I have a few ideas, all of which seem to tie back to the above post.

But let's get through what we know first.

Spencer has access to large amounts of cash.

The boss has outright stated that he has a ridiculous amount of money. This is the man who hands out $50 000 bonuses like they're pieces of candy, and you'd be shocked at the number of zeroes at the end of our paychecks.

Does he have it legally? I don't know. Do I care? Not really.

Spencer has been Slenderstalked for a long, long time.

This comes from the fact that it's fairly obvious to anyone that Spence knows much, much, much more about Mr. Slim n' Trim (and running from him, while we're at it) than he should.

Spencer is, on the surface, much saner than most of the Slenderstalked.

If the events of the 8th show us anything, it's that while a majority of the team was busy freaking out or being possessed, Spencer played Big Damn Hero and basically saved all of us. He's boss for a reason, I guess, but I would think that being stalked for a while longer than us would make his symptoms when everybody got Loopy worse. Then again, maybe it just ties into the fact that...

Spencer consumes enough alcohol to kill every liver north of the equator.

And somehow, he's still alive. Another thing to note is that Spencer is always cold; his skin is freezing to the touch and he's so pale his skin almost looks gray, and is completely translucent.

I read through Doc's report of the injuries following the 7th, and I realized that something didn't seem quite right.

"Boss - pulse 78, 98.6°F. Sustained minor injuries in the struggles last night, needed stitches, nothing else to report."

Nobody saw Spencer get injured.

Amanda's post didn't mention anything about the boss getting hurt. Doc didn't see him become injured, either. Todd doesn't remember anything but has intuition enough to put every woman on earth to shame, so I'm just going to take his word on that.

And I know what you're thinking: he probably just had an older injury that got re-opened.

That's exactly my point.

Why lie about it? Were Amanda and Doc covering for him, or did Spence tell them that as well? Wouldn't Doc notice if the injury had been re-opened, and wasn't fresh? Was she too drugged up and Loopy to care?

Does it matter?

Anyways. Onto our next point...

Even if he isn't insane, he's at the very least bipolar and disturbed.

The fact that he's disturbed isn't a surprise. Anybody stalked by an eldritch abomination isn't going to come out of it all sunshine and rainbows. But the fact that he takes it in stride is more than a lot of us can attest to.

It's also pretty obvious Spencer is bipolar. It's obvious in the very first post of this blog, when he shifts tones so quickly readers should end up with proverbial whiplash. There's no place where it's showcased better than in the post that is the subject of today's... analysis? I guess?

Or maybe it's not. After all...

Spencer is a lying, cheating, dirty-fighting bastard.

Heh. This is something that really has to be seen, seeing as how new this blog is. The boss is apt at fighting. Frighteningly so. He's cold and ruthless when in battle and seems to have every move calculated. He's proficient in almost every weapon I've seen him fight with, (and probably more that I haven't seen) and while he prefers his shovel, he has no qualms with using other weapons if need be.

He also lies like a rug.

Of course, I have no evidence for this so far. The only real proof I have is the fact that his possible bipolarism leads to some very interesting comments from him, all of which seem like Spence showcasing his less-than-excellent acting. He's dipped into dark stuff before and will again, and the bright and cheery optimism seems glued on.

Of course, that's what we know.

But let's move onto today's topic.

Spencer's last post.

Given his cryptic nature, I'm very suspicious when I'm presented with anything that may or may not clear the fog surrounding the boss' past. This isn't the first story he's told us and it certainly won't be the last, and all Joker parallels aside I'm convinced he's not a serial murderer, regardless of how many Proxies we've had to cut through to get the job done.

(They are people, you know; with lives and families and pets and hopes and dreams. We're not allowed to forget that. I'm not allowed to forget that there's the blood of 13 people with jobs and ambitions on my hands alone. The moment we lose our morality and start seeing them as bags of flesh is the moment we're no better than the faceless bastard we're trying to avoid.)

So, does this post explain...

Why Spence has a lot of money?

Yes. Cults the size of towns tend to amass reasonable fortunes.

Does it make sense that Spence would 'robbed the cult who had deceived him blind'?

Yes. This is the man who has stolen Doc's favorite knife right under her nose, and kept it away until she posted. See 'Spencer is a lying, cheating, dirty-fighting bastard' for additional reasoning. (Though not much.)

Does this support the theory that Spencer had been Slenderstalked for a long time?

The implication of the story is that he was born into one of those cults in Indiana. So yes. He'd have been stalked for his entire life, but it wouldn't have gotten worse until he decided to run. Since he was fifteen, by the looks at it. Assuming the service has been running for three years (I've heard him mention it on and off. Sometimes it's seven. Sometimes it's five. Sometimes it's three, sometimes even one. Three is the most common; three is what I'm sticking with. But it can't be one, because Doc says she's been around for two and a half years. I've been here for a little over nine months.) it means Spence has been on the run for at least ten years.

(Then again, nobody knows his true age. We just go by appearance.)

That just seems too far-fetched, even for Spencer. There's absolutely no doubt in my mind that the boss ran for a long time, but eight years of having no place to call your own and constant paranoia is enough to drive anybody absolutely insane, and Spence just isn't that crazy/stupid.

For all his alcohol-induced bipolarism (or maybe the alcohol tones it down? I haven't seen him sober for long enough to tell.) Spencer is far from stupid. Let's just say if there's a scale of genre savviness the boss is somewhere between the one holding the strings and the villain who decides to shoot the hero (twice for good luck) once he's got them in his grasp.

I should also mention one line in particular that stands out in the post.

"Focus, Spencer, focus. Maybe tell a story? God knows you probably won't post this anyway, but you've got to let your mind wander to navigate this, come on, stop thinking...."

Spence, do you know this post is up?

You have to. You commented on it. Allow me to rephrase:

Do you realize what you wrote in this post?

Something tells me that if you'd be sober enough to actually look through the blog you'd realize what you posted, because it's evident you weren't very sober when posting that.

Final question, half out of finally being out of points, and half out of Jesus Rollerblading Christ this post is massive.

Does this story provide a likely history for Spencer?

Yes.

Does this mean that this is likely what happened?

No.

But it's the closest we've got.

-August- Explanation And Damage Control

Or, as much damage control as I can do perched atop the kitchen counter.

Sam's been out cold since I gave her whatever Doc put in that syringe. Doc, I don't know what you put in there, but it worked wonders.

I'm feeling considerably better myself. The vomiting has stopped for the most part, but it got worse as the night went on because I realized it would be really, really stupid of me to get knocked out by all pills Doc gave me, and even stupider to OD on them. Sam escaped from the chair twice before I finally put her under, and she's been sleeping like a little angel ever since.

Why no, I haven't slept, thanks for asking.

Oh, alright, well, Spence just dropped Todd off and he seems okay. Spencer wants to rip my throat out but at least they're both alive and okay.

Really, Spence, I'm doing better. I'm not seeing ghosts or Mr. Slim n' Trim and the physical symptoms are fading. Slowly, but they're fading.

Sam is still with me and Todd's with me now and Spence is off with the determination and arsenal of a small army, and he is not pleased. At all.

(Not that I blame him.)

Still nothing from Doc, Amanda and Steele. But if the boss is heading back up there, assuming they're alive, they should be back.

Spencer is the only one who seems to have any idea what's going on in that wing, and I'm not the first one to note it as suspicious. That place likes to change layouts like teenage girls change boyfriends and somehow, he knows where he's going.

Well, I'm not going to argue.

And seeing as I certainly don't want to go back and read that disaster of a series of posts, (Eleven of them. Jesus Rollerblading Christ.) I doubt you, mystery reader, want to as well.

(Sam's awake now. She seems mostly sane so I've given her blogging privileges, but she's not being untied until I'm sure she's clean enough to think with a clear head.)

So let's start at the beginning.

We got stuck in a Loop during our last delivery. Normally this isn't really a big deal; we can handle mazes, we can handle Proxies, heck, we can handle Tall, Dark and Faceless - to an extent.

But there are always side effects. Injuries from fighting, Slendersickness, and everybody always feels a bit disoriented after leaving a Loop. The Loops basically completely screw up your internal sense of direction and completely disregard the laws of space-time, so it's not surprising that us mere mortals end up a little strange after being in one, especially after three days of real time.

Normally, we manage just fine.

Doc has a cure for most things and what she can't cure, she just knocks out. Sometimes there will be hallucinations, (a la Sam and Steele) sometimes we succumb to a little bit of the... influence, (a la Todd) and sometimes the sickness just hits us like a semi to the face. (A la me.) The effects are usually randomized, and have less to do with what happened in the Loop and what our current mental state is, and more to do with what's the most inconvenient for us at the time.

Normally, it's not that bad.

There are a couple days when we're seeing figures in the doorways and voices in our head and we sleep with a bucket next to wherever we've decided is the best place to sleep, and then it's back to work.

Not so much this time.

It started with Todd writing us all into his own version of House of Leaves. There's nothing tongue-in-cheek about it, and the lack of capitalization at the end and the general tone threw us off. It was fairly obvious that something wasn't right.

Again, to be expect. Having reality ripped apart and hastily stitched back together doesn't do great things to your health.

But then Amanda went and googled "Dignus est Agnus." We found a prayer. Here's the translation:

"Worthy is the lamb who was slain to accept power and divinity and wisdom and strength and honor and glory and blessing..."

Absolutely wonder, right?

Then Doc posted.

Doc, apparently now high off of whatever she had just taken, and now she's getting Nam-style flashbacks to... well, we don't talk about that stuff. Ask her if you're so curious.

Again, to be expected. Maybe it's that it doesn't seem to bad when it's spoken aloud in conversation, because we're all too far gone with our various symptoms to notice, but in retrospect it all seems horrid and definitely not healthy.

Hindsight is 20/20, I guess.

Amanda was away on the east coast with her own delivery, so she escaped the symptoms. Her post was the small bit of common sense and reassurance that got us together and in the kitchen, and I'm a little bit afraid of what might have happened if we had stayed in our separate parts of the house.

The next post belonged to Sam.

Oh god, Sam.

Sam's fresh meat. She's the newest of all of us, and this was the first time she'd been in The Place Physics Left Behind.

(And even as I type this there are drafts going up from Amanda and Sam. Amanda, we do have a library. It's the boss'. Christ. What was he doing in there? If you're posting I take it you're okay. Spence will be up there soon. Just try and hold on until he finds you.)

We also expect her to get it kind of bad. Worse than the rest of us, certainly. I was a mess of black gunk and hallucinations and mad raving for a week my first time. It does something to you, and not good things. Not good things at all.

Spence's post. Common sense. Ordering us around because Jesus Rollerblading Christ, some direction is what we needed.

Todd official dived off the deep end.

Spencer went into the east wing after him.

We're convinced at this point that Todd's crossed the line and Turned.

"im so sorry

im so sorry
please just dont hurt me
please
ill give him back
i just wanted to get out for a while
im so sorry"

I'm neither sure of what that means, nor do I know who's speaking. Slim n' Trim? (Not likely.) A split personality? (Possibly.) But it wasn't good, wasn't good at all, but Spencer seemed to have... talked some sense into him?

Everything from here is out of my element. Amanda and Doc went off to try and rescue Steele, because it's obvious now he's gone completely off the rails, and his posts and comments and posts speak for themselves.

And from there Amanda will have to summarize for you, because it was just me having way too many pills, trying to keep Sam sane and visibly flipping the hell out.

Those pills have really made me sleepy. The fact that I haven't slept probably isn't helping.

Todd is doing okay. Sam is still a little woozy and seems a bit high, but other than that the three of us seem to be doing okay.

Spence, Amanda, Doc, Steele.

Please stay safe.