I'm waiting. I don't know why - I don't even think he'll be back, but I'm still waiting for him.
My sister keeps asking me what happened. Apparently, all of their communications went wonky at the exact same time, all video surveillance blinked off, every horror movie cliche you can think of.
I haven't told her yet. I'm not sure I can.
But I want to write it down, write the story. That's what he does to us - what the Slender Man does to us. He makes us turn things into stories. People into stories. Because he's a storybook monster.
He spreads by stories. They all spread by stories. Read enough of them, suddenly you become part of the story, become the story itself.
I want to tell the story. It's itching my mind, wanting to come out. What happened in that labyrinth. When we were bait.
I don't want to give him the satisfaction of turning it into a story yet, though. I know I will soon, but...not now. Not now.
Now I'm just waiting.