Slenderman Of The Shallows
coruscate
“Slenderman Of The Bayou”
Original story ZERO AI.
The wet version includes Crows from Jessba https://freesound.org/people/Jessba/sounds/515533/
Wet version includes vinyl crackle.
This is part of my Samhain album going to services on the 30th, you can hear the whole album now on Bandcamp.
https://theincompleteorchestra.bandcamp.com/album/horrors-of-the-bayou
—————————-
The air over Lake Pontchartrain doesn’t move in the summer. It just sits, thick and heavy, smelling of salt, decay, and warm water. I was on the roof of a bait shop that had been picked clean years ago, the “P” and the “N” in its sign long since shot out, leaving it the “O–CH–RAI– AI– SHOP.” Felt appropriate. My binoculars were trained on the I-10 Twin Span Bridge, or what was left of it. Sections of it lay submerged in the dark water like the broken spine of some colossal beast.
Most of the dead that shambled through these parts were the usual fare. Slow, mindless, drawn by the scent of the living. A bullet to the head or a sharp blade was all the sermon they needed. But not this one. This one was different. They called it the Slender-Man of the Shallows. A stupid name for a thing that was anything but.
The bounty was twenty thousand. In the new world, that wasn’t just currency. That was a lifetime. A fortified corner of the world. Silence.
I’d been tracking it for a week, following the trail of peculiar kills. It didn’t feed like the others. It didn’t tear and rend. It impaled. Its victims—mostly lone scavengers, overconfident hunters—were found speared on rebar, on sharpened branches, or, once, through the rusted steering column of an old pickup truck. It was a hunter, not a feeder. It killed for a reason we couldn’t fathom.
I saw it then, just after sundown. It emerged from the treeline on the near shore, wading into the water with a purpose the others never showed. It was tall. Seven feet, easy, but its emaciated frame made it seem even more elongated, a grotesque shadow stretching in the dying light. It moved with a stiff, deliberate grace, its limbs all wrong, like a mantis. It stopped, chest-deep in the lake, and just stood there, facing the ruined bridge.
This was my shot. The water would slow it down. I slid the long-range rifle from my back, the metal cool against my cheek. I exhaled, settling the crosshairs on the back of its skull. The world narrowed to the space between my finger and the trigger.
Then it turned.
It didn’t lurch or spin. Its head rotated smoothly, too far, until its face was looking right back at me, across three hundred yards of open water. It had no eyes, just deep, dark sockets, but I felt its gaze like a physical weight. It knew. It had known I was here the whole time. The standing in the open water wasn’t vulnerability; it was a challenge.
A cold knot tightened in my gut. This wasn’t just another walker. This thing had a cruel, patient intelligence. It had been hunting hunters.
It began to move, not away, but *towards* me. It didn’t run. It strode through the water, each step unnaturally steady, the surface barely rippling around its gaunt hips. The silence was the worst part. No groan, no snarl. Just the quiet lapping of water and the frantic thumping of my own heart.
I fired. The crack of the rifle split the twilight. A spray of water kicked up a foot to its left. I’d missed. I never miss. I worked the bolt, fired again. Another miss. It was like it was leaning out of the bullet’s path an instant before I pulled the trigger.
It was almost to the shore now, emerging from the lake, water streaming from its ragged clothes and pallid flesh. It was even taller on land, a nightmare silhouette against the gunmetal grey of the lake. In its hand, it held a length of rusted, sharpened pipe it must have pulled from the lakebed.
This wasn’t about a bounty anymore. This was about which one of us was the predator and which was the prey. The calculus had changed. The rifle was a liability at this range. I let it drop and drew my machete, the well-worn grip familiar and solid in my palm. The fear was still there, a cold wire in my veins, but beneath it, a different feeling was rising. A grim, cold rhythm started to beat in my head, matching my pulse.
Original story ZERO AI.
The wet version includes Crows from Jessba https://freesound.org/people/Jessba/sounds/515533/
Wet version includes vinyl crackle.
This is part of my Samhain album going to services on the 30th, you can hear the whole album now on Bandcamp.
https://theincompleteorchestra.bandcamp.com/album/horrors-of-the-bayou
—————————-
The air over Lake Pontchartrain doesn’t move in the summer. It just sits, thick and heavy, smelling of salt, decay, and warm water. I was on the roof of a bait shop that had been picked clean years ago, the “P” and the “N” in its sign long since shot out, leaving it the “O–CH–RAI– AI– SHOP.” Felt appropriate. My binoculars were trained on the I-10 Twin Span Bridge, or what was left of it. Sections of it lay submerged in the dark water like the broken spine of some colossal beast.
Most of the dead that shambled through these parts were the usual fare. Slow, mindless, drawn by the scent of the living. A bullet to the head or a sharp blade was all the sermon they needed. But not this one. This one was different. They called it the Slender-Man of the Shallows. A stupid name for a thing that was anything but.
The bounty was twenty thousand. In the new world, that wasn’t just currency. That was a lifetime. A fortified corner of the world. Silence.
I’d been tracking it for a week, following the trail of peculiar kills. It didn’t feed like the others. It didn’t tear and rend. It impaled. Its victims—mostly lone scavengers, overconfident hunters—were found speared on rebar, on sharpened branches, or, once, through the rusted steering column of an old pickup truck. It was a hunter, not a feeder. It killed for a reason we couldn’t fathom.
I saw it then, just after sundown. It emerged from the treeline on the near shore, wading into the water with a purpose the others never showed. It was tall. Seven feet, easy, but its emaciated frame made it seem even more elongated, a grotesque shadow stretching in the dying light. It moved with a stiff, deliberate grace, its limbs all wrong, like a mantis. It stopped, chest-deep in the lake, and just stood there, facing the ruined bridge.
This was my shot. The water would slow it down. I slid the long-range rifle from my back, the metal cool against my cheek. I exhaled, settling the crosshairs on the back of its skull. The world narrowed to the space between my finger and the trigger.
Then it turned.
It didn’t lurch or spin. Its head rotated smoothly, too far, until its face was looking right back at me, across three hundred yards of open water. It had no eyes, just deep, dark sockets, but I felt its gaze like a physical weight. It knew. It had known I was here the whole time. The standing in the open water wasn’t vulnerability; it was a challenge.
A cold knot tightened in my gut. This wasn’t just another walker. This thing had a cruel, patient intelligence. It had been hunting hunters.
It began to move, not away, but *towards* me. It didn’t run. It strode through the water, each step unnaturally steady, the surface barely rippling around its gaunt hips. The silence was the worst part. No groan, no snarl. Just the quiet lapping of water and the frantic thumping of my own heart.
I fired. The crack of the rifle split the twilight. A spray of water kicked up a foot to its left. I’d missed. I never miss. I worked the bolt, fired again. Another miss. It was like it was leaning out of the bullet’s path an instant before I pulled the trigger.
It was almost to the shore now, emerging from the lake, water streaming from its ragged clothes and pallid flesh. It was even taller on land, a nightmare silhouette against the gunmetal grey of the lake. In its hand, it held a length of rusted, sharpened pipe it must have pulled from the lakebed.
This wasn’t about a bounty anymore. This was about which one of us was the predator and which was the prey. The calculus had changed. The rifle was a liability at this range. I let it drop and drew my machete, the well-worn grip familiar and solid in my palm. The fear was still there, a cold wire in my veins, but beneath it, a different feeling was rising. A grim, cold rhythm started to beat in my head, matching my pulse.