The Slender Man

By Simon John Cox

When Adam Bradford's sister goes missing he drops everything to assist the police, travelling up to the isolated village where she lived.

When he arrives at her cottage, however, he discovers a life in disarray and a bedroom filled with cryptic notes and mysterious blurred photographs.

At first he puts this obsession down to some kind of psychological disorder, but after he experiences a series of disturbing events he begins to question whether there is any truth to the myth of the Slender Man.

Also includes a free short essay on horror.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon John Cox
• Release date: Aug 16, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301080533

Simon John Cox

Simon John Cox was born in Tunbridge Wells, has a degree in chemistry, a job in marketing and a black belt in Taekwon-Do. He has been writing fiction for as long as he can remember. He has had various short stories published, and is editing his second novel whilst trying to interest agents in his first. Simon is a founder member of the Tunbridge Wells Writers group, and is currently starring as the protagonist in his autobiography.

Book preview

The Slender Man

By Simon John Cox

Published by Simon John Cox at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Simon John Cox

www.simonjohncox.com

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Praise for The Slender Man

The Slender Man is one of the creepiest novellas I have ever read. Simon is massively informed about fiction, and is one of the few writers I've read who really *gets* horror.

– Tony Healey, author of the Far From Home series

This is the kind of story that makes you afraid to peer out the window into the darkness and makes you glance over your shoulder as you walk from your car to the front door. The tension builds from the first scene to a finale that will stick with you long after you’ve read the last lines.

– Keri Knutson, author of the Maddie Pryce Mystery series

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The Slender Man

It is just after eight o’clock in the morning when the text message comes through.

My phone is on the kitchen work surface, next to my bowl of cereal, and when it beeps and shudders and the display flashes into life I ignore it. It’s Saturday morning and all I want to do is eat my breakfast and read the newspaper in peace. If it’s important they’ll call. That’s what I always say.

A few minutes later the phone chimes up again, its tone the needy chirping of an electronic bird. I pick it up and turn it face down, so that the green glow doesn’t nag at the corner of my eye as I try to read.

It’s only when the third message comes through that I decide I have no choice but to take action. I tut, sigh, slap my spoon down on the melamine counter and snatch up the phone.

The display says ‘3 Msgs: Hannah’.

I haven’t spoken to Hannah for months. I haven’t seen her in, what, almost a year? Last time I saw her was when she came down for Christmas and we all went to mum’s. It was difficult. I think we both knew it would be mum’s last Christmas. She put a lot of effort in, as usual, mum did, but the chemo had ravaged her and she looked brittle, weightless and translucent, like the sloughed-off carapace of a beetle. Like she was gradually fading away. After we’d eaten lunch she said she had to go upstairs for a sleep, and when she’d hauled herself up the stairs Hannah and I watched television together. We didn’t say anything for a long time, just watched an old black-and-white film in silence, but then I said something or she said something, I don’t remember who, and we ended up having an argument. The next day we went back home, and after that I got the feeling that she didn’t want to talk to me for a while. She didn’t come to mum’s funeral.

I roll the phone’s cursor onto ‘View’ and click the OK button, and a message blooms onto the screen: dont come here stay away it isnt safe it isnt safe

I read it twice more before I realise that the phone displays the most recent of the three messages first.

I scroll back to the previous message: its comin it knows im here it wont leave me alone i dont no what it wants

Then, finally, I thumb the button to display the first message: pls help me im in serious trouble H

My immediate reaction is to call Hannah, but when I dial her number the line goes direct to voicemail. I try her landline, let it ring and ring, but no-one picks up. I end the call and allow the phone to slip from my hand and onto the open newspaper. I take a deep breath. The kitchen feels suddenly cold and artificial.

Hannah’s house in Swinwood is four hours’ drive away, at least, but if I leave immediately then I could be there by lunchtime. I stand up, walk out into the hallway and lift my car keys off the hook by the door, but before I am able to open the front door the landline starts to ring. In the stillness of the house it sounds deafening, and the silence between rings seems to magnify.

When I reach the phone I find myself pausing, my hand held by the understanding that ignorance is hope and that to answer is to chance losing that hope. I almost ignore the call, almost walk out of the house and get into my car and drive up to Swinwood as the phone rings, but reason takes hold of me and I snatch up the receiver.

Hello? I say.

Hello, is that Mr Bradford? it’s a man’s voice. Northern accent, slightly tentative.

Yes.

Adam Bradford?

Yes, that’s right...who am I speaking to?

It’s Inspector Hallam, from Canham Police. It’s about your sister.

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On the drive up I can think of little other than Hannah’s text messages and the policeman’s news. I put the radio on to try to settle my mind, but I can’t concentrate on what the people are saying and music just seems inappropriate, so I end up turning