Wednesday, 30 November 2011

Party Time

I became lackadaisical. I let down my guard, let pride overtake me, and for this I failed. The Shady Lady escaped. This is on my shoulders.
Since then, my hatred has festered. Forced to hobble like a degenerate cripple, I could not search for victims. I could not fulfill my purpose. Even as I recovered, I could have gone into a town and killed every single person. No hunting. No torture. Just hobble in with a gun, a machete and a tank of gasoline. Shot the men, strangled the women, mutilated the children, burned the houses.
At least I wanted to.
The party was only slightly pleasant to me. It allowed me to vent, but it was only like releasing steam from a nuclear reactor by jabbing it with a toothpick. Kill. Slash. Burn. Rip. Tear. So on so forth.
The party. Have to think of the party (skin's itching, doesn't normally itch). When I entered the warehouse, I was greeted by a room full of limbs. Mannequin limbs. On the walls, on the floor, sticking in various directions, assembled together. Bodies... taken apart and made into a beast... I gazed upon them. Perhaps too long. I recall the Advocate speaking over the intercom, but for the life of me I can't recall what he said. I think he realized that I was not moving at his preferred pace, as one of the figures exploded in front of me.
Shrapnel cut through my skin and my flesh, red flowed out upon red. I'm not surprised no one noticed the wounds, but then again why should they have? I'm losing it. Need to stop scratching. It's bleeding. Eugh.
I looked upon where Advocate had tried to hide a camera: within a mass of limbs. Looking was enough. The other forms exploded around me, forcing me to escape into a room of darkness.
I stopped and waited. One of them would cross through, and then I would make it bleed. I would cut into it as it screamed and writhed in my grip, whining as I slashed it and squeezed the life from its body.
A voice. Two voices. Shady and another. The scent of a woman mixing with the eternal stench of my blood. concentrate concentrate. Not Josie. Too... mature. Level. Josie would have been flying about like a hummingbird or whimpering like a rat. Dia. It had to be Dia.
I could slash one of them, leaving the other to hear her screams in the darkness. Back off, let their minds play tricks on them before going again, inflicting a deeper cut. Let the screams turn to cries for help, tears for each other's wounds. Kill one first, then slowly slice the other's head off her neck.
No. I couldn't. The Advocate had traps. If I killed them in defiance to his rules he would do his very best to kill me. It would take too long to segue out of the building. His traps could easily be lethal before I escaped.
So I approached them. I let Dia know what she had brought upon herself. I let her know what she had started. I let her imagine how painful her end would be. So much better than telling. They always know what they deserve. Always think think keep focused can't stop needs to be done eventually
Back. I let both of them have a little show. To my delight they separated. It would have been perfect if I could have trailed one of them and forced her screaming into one of Advocate's traps. Again and again until nothing was left except the part of her I gripped.
The next room was a furnace. The heat began to rise, so I left.
The little girl Josie began following me. Two years my senior and still a little girl. She fumbled, she could not keep silent as she tried in vain to stalk me. She thought she was being clever. I could have turned around, caught her before she could even turn. I would have put my thumbs in her mouth and torn out her cheeks. Thrown her to the ground and stomped on her forehead until it caved.
We moved through rooms. None were important. None were clever. None topped the first.
A beast made from the flesh of others doomed to live in pain and suffering stop stop it stop you are killing yourself stop it
Finally, reached the entrance to the room. "Josie." I said before entering.
I talked briefly to Graves. She left. The building exploded. Dia was on the ground. Burning was too good for her, so I dragged her meat through the rubble. No easy ways out for anyone.
And then Shady. Messages are important, so I made mine. I plunged my blade into the same spot she had driven hers. I twisted and bent it in the wound of my leg. No pauses this time. No recovery. I will kill while hobbling if need be. I will hunt and bleed at the same time.
When I knew she had learned her lesson I left.
14 bodies have been added since then.

Tuesday, 8 November 2011

The bitch. The bitch the bitch the bitch!



You will know that I was being merciful.

Sunday, 6 November 2011


I'm not going to describe my methods, because I'd hate to bore you. Likely whatever conclusion you've come to is much worse than the actual (if terrible) fact.

She's alive. She is drinking water, and I am not going to kill her. I am under contract, after all. It would be unfitting to go back after the deal is sealed.

Professionalism is key. Once sentimentality kicks in, you get, well... the Messenger. And others of course, but he's what springs to mind. So no, don't start thinking I'm "on the fence". She is going to suffer terribly. I'm just not going to kill her. Someone else has got that one handled.

Expect her to be crossed off the list within the week.

Saturday, 5 November 2011

Tuesday, 18 October 2011

The knife goes in the first time... and you know what, it's just like the first time. So many emotions on both sides. Fear. Pain. Excitement.

When it plunges in the second time, it's a bit less satisfying. Things get messy, and frankly you've lost a bit of confidence. Are you sure this is the right spot? Are you being as effective as you want to be?

Third stab. It's a real mess now. Frankly, you have no idea what you're looking at. Knife goes in, knife goes out. It's starting to become mechanical now. Just going through the motions.

Stop it.whatthefuck

Saturday, 15 October 2011


Well, the smarter among you have realized that the object we'd been looking for was Typer's Box.

We found it in a small shop by the Sea. I broke through the front door with little effort. There weren't any alarms, which certainly made things easier. The three of us scavenged through the store until I eventually found the Box.

Just as Typer said: Pure black, with the color and texture of obsidian, broken only by His mark in dark crimson. About the size of a toaster, but... it was enough to give me a headache just looking at it.

Which was when the owner walked in. Typer's father. Now I understand why Typer was so damnably insane before he died: it must have seemed like the world was conspiring against him.

The man had Typer's face. He... surprised me. I had already torn his arm off before realizing who he was. Breaking his neck sort of became a necessity after that. Gallows jumped around in glee at the blood, but...

After we left, I decided we should part ways. I attempted to... not teleport, I hate that word. I tried to displace myself. It did not work.

The sea: salty, calm, endless and, due to my arrival, boiling hot. The salt and the heat stung at my skin, and the Box glowed black. Its weight began to pull me under the surface, so it was all I could do to teleport again, which is how I arrived in Venezuela. fucking Venezuela

So that is when I decided to contact the Executor. I'm frankly surprised my phone worked (especially around the Box) but it did. I had a very specific demand: a carrying case made of jade, lined with anything but jade. If Typer's notes are to be believed, Jade can block the Box's weaker pulses, but direct exposure will cause it to, in Typer's words "react in a way roughly as destructive as an elephantine stampede, without the inherent weaknesses of such a movement". I'm not sure how he managed it, but by the next morning the Executor showed, case in hand.

"This is what you needed, yes?"
I willed all my hatred and murderous rage at him. He winced. Telepaths are fun.
I smiled, "I believe so. Thank you for your time."
I placed the Box inside the case, but before I could displace, the Executor coughed.
"Do not believe I was lending you the duo without reason. It wasn't out of charit; I expect when called you will answer a favor, like the favor I graced you."
I cocked my head, "As with anything, it depends on the favor. For now I'll say yes. We'll see when the time comes."
He stared at me for some time. I wish I could see his expression behind that mask.
"So be it." And he was gone.

And soon, so was I.

Thursday, 13 October 2011

Uh... Oh god.

How is this thing still working?

Where the hell am I? Sounds like... Spanish. Okay. Not in Spain though. Mexico? South America? Eugh.

Executor, we need to talk. Right now.

Object secured. Kind of. Fuck you, Typer. This is bullshit.

Friday, 7 October 2011


As I've stated before, Gallows, Graves and I have been scouring Belgium for a certain Object.

Actually, scratch that. I've been searching for It. Gallows has been relentlessly slaughtering various passerbys and Graves has been burying them. So enough is enough. I'm going to corral them towards the objective, whether they like it or not. Of course, Gallows can still kill. I'm no monster, and it would be somewhat hypocritical considering I've been doing much of the same (albeit to a lesser extent).

So, what happened today? I murdered some Belgian waffles while Gallows murdered the Belgian chef; we tossed various hitchhikers in front of traffic while following the highway, I burnt down a school after hearing about Morningstar's death (fitting, I won't argue that, but nonetheless upsetting). Finally, we had Graves dig us a small pit, which we then filled with barbed wire. Man oh man did we put it to good use!

So we'll be moving onward along the coast, and when I find It, fun will be had.

Wednesday, 5 October 2011

On the Road

My oh my it is good to have a bit of freedom now! The open air, the road stretching in every direction, screams of the dying rising from the ditches. This is how I want to live. I do, regrettably, admit that I've been holding back. I'm on a mission, and if I get too caught up in my own affairs I could wind up as aimless as Gallows (no offense).

Oh yes, speaking of Gallows, there is much to say about him and his... dull companion. Gallows appears to be taking the Halloween costume route of murderous psychopathy (not that I criticize him for this), wearing a very well-fashioned skeleton jacket. The hood extends to a cloth mask that covers most of his face barring eye-holes (as for his eyes, not much can be said - I think he may be using black paint to obscure them). All of this leads to a really quite frightening spectacle. In fact, when we first met he greeted me by bursting out the front door while flailing a scythe and screaming like a demon. Fortunately, he calmed down when I gave him the finger. It does not at all surprise me that most of those we capture have shit in their pants before we even  begin to torment them.

As for Graves, she appears to have gone with a... cowboy motif. That is, if a cowboy was mixed with a gravedigger and a sociopath (not that the two are mutually exclusive). Dark blue jeans, suspenders, construction boots, shovel, rope, black cowboy hat... the works. Most interesting is her bandana, which also displays a skeleton motif. Is this coincidence or... imitation? I doubt I'll find out. It's hard to intimidate those black... black eyes.

Anyways, the journey! After our preliminary greetings (an ensemble of formalities and... less-than-formalities), Gallows invited me in for a drink and a meal. Though I partook in the drink, I declined the meal (cannibalism disagrees with my stomach, not my sense of morality). A few humorous anecdotes and methods of torture were exchanged, and then we were off!

The Slender Man has endowed me with certain... gifts. One of them is what many of you call teleportation (I personally hate the term; the experience is a lot more... organic than is implied). While many of my contemporaries can do so with little effort, I require a bit more time and focus. The upside?

When we arrived in the library, I grinned. Books, furniture and people instantly combusted, the tiny scream of fast-burning paper mixing with those of the dying. Gallows practically exploded with delight, falling upon them with such vigor I was surprised he did not take to the air. Graves, ever the silent companion, followed close behind. What a duo they make. As for me... I watched. I watched as it all burned. Blood crackled in the heat, bones snapped from the flames, and I stood... right in the center.

Oh yes, and Gallows, as much as I've been enjoying this trip, if you try anything, I will leave you in goddamn Belgium. Where all the signs are in French or Dutch.

Friday, 30 September 2011


So some of you know that Gallows and I have plans.
I'll give you a second to try and guess what they are.

We're going to fucking Belgium!

Wednesday, 28 September 2011


Picture a city. Or a world. Whichever you find easiest.
Imagine it full of life, hustling and bustling.
Then, one day, silence.


People scurry quickly from building to building, averting their eyes from corners. Some elect not to leave at all. They disappear fastest.

Public gathering places are shut down. Soon, they are followed by grocery stores and fire halls. Later still, the power goes, and with it, our confidence against the night. Those who don't drivestop doing anything. All that's left to illuminate the cities are headlights and phones. Humanity loses the darkness.

The day is all that's left. Of course, it's just as dangerous. Panicked eyes, fear, paranoia. Who's His. Who's ours? Death tolls rise, then, finally...

silence. True silence.

Slowly but surely, great trees begin to dominate the landscape. As it should be. Roots crush towers. Branches block out the sun. Nothing left but huge green-brown monuments to His will.

But this isn't the end. One summer, it might get too hot. Some rocks may knock together. Some glass might catch the sun the wrong way. All burns. The trees fall, leaves spreading across the wind like shrapnel, roots snapping like whips. The flames spread. All turns to ashes and dust.

This is what I dream about every night.

Thursday, 22 September 2011


What I don't see I don't know
What I don't know I don't want
What I don't want I don't need
What I don't need I don't feel
What I don't feel I don't say
What I don't say I don't like
What I don't like I waste

Approximately two hours after making his post last night, the Glass Man began to convulse in what I presume to have been a gasoline poisoning-induced seizure. He saw none of your responses, though it was amusing to watch him desperately refresh the page every few seconds.

The Glass Man's spasms brought him to the floor, where he struck his head. This, of course, only increased the ferocity of his convulsions, and it was all I could do to keep him from causing himself further harm. When he was properly restrained (though twitching and foaming at the mouth), I realized that our fun was over.

So I killed him. I put him in the makeshift iron maiden I've been working on and jumped on it. Repeatedly.

Though I'm unsure if the Glass Man felt the pain at the end, I can assure you he died feeling completely alone.

Now I have some real work to do.

I don't know what I see
I don't want what I know
I don't need what I want
I don't feel what I need
I don't say what I feel
I don't do what I say
I don't like what I do
I just like to waste

Wednesday, 21 September 2011


The umlaut is for effect.

The Glass Man is currently short six fingers, two ears and a foot.

Highlights of the day include:
- Making him sobbingly declare that he's a monster.
- Having him scream "Why are you doing this? You're me!", which is true, but untrue.
- The moment he actually stopped screaming and simply stared at me while I continued.
- Telling him about Dante's unfortunate end.

Now, I may be a cruel man, but I'm not an unreasonable one. When he's recovered from his current fainting spell, the Glass Man will be giving you all another post. How I look forward to seeing him type with nothing but two thumbs and a pair of index fingers.

Tuesday, 20 September 2011


Dear God, I love sushi. I could throw away the rest of Japanese culture in an instant, but sushi I'd keep any day.

You see, the Glass Man can't eat sushi any more. He has no teeth to eat with. I have, however, given him plenty to drink from an old gasoline can I found in the basement.

Of course, I haven't been torturing him for the last twenty or so hours. I did dodge out for some delicious sushi and I've been working on a little... project. A send-off if you will.

Having finally captured him, and most of all broken him, I feel... relieved. I win. Hahah. I finally win. And when, of course, he succumbs, I will be free to do anything!

I'm sorry, I have to go now. He's trying to tell me something, but his speech is strangely slurred.

Wednesday, 14 September 2011


I met Typer on the 18th of July.


I am offended that some of you might think I have "gone rogue". Everything I do is of His will. If it was not, then He would intervene. I have earned no reprimands, suffered no consequences. It is His will that there be a culling. Our members have grown weak, and with it, the fear that was once felt towards us has waned.

There was a time when the sight of us in a hallway or on a rooftop would elicit terror rivaling our master. But now... you have to get so much closer to get the same response. They no longer fear us, for we show fear ourselves. We show fear, uncertainty, regret... And suddenly the magic is gone, and the enemy sees only a group of brain-addled thugs wearing masks.

So some will have to die. I have always served Him. I will always  serve Him.


I was serving Him when I met Typer.

Typer was one of those souls who had never been lucky, but was almost always content. I had already begun my hunt for the Glass Man when suddenly I knew what needed to be done. I knew where to go.

The Tree... the Tree was a strange thing to behold. It simultaneously drew me in and repelled me. I likely would have died had He not stood over me, laying his claim. We moved through the forest, Him guiding, me following, until we came upon a door... a door only I was meant to go through.

Typer had been there for almost 15 years. Due to the strange events that had befallen him, he had only known about 10 years... But Typer had no watch. All Typer had was an old cot, a copy of Albert Camus' L'Étranger and, more recently, a decrepit, early 2000s model laptop computer.

We stared into each others eyes for what may have been an hour, until he finally gestured for me to take a seat at his desk. He remained on his bed and talked. He talked for a very long time, and I will do my best to recount what he told me.


"My mother gave me the name Olivier Barriault, but you already know this. When I was seventeen, I left home. You know this as well. You do not, of course, know the rest, unless your Master has told you... clever, how you wrote those things. You sound very much like him, you know that? It's a wonder you're unique at all...

Of course, my story. What an ungracious host I've been, though I suppose your Master is the true host. I was recruited by an organisation that was secretive... so secretive, that I did not, in fact, know its name or who owned it. All I know is that they had many open positions. I became a security guard, for what it was worth. I lived underground until I had almost reached the age of 25. I saw many... things being tested. Chemical, biological... physical. Usually not on human subjects. We weren't monsters.

I saw a disease that caused a cow's skin to grow over all of its orifices, smothering it to death! I saw a tiny sphere that could draw things to itself, defying gravity! I saw mirrors that showed new things, light that could hold objects, creatures that likely had never existed before that month...

But then there was a different test. It was simple enough. A black Box, hardly bigger than a toaster... a perfect cube, with only a slight red imperfection, a symbol... the symbol. You're almost certainly familiar with it.

An orderly brought a small piece of jade to it, pushing it against the symbol, then... nothing. The jade remained unperturbed, as did  the orderly, the Box, and the wall at which it had been aimed. It appeared to be a failure, a hoax. For a long time, I was angry at the scientists, the ones who should have seen what was coming... but what good would science have done us? Science didn't make that Box. Science could not control it.

On the third day small objects began to go missing. Testing apparatuses, utensils, food, a favorite painting of mine: Bonjour, Monsieur Courbet (an original, I was quite sad to lose it). On the fourth day, maps weren't good anymore. On the fifth day, myself and three others forged (it's forged, right? Look at me... almost forty and still I make theses mistakes!) our way to the testing chamber. We lost two along the way, torn to pieces by forces that could not even be seen. My remaining partner (my... I cannot even remember his name) and I drew lots to see who would approach the Box. I was actually the lucky one, he had lost the coin toss, but then he... segued through the floor, without a word. That left me.

I took a step towards it, and hit the wall on across the room. I turned again, and found myself facing the corner. I attempted to crawl, but touched the ceiling with my hands, so I sat still and waited... for it to come to me. And it did. A single crossed eye stared at me and, succumbing to my primal instincts, I touched it.

Everything tore. Light flashed, alarms went off, gashes appeared along my arm. A hole swallowed the box and... I saw through it.

A flash, a twist. Running, limping, bleeding, crying. A figure glimpsed down a hallway. The ringing matching the pitch of the alarm. The door. Further down the hallway. Not liberty, but safety, at least for a while.

Red. Blue. Red. Blue. Almost there now. Can't stop. Too many hallways branching off. More and more. I have to get there. I have to get there. I have to get there.

The feel of smooth metal against the skin. A spin and the latch is undone. A low wail getting higher in pitch. Even inside isn't safe. Inside is another way to end. At least I'll die in my bed. The door swings shut. Silence.

I looked around my living room. Empty, of course. The box seemed to have taken everything. I walked to my bedroom and slept. When I opened the door the next day, I saw a forest. The second day, I saw a swamp. The third day, I saw a field. The fourth day, the light was on, and I found food, as I have many times since. Nine months ago, I found a computer.

That is all."


We talked for a very long time. We debated and discussed, parrying opinions. But the night grew late, and he sensed it.

"You have something on your mind." His face, as always, was blank. Light green eyes peaked out from unkempt black hair.

"You said... You knew something." His head cocked at this, then a thin smile drew across his lips.

"... But, of course, it's not about what I said, but what he told you to ask." Those eyes stared through me. He knew. How did he know? NO ONE KNOWS.

"Tell me. You need to tell me." It was my turn to smile and, of course, he beat me with a returned grin.

"Yes... yes I do. I need to tell someone... even if it's... I know where it is! I know where to find it!" His eyes rolled back in his head. His grin became manic. Tears poured down his face. "I saw through the hole, and do you know what I saw!"

He stopped. I leaned close. His face went blank again and his eyes returned to mine.

"... I saw a little shop, by the sea."

We were silent for a very long time. Eventually, he spoke.

"I know why you're here. You have a job to do. Do it. There are notes in the desk. You don't need to use them, just take them. Do it."

And I did it. Quickly.


He was a very smart man. His notes... are brilliant. They explain so many things that should have been obvious. Most of them had been written within the last few months of his life. There was a reason I was told to kill him.

Some will have to die. I have always served Him. I will always serve Him.

Monday, 12 September 2011

Interview #2

I'm in no hurry. I know where he's going, so it should only be a matter of time.

So, since I find myself in need of some stimulation, it's time for another interview!
Here's the first, so as to avoid repetition

Do you want me to tell you that I was born to a small Dutch-American family, where my father abused me for many years until I killed him? And that this lead me to my current life of violent crime, a life I was tragically never born to, but doomed to live?

Want it all you may, that doesn't make it true.

If you actually have intelligent questions to ask, now's the time to really get to know me.

Saturday, 10 September 2011

The Glass Man
The Shady Lady
The Messenger
Hakurei Ryuu

This man

This man is going to die.