#people in your town are going missing or having freak encounters FREQUENTLY. HELLO

[icarrymany]

one of my favorite things abt slenderverse (and horror in general) is the subtle hint of 'cops are fucking useless' <3

[sarakellar]

maybe i’m the one who’s changed

You’ve walked this route dozens of times before.

You know your town. You grew up here, and then made the choice to come back here and settle after college. You’re used to the faces that you encounter, the businesses that you pass, the people you encounter. Your church is on the street right next to it, about halfway down, and a smile makes its way onto your face as you pass it. The grocery store you always go to, your destination tonight, is on the other side.

Activity in this park runs on a schedule just like everything else, whether it’s intended or not. Yes, you’re walking through it at a different time of day, the sky hazy with dusk, but that doesn’t make it any less predictable. A different crowd doesn’t mean that you can’t walk through it. You forgot that you needed milk. It’s not your fault.

You don’t have anything to be afraid of, but you still pull your jacket a little more tightly around yourself as you walk. The air is chilly, okay? It’s still spring. The sun isn’t throwing enough heat to impact the temperature of the night.

It’s an uneventful walk. Twenty minutes, at most, but it doesn’t feel like it was that long. There’s a different sort of peace surrounding the park at this time of night—maybe you’ll have to walk it more frequently. A chance to clear your head after a busy day, maybe? Could be fun. You’re already looking forward to the walk home, even as the sun sinks lower and the sky grows darker. You’ve got time. You know that park.

You only need milk, but you still have to wait in line longer than you’d have to. The cashier is going as fast as he can, but he doesn’t seem to be making conversation or anything. By the time you get to him, though, there’s little wonder why.

“Good evening,” he says. “Do you have a points card?”

His accent is thick and speaks of middle eastern desert. His skin is darker than yours could ever hope to be. It’s a stark interruption to your regular routine, to your regular neighbourhood—when did somebody new move in?

But then you remember.

“Are you one of the refugees?” you ask.

His hand stutters, freezing for a moment as he swipes the milk through. “Would you like a bag?” he says, enunciating carefully.

“No thanks,” you say. You’re too busy trying to remember the details that the paper had published about them. The refugees. You can’t remember much, but you know that they’re a Muslim family. That’s what caused the biggest uproar. “How old are you? I thought they were prioritizing women and children. You don’t look like a child.”

He’s not making eye contact. “That will be $4.60 altogether.”

“Why didn’t you stay back and help your country?”

“Cash or credit?”

You pull a five dollar bill out of your wallet, sliding it across the counter to him. You watch carefully as he presses the rights buttons, slowly counting out the change. His shoulders are tense, and his hands are shaking. You wish he’d just hurry up.

He hands you your change. “Forty cents,” he says. “Have a good night.”

You slip your change into your pocket, grab your milk, and leave without saying goodbye. The window to enjoy the rest of your walk is closing quickly, and you’d much rather do that.

-

(You listen to music when you walk. Maybe that’s why you don’t hear them.)

-

It’s dark out, now, the sun a bar of light slim in the west, but there’s enough lights scattered throughout the park that you aren’t concerned. Your pace is a little more brisk, yes, but that’s because it’s cold out. You’re not worried. You know this park. You know this town.

You’re halfway through the park when somebody grabs your shoulder, wrench you around. The movement rips your earbuds from your ears, and before you can shout somebody punches you in the solar plexus, stealing the air from your lungs. Your milk falls from your hand; you’ve got more pressing matters than trying to hold onto it. You try to block punches but the area is dimly lit enough that you can’t see them coming, and the assailants don’t hold back. They hit anywhere they can reach—face, torso, back—and when you fall to the ground your head cracks against the pavement.

You’re dazed for longer than you’d like to admit. Your attackers move you to a secluded area off the path. They’re talking quietly around you, but your head is still spinning and you kind of feel like you’re underwater. You’re still in the park, you think. You don’t know where your milk went.

Hands pat down your pockets, take your wallet and your keys. There’s some laughter as they search your wallet and then throw it on the ground beside you. It’s not much longer before they find your phone, but then one of them says, “Well, this is a shattered mess. But if we get the screen replaced it’ll still sell well, right?”

“Right.”

Your eyes want to close. You want to fight them, but you can’t. One of you attackers pats you on the forehead and coos, “That’s right, go to sleep. We’ll leave you somewhere where you’ll be found.”

Your stomach is sore. Your head hurts. Sleep catches you just as they start to move you again, and you’re out before they put you back down.

-

Footsteps nearby wake you. You don’t know how long it is, and the idea of moving sends a wave of pain through you. Whatever you’re laying on is kind of lumpy—a bench? Maybe?

You try to open your eyes. One refuses to cooperate. There’s barely enough light to see who it is approaching, but you recognize who it is. Your heart leaps with hope, and you want to call out to your pastor as he passes but your mouth is dry. It takes up too much energy.

He’s talking on his phone, but he sees you. He has to have seen you. He’s walking on the side of the park path that your presumed bench is on, there’s no way that he’s going to miss you. You can’t really hear what he’s talking about, but his expression is pinched. You try to lift up a hand as he gets closer, but he can’t.

Help me, you want to say.

He slows down a little, then stops completely and bends, putting his phone down to tie his shoe. He grabs his phone again and stands up straight, just ten feet away now—surely he’s seen you—and then he—

Crosses to walk on the other side of the path.

“Yeah, sorry,” you hear him say as he passes. “Still here. Had to tie my shoe and there’s a guy passed out on the bench, so I couldn’t sit. What’s wrong with the worship team?”

Your stomach twists, but you don’t freak out. It’s still early—you left your apartment at five pm. It can’t be much later than that, still plenty of time for somebody to enjoy an evening walk. You might be shivering, yes, but that’s because you’re laying still. Not because it’s cold.

Well, it is cold, but you wouldn’t even notice it if you were moving.

You slowly curl into a ball on the bench. The movement makes your stomach roll, and bile rises in your throat. You swallow it back, close your eyes, and wait. Somebody will come to your aid. Somebody.

-

Somebody shakes you awake, and jumps back when you open your eyes. You still can’t really move, and your mouth is too dry to talk.

“He’s alive,” a hushed voice says. “Are you happy now?”

“He needs help—”

“He might be an addict. Or a gang member. What if whoever it was that attacked him is still nearby? If he couldn’t fight them off, what chance do we have?”

“What would Jesus do?”

You don’t recognize the voices, but that question alone gives you hope. Maybe, even if they don’t go to your church, they go to a church somewhere. Maybe they’ll be willing to help you.

Your hope is quickly stifled.

“There’s hundreds of guys like this one. Jesus would want us safe so that we can help them later. We can come back tomorrow and see if he’s still here, and if he is we can call the cops or something then. Let’s go.”

You try to move your arm again; you succeed, but it chases them away. They’re still whispering, heads ducked together, but they’re walking quickly and they don’t look back.

You stretch out one leg, and the other, and then curl back into a ball when the bile returns. All you wanted is some milk. When will somebody come to help you? Will anybody come to help you?

Jesus, you pray. Please.

He doesn’t verbally answer prayers, but you have never wished that he did more than you do right now.

-

“Hello?” a voice says quietly.

Your eye snaps open. You’re shaking—definitely because of the cold. Even if you could talk, your teeth would be rattling together. You just want to go back to sleep.

A hand lands, gently, on your shoulder. “I will help you,” says a voice touched with middle eastern desert.

-

The next time you wake up, you are warm and in bed.

Not in your bed. It doesn’t smell like your house, and the sun is hitting a side of your face that it never does. It doesn’t sound like your house, either; there’s murmuring happening nearby. You don’t know how much you can move, but your stomach doesn’t protest too much when you roll over onto your side.

A young man is kneeling on a mat on the ground. His feet are bare, and he is talking quietly.

Praying.

Interrupting would be rude, so you swallow back the comments you’re not too sure you could say. There’s a glass of water on the nightstand with a straw sticking out of it; you maneuver your head close enough to it to take a sip. And then another.

And then a dark hand is holding the glass, bringing it closer to you and making it easier for you to drink.

“Thanks,” you croak when you’re done.

“How are you feeling?” he asks. He still won’t meet your eyes, but he sits in a chair beside the bed.

You’re sore all over. You’re not convinced that you don’t need a hospital. “Like death,” you say without thinking, and then you flinch. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he says quietly. “My father died a long time ago. Fighting the ones who took our land. My mother and grandmother took us away. We were in a camp for two years before we came here. I’m seventeen. I work so that my siblings can go to school.”

He says it with the pride of being the oldest sibling. You take a deep breath. “I shouldn’t have—”

“You are forgiven,” he says. “Do you think you can eat?”

You can’t take advantage of his generosity any more than you already have. “You can take me home—it’s okay—”

“My mother is preparing breakfast,” he says. “She is worried about you, and she won’t let you go home sick.”

There are ghosts in his eyes that you don’t chase. “I don’t know how much I can eat,” you admit.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “We’ll take care of you.”

-

“Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?”

The expert in the law replied, “The one who had mercy on him.”

Jesus told him, “Go and do likewise.”