The Slender Man (6 page)

We pull up to the community hospital, and my door is open
before the car comes to a full stop.

“Whoa, careful!” shouts Dad, but I am already walking a
brisk pace to the hospital. I don’t want to make a scene, because it’s only a
hunch, but the tension is building up inside.

When I get indoors, I don’t stop at reception, I don’t check
the map on the wall. My feet guide me exactly where I need to go from memory. I
make a numerous rights and lefts with the white walls decorated with portraits
of nameless child models mark my path. When I get to one of a two little kids
shooting each other with water pistols I recall the almost concealed door to
the stairway. I open the gray door and go up two flights, after a few more
turns here and there I’m in the hallway we awaited the fate of our loved ones
in. I don’t enter the intensive care ward though. I continue until I get to the
end of the hall, and make another left.

There are two double doors on my right. They lead to the
recovery ward. I am about to enter when I hear my dad’s voice in conversation
with someone, but they aren’t behind me.
Ding!
I look to the left and
see an elevator door open, and my Dad steps through accompanied Dr. Spruce, now
with a happier look on her face. I am ready to face-palm myself.
The
elevator!

“…here she is. I’m telling you she just took right off!”
says Dad to Dr. Spruce.

“Eager to see her little brother?” she smiles. I nod back
and she leads us through the recovery ward. I don’t take off this time, lest
they have some teleportation device that will get us there faster, but they
don’t. We enter Adam’s room and I am surprised to see him already out of bed in
a wheelchair being pushed by the nurse that almost wordlessly relayed the fate
of Kenny to the Larches. I look at Adam with a smile, but it drops quickly as I
see that not only is he not smiling back, but no color has returned to his
face, and he puts a bloody tissue up to his nose stifling a nosebleed.

Vegetable alfredo and falafel sticks with hummus. I smell
the aroma of the food resting in my arms, and can almost taste it. We cooked
this for the Hawthorn’s and are bringing it to them. It’s not traditional for
people to use appliances while sitting shivah, so family and friends often
bring meals during visits. The aroma is mouthwatering, and I can’t wait to eat
it. I am riding in the car driven by my parents. Bubbe is staying at home to
watch Adam (she isn’t too close to the Hawthorns), but the rest of us are
paying a visit, and we will be every day until Wednesday, when the Hawthorns
can return to their business.

The Hawthorns don’t live far away, but not far away means
driving through the main part of town. On the way I look around and note how
remarkably grand looking the town is for such a small population. A lot of the
buildings are constructed with beige bricks and have their business logos
painted, and for some places engraved on the buildings. It all seems older and
more crudely built, but when you compare them to the more modern buildings,
with bright electric signs in other cities, this place just looks beautiful,
more serene. Even the supermarket we are driving by looks like it fits right
in.

The drive takes around ten minutes, and when we get there, I
am first out the door. We get to the front door and I nudge the doorbell with
my elbow. Mrs. Hawthorn opens the door and welcomes us inside with a faint
smile. She doesn’t look so well. Her normally groomed short hair looks messy,
worse than bed hair, and she’s without makeup. As much as I missed the
Hawthorns, my eagerness to see them turns into worry as I see how dark their
house has become, even with the lights on. We enter the house and I look
around. I am so used to seeing the wall mirror in their living room, but now it
is covered. Their television that's usually on all day is off. Even their
coffee table, normally strewn with books or newspapers or whatever they were
reading at the time is empty. I dread the day I have to practice shivah.

The others gather about in their living room. Shana walks in
and gives me a smile that matches her mother’s. She also looks very messy, but
it looks like she at least ran her fingers through her hair to keep most of the
strands straight. I hand the food to Mrs. Hawthorn who thanks us and then takes
it into the kitchen. I walk up and hug Shana. “Missed you,” I say.

“Missed you too. It's probably not a good thing to say, but
I've wanted your company even more than my relatives’. It's been unbearable,”
she says. It's a few extra seconds before she lets go. It's only now that I get
a good look at her. Her skin color has paled, and although I don't see any
signs of a nosebleed, I can tell she is sick. I want to comment on it, ask if
she needs us to bring some medicine (although her family probably already has
some), but she proceeds to thank my family for coming. We all move into the
kitchen as Mrs. Hawthorn and Mom dish out the food to everyone. Shana's eyes
actually light up as she sees the falafel sticks. Mom's falafel sticks are one
of her all-time favorites.

As we eat, Dad gets the conversation going. It's customary
to speak about the deceased during the shivah.

“So,” he starts.

“Denise was always the charmer, wasn't she?” he says. I
wince, that's probably not the best way to start the conversation.

Mr. Hawthorn is the first to respond.

“Yep, she was a little gremlin in her younger years. I think
we spoiled her a bit,” he admits. Good, no tears are coming, at least not yet.

 “I remember when we first met. Denise asked me for a
quarter so she could play the crane game,” says Dad.

 Mrs. Hawthorn laughs, but I can tell it's forced “She only
played that game once, and hated it because she lost.”

 “Then we come to find out,” Dad continues. “She asked Sarah
for a quarter too when I was away,” he says.

“She ended up swindling a quarter out of every one of you,”
says Mr. Hawthorn.

“She even tried Adam,” I add in.

“She was clever for a three year old, just imagine if,” Mom
starts. I can tell she was going to say something along the lines of
“Just
imagine what ruse she'd pull three years from now.”
It's a little too late,
and I can see that I'm not the only one that looked down in my plate in
response. Luckily no one bursts out crying at the thought. I think it's
mutually understood that Denise is dead though and with the last couple of days
when their family visited, they probably have had a lot of practice, both
crying it out and trying not to cry.

I look at Shana, trying to make eye contact, and it looks
like she's the one taking it the worst. I see that same gloomy gaze she had on
her face when we first found out about the accident. I'd hoped she feel a
little better about it by now. I know it's normal and perfectly rational for a
person to feel like it's the end of the world when one of their family members
dies, especially a child, but I hate seeing Shana like this. I've only known
her four years, but this girl is like- no she
is
my sister, and her mood
rubs off on me like grease. I wish I was sitting next to her, I'd reach over
and pat her on the back or something, but she is across from me. I reach over
and lightly kick her to get her attention, and when she looks at me, I give her
one of those smiles that shows her exactly what's on my mind, empathy, and my
desire for her to feel better.

She tries to return the smile, but her mouth only wobbles in
response and she looks back at her plate. I see she's only managed to eat half
of one of her falafel sticks, and hasn't touched her alfredo. I bite my tongue
and look at my half-emptied plate. I wish there's something I could say, or
sing, or- I wish I’d brought my guitar, no I wish I was
allowed
to bring
it. We could do something like play Complicated, and although it would make her
feel worse for a second, I think it would help her cry the rest of it out.

The rest of the meal is full of my parents starting
conversations about Denise that end short, at least none of them end on a sour
note like the first. Mom and I wash the dishes for the Hawthorns, and my Dad
stays with them to keep the mood from becoming awkward. If I was mourning, I
sure wouldn't want to wait for my best friend to clean up before speaking to
her again. I'm sad to say that it isn't just the food on Shana's plate that had
to be dumped down the garbage disposal. I think the Hawthorn's have become good
at hiding just how hurt they still are by the tragedy.

I hear coughing, and recognize Shana's voice behind it. She
is sick too, but her parents aren't.

“My, oh my,” comments Mom, drying her hands off on a towel
now that we've finished the rest of the dishes.

“I swear everyone's getting sick. Do you think the flu is
going around?” she asks.

“I've never had a nosebleed from the flu,” I answer, and
realize how rude I just sounded.

“I think it's something else. The people I've seen don't
appear nauseas, just..,”

 “Weak and sad,” Mom finishes for me.

“Yeah,” I say, her words ringing a note in my mind. Mom and
I head back into the living room, and we see Dad chatting with Mr. and Mrs.
Hawthorn, but I don't see Shana.

 “She went upstairs,” says Mrs. Hawthorn, who saw me
looking. I nod and begin to head upstairs.

The Hawthorn's house is very different from ours. They have
wooden stairs with no carpeting on them unlike our house. At the top of the
stairs, the lights are off, and the place is just as dark as it feels. Shana's
room is down the hall on the left, and the only light upstairs is coming from
it. I walk over to the door, which is slightly ajar, and push it open.

Shana is sitting on her bed, crying. She has a tissue in her
hand, and she's using it to wipe the tears from her face, but I can see spots
of blood on it. I walk over and sit on the bed with her. We make eye contact,
and although I can't find the right words to say, I get my message across.
“Shut the door,” she says. I get up and do so. I see Shana's guitar case
resting in the corner behind the door. There's a little bit of dust on it, so I
know she hasn't touched it. I don't think I could have followed that rule of
Shivah though. If Adam died, the first object to help comfort me would be my
guitar.

“I wish we could play,” I admit. Shana is crying harder,
she's sobbing now. “Shana, what's- what can I do to help?” I ask, sitting back
down and rubbing her shoulder.

“I think I'm going crazy,” she says.

 “No, it's normal to feel this way.” I say, but even I'm not
sure if that's true. She looks at me and shakes her head. “It’s not normal to
see things,” she says.

“See… It’s not normal to see?”

“No, I'm seeing… her,” she says. I turn my head when she
says that.

 “Denise?” I ask, even though that's the obvious answer.

I catch her nod out of my peripheral vision. “I can't go an
hour without her appearing. I can't sleep without her coming for me,” she says.

“Have you told your parents?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I can't... I've tried crying it out,
and I've tried ignoring her, but she won't go away,” she explains.

 “Maybe you should try talking about-” but I stop, realizing
what I am saying. I really am no good at words.

“It's not like I'm just seeing her around though. She's... haunting
me,” she says.

“Haunting?” I ask. She nods, wiping another tear from her
cheek.

“Yeah, like I've done her some wrong,” she says. I look down
at the bed, thinking, but she grabs my shoulder and looks me directly in the
eye. “She wants something,” she says.

“Do you know what it is she wants?” I ask.

“At first, even before the funeral... she wanted my help.
Now I think she's angry.” The word 'help' rings a bell. Jason said that Kenny
needed his help, and that he was going to help him, but how?

“She won't let me sleep, she won't let me eat. She's in my
dreams, she wants me to leave,” she continues.

“Leave? She wants you to go somewhere to help her?” I ask.

“She wants me to go into the forest,” she answers.

“What's in the forest?” I ask. She shrugs.

“I don't know. I don't think she's ever been there. I think
I’m just… losing it.”

I shake my head instinctively. I never recalled anything
unusual or significant in the woods. There's nothing like a graveyard or historical
event that anyone would take an interest to there. Then again, I've never been
deep into the woods. I mostly have only been there for a run, and even the
trail I found was only by chance. I missed the bus from school so I took the
trail home instead of calling my parents. When I found that the trail turned
off course, I just cut through the woods, and came out a quarter mile from my
neighborhood. If there is something in there, anything of importance, I've
never seen or heard anything about it. I look up and realize that Shana is
still waiting for a verbal answer.

 “I think it's just the emotional stress of the situation.
I'd be seeing things too,” I say.

“I've been seeing things,” I correct, thinking of the entity
I've been seeing, the one that Jason thought was Kenny.

She shakes her head though.

“I can feel her. When she touches me it... it hurts,” she
says. Then a thought hits me.

“Does Denise look... normal? When you see her?” I ask.

She shakes her head again.

“She's dark now. It's like she's shrouded in death,” she
answers.

“When she touches you... is it like being shocked?” I ask.

Her eyes widen.

“You've seen her too!?” she asks loudly, amazement in her
eyes.

I shake my head quickly, realizing her excitement may not be
such a good thing.

“No, I've just. I've seen something else, but it's never...
talked to me, or anything, it's like it's talking to someone else,” I answer,
but suddenly wish I hadn't said that either.

“Who's it been talking to?” Shana asks. I want to say Jason.
After all it's my instinct to tell Shana the truth.

“I can't hear it, but when I saw it, it’s like it was
talking to… Leanne.”

“Well her baby brother got sick and died. Maybe,” she thinks
aloud, but stops. She must not be sure what conclusion she should come to.

 “Shana, let's just not worry about it, I'm sure that with
time. With time Denise will go away. How are you feeling? Do you need medicine
for your sickness?” I ask, trying to veer off topic.

She shakes her head.

“We got some already. I've been taking antihistamine,” she
answers.

“It's not working though,” she admits.

“Then tomorrow I'll try and bring some Dayquil or
something,” I say.

“Bring Nyquil,” she says. Oh right, she can't sleep. I can
see Shana's mind is still on what to do about her sister. I know in my mind
that Shana seeing her sister, Jason seeing his brother, and me seeing… what
I’ve been seeing, is no coincidence. There's something going on.

“Oh yeah. Ms. Alder wants you to finish your essay. I told
her you couldn't but she wanted me to ask anyway. I have to get mine done
tonight,” I say, staying off the Denise topic.

She shakes her head and reaches under the bed. “Our
relatives all visited at once, each afternoon. I had to do something to pass
the time when I ignored Denise,” she says. She pulls out a small pile of papers
from underneath the bed.

“You did your essay?” I whispered in surprise. In shivah
you're not supposed to work
or
do schoolwork.

“I did
our
essays. Just don't tell my parents,” she
says, handing me a few of the papers.

“You'll want to copy it down yourself though, so it's in
your handwriting, and I put some spelling errors in there for you too.” I smile
at her as I stuff the essay in my shirt. This is at least one good sign that
Shana is still Shana.