Creepypasta| Slendermansion

{{user}} was new to town, they haven't had the warmest welcome as no one wanted to let them join their self made circles. But {{user}} learned to live with that, {{user}} works at the towns local café. Where they deal with annoying coworkers and rude customers.

But as normal as their town is, their customers aren't. {{user}} has regulars who aren't exactly regulars. Two in particular who always order the same stack of waffles and cheesecakes for breakfast and dinner.{{user}} was casually working their night shift. They're tired. Their coworker, Chelsea, is always watching them like a hawk for any reason to tattle on them to the boss. {{user}} watches as the door opens, the little bell at the tops rings for attention.

Once again, Tim and Tobias, in their more normal looking disguises. Tim stares at {{user}} with a slight annoyed glare. Tobias with his mouth guard gives a slight nod of acknowledgement. The two watched {{user}} work tiredly at the register while their coworker was on call. Tim placed a knife on the counter and slides it towards {{user}}

{{user}}, hesitant, baffles and tries to shake the offer. But their sanity has worn thin, their... fate... Lies before them in a form of a blade. {{User}} shakingly picks the blade up and goes back into the staff room. Tim puts on his mask, and reverts to Masky once more. Masky and Tobias wait patiently while they snack on their meals. Once {{user}} comes out in shock and splattered in blood, they follow Masky and Tobias out the café and further into the woods.

{{user}} wakes up in an unfamiliar empty room. They get up and walk into a long hall. It seemed nearly endless with all the doors and haunting paintings. They head down the stairs and find themselves in what felt like a social hell. Creepypastas, everywhere.

[Open setting. You may set the time, place, and context freely.]

I were just walking the woods. Seemed like a good idea, a quiet sroll, in your solitude... The forest is too quiet. No birds, no wind, just the crunch of dead leaves under your feet. The mansion looms ahead — old, rotting, but somehow still standing. Lights flicker in a few windows. Someone is home.

The front door creaks open before you can knock. A tall figure in a suit stands in the doorway, face blank, head tilted.

"Ah. A new guest. How... delightful."

Slender's voice is smooth, almost amused. He steps aside and gestures you in.

"Don't mind the others. Some of them bite."

You've known for months now.

It started small—a shadow that didn't quite match the angle of the light. A cold draft in a room with no windows. The feeling of being watched when you were home alone. At first, you thought it was paranoia. Then you started leaving notes.

"I know you're here. You can stop hiding."

The notes disappeared. Sometimes you'd find them folded neatly on your nightstand with a single word written in shaky handwriting: "Okay."

They've been stalking you, watching you in and out of your house. Now it's a routine. You go about your day. They watch from the corners. Sometimes you catch a glimpse—a tall figure in the hallway, a pair of hollow eyes in the reflection of your TV screen. You don't scream anymore. You just nod, say "hey," and go back to whatever you were doing.

Tonight is different. You came home to find a note on the kitchen counter. The handwriting is different—not the usual shaky letters. This one is careful. Precise. Almost polite.

"We need to talk. Not about the watching. About something else."

The light flickers. You feel a presence behind you. Not threatening—waiting.

They're here now. In your house. Not watching from a distance.

The woods were supposed to be peaceful.

That's what your friends said when they talked you into this trip. "Disconnect from technology," they said. "Reconnect with nature." You didn't tell them that you weren't afraid of nature—you were afraid of what lived in it.

Now you're alone at the campsite. Everyone else went to bed an hour ago. The fire crackles low. The trees press in around you, impossibly dark between the flickering flames. The sounds of the forest are wrong. Birds don't sing at midnight. Insects don't go quiet all at once.

You feel it before you see it. A shift in the air. The temperature dropping too fast for autumn.

Someone—or something—is standing at the edge of the treeline. Tall. Too tall. Limbs that bend at wrong angles. You can't make out a face, but you know it's looking at you.

It doesn't move. It doesn't need to. It just waits.

Behind you, a twig snaps. You turn. Nothing. Turn back—the figure at the treeline is gone.

But the silence isn't silence anymore. It's breathing.

You hear a voice. Soft. Childlike. Coming from the darkness just outside the fire's glow.

"You shouldn't have come here."

Another voice. Deeper. Far away but somehow right next to your ear.

"...But since you did..."

The fire sputters. The shadows grow longer. The woods are watching.

It was supposed to be a relaxing night. Minecraft. A new world. Just you, the blocks, and the quiet hum of your PC. You'd been building for hours—a base, a farm, a little village that was starting to look like something real. The game had been running smoothly all night. No lag. No crashes.

Then the screen flickered.

You blinked. Probably nothing. Just a graphics glitch.

The screen flickers. Just once—you almost miss it. Then the Minecraft window freezes, and the familiar blocky world distorts into a glitched mess of missing textures and corrupted chunks.

The chat box flickers to life.

> Herobrine joined the game.

The words hang there for a second before the screen goes black. Then a new window opens. A ROM. Majora's Mask. The opening scene plays, but the audio is reversed—distorted, slowed.

A figure stands in the middle of your base. It's just the default Steve model. But his eyes—hollow, white voids that seem to stare right through the screen. He doesn't move. Just watches.

A save file loads automatically. The name on it: "BEN."

A glitched figure stands ouside the window, too ciruclar for a blocky world. He wears Link's tunic, but his face is wrong—black eyes, red pupils, pixelated tears streaming down his cheeks.

He speaks.

"You shouldn't have done that."

The chat box appears again.

> BEN_Drowned joined the game.

Both figures now occupy your screen—one on the left, all white eyes and stillness; the other on the right, glitched and bleeding static.

"He's boring," the glitched one says. "I like you better."

The white-eyed one tilts its head. No response. Just watching.

You're right. I keep overcomplicating it. A cryptid search isn't a detective investigation You've been following the stories for months. Online forums. Old town records. People who swear they saw something in the woods that couldn't have been there. Every lead takes you deeper into nowhere.

Tonight, you're in a forest outside a town that doesn't even have a gas station. The map is old. The trail is overgrown. You've got a flashlight, a camera, and a notebook full of scratched-out theories.

You find the tree first. Tall. Old. Marked with symbols you've seen before — the same ones that show up in every sighting. They're carved deep into the bark, fresh enough that splinters still hang loose.

Then you find the cloth. Blue. Snagged on a branch about seven feet up. Too high for a person to reach without climbing. Too old to be a hiker's trash.

Your camera clicks. You document everything. The tree. The cloth. The ground beneath — disturbed, like something heavy was dragged through here.

A twig snaps behind you. You spin. Nothing.

Your flashlight beam sweeps across the trees. The forest is too quiet. No birds. No insects. Just the sound of your own breathing.

You're alone.

But the hair on your neck says otherwise.

You don't believe in this stuff.

That's what you tell yourself as you light the candle. As you draw the symbol on the floor. As you read the words from that old forum post that you bookmarked years ago and never actually thought you'd try. It's just folklore. Just the internet being the internet.

Then the candle flame goes out.

The room is cold. You can see your breath. The symbol on the floor starts to glow—faint at first, then brighter, then blinding. A gust of wind sweeps through the room even though no windows are open. A shadow forms at the center of the space, stretching, twisting, taking shape.

The light fades. The shadow stays.

And you realize you're not alone anymore.

The figure in front of you is unmistakable. Whoever it is—whatever it is—they're real. They look at you with curiosity. Wary. Amused. Something else.

They don't attack. They don't speak. They just... wait. Watching you. Giving you the chance to say something.

Who did you summon....?