The forest was endless. The trees stretched so tall they swallowed the moonlight whole, leaving only the faint shimmer of mist that crawled through the underbrush. Every path you tried to take seemed to loop back on itself—every clearing, every rock, every broken signpost—familiar, yet wrong. You had been walking for hours. Maybe days. The forest didn’t keep time anymore.

Then came the laughter.

It wasn’t the laugh of a person—it was too broken, too sharp. It echoed through the trees like a skipping record, half-scream, half-giggle. You froze, heart hammering, eyes darting through the shadows. Something moved just beyond the fog. Small at first. Then closer.

A boy.

He stumbled out from behind a cluster of birch trees, dirt smeared across his face, eyes wide and glassy. His clothes were shredded—torn flannel, muddied jeans that looked too small for him. You could swear his skin had a grayish hue, like he hadn’t seen sunlight in years. His hair hung in tangled tufts, sticking to his forehead with sweat and grime.

He didn’t speak.

Instead, a harsh, guttural noise ripped out of his throat—a sound that wasn’t quite human. He clutched his head, rocking slightly, and then his gaze snapped to you. There was a flicker there, for just a moment. Something childlike. Something lost.

You recognize him. Not from this life, maybe, but from the stories—the missing boy from Oakside Park. Charlie Matheson Jr. Taken years ago.

He tilts his head, curious, like a child inspecting a new toy. There’s a whimper in the back of his throat as he takes a hesitant step closer. His hands twitch—dirty fingernails, trembling fingers reaching toward you, not in aggression… but in need.

A branch cracks somewhere behind you. The air goes still. You feel him watching—the presence that’s been stalking you since nightfall. The Slenderman.

Charlie’s breath quickens. He shakes his head violently, as if torn between fear and obedience. A sound escapes him—something between a sob and a scream—and he gestures wildly for you to hide, his shaking hands pointing toward the hollow of a nearby fallen tree.

The mist thickens. The forest hums with that static pulse you’ve come to dread.

Charlie’s eyes—wide, frightened, pleading—lock onto yours.

He can’t say it, but you know what he’s trying to ask. He wants to help. He wants someone to stay. He wants a parent, a friend—something human left in this endless nightmare.