A night's ride/Wait what?

I'm not sure what I'm to write about, I mean, I logged on to rant about an attempt to ruin the Nova (and kill me, of course) and I get the story of Zero vs Slenderman in a plethora of variations. That sentence is probably messed up, but I'm still shaken.

Anyway, two days ago, the goddamn Solstice that so many bloggers thought to be some grand event, I decided to play it as safe and possible and stay on the move through the entire night. I readied enough caffeine to make an elephant fly into space, and I mean caffeine, not coffee. I got a good night's sleep during the day, just in case. (At a college dorm. You wouldn't believe how easy it is to convince someone, that you were partying with them the night before).

Anyway I', driving through the middle of Nowhere (Nowhere, Illinois, I guess, but I could be wrong and it could be Nowhere, Missouri) and some guy on motorbikem not even a proper chopper, just a speeder-thing, drives onto the road in frot of me and stops. I break like crazy, and hear a cople of thunks on the floor behind me. I notice the old man's sledgehammer was hidden beneath the front seats, and it's head is covered with black stains. My mind goes immediately back to the idito on the road, his bike now facing me.

Then I hear two more, behind me, MX's I think. All three drove up slowly towards my car. I just knew they were the remaining "party poopers". What I did then was not nice.
I started up the car and accelerated, ramming the guy in front of me. The ones riding cross bikes sped towards me, so I pulled the handbrake. They flew and I never saw them before. As horrible as it is, they were the ones my conscience is reminding me less about.

I got out of the car, holding the hammer, ready to strike. I found him under his bike, cover in blood, eyes wide open, looking at me with eyes full of both hope and terror. He was from the party.

"I don't want to do what he says... I don't wanna..." he muttered. Tears mixed with blood on his face.
"End... me..." he asked.

I trembled. This one wasn't a threat. I had no need to strike, but that sad gaze of his had me glued to the spot. I just stood there, twitching, glancing in every direction, expecting to see Slendy, or the cops... or both. And this guy is there, under his stupid racing bike, begging me to terminate his existence.

I finally fixed my eyes on his face and I kept standing there, staring at him, wondering, was he Slendy's victim, or somehow mine.
And he begged me.
And I crushed his head on the pavement, immediately covering his corpse with puke.

I wrapped him up in some spare clothes and shoved him in the trunk. I drove around all day after that, buying a enough trash bags (or a big enough one) to contain the carcass and a shovel to bury it.

In the evening I finally got it. I drove to some lonely bit of road, drove off of it went a couple of miles and started to dig the grave. All the time I felt uneasy, but in a different way. When I finished digging and turned to the car to get the body, I understood.
The fucking Slenderman was standing next to the trunk, staring at it.
He noticed me and, I don't know, phased, I guess, to the other and of the car, still staring at where the corpse was.
I opened the trunk, took out the body, threw it in the hole and started filling it, casting glances in Slenderman's direction every now and then.
And he just stood there, watching.
Sad burial, really, just the two guys that killed him.
When I was done Slendy faced me. I gripped the shovel with all my strenght and he just disappeared.

I got in the Nova and drove out, rays of dawn hitting my windshield (or some other poetic shit). I dropped into a motel, fell asleep as soon as I entered the room and I woke up irregularily, if frequently, to cry my ass off and puke some more.
I hate bile.

And here I am.
I may begin to hate myself soon.

A few less

So the guys at Unfiction, who are themselves lucky enough to look at this as a game - a story badly written to no-one's amusement - have deemed me a sociopath some time ago. At first I wanted to protest, but after what happenned yesterday, I'm not sure I'm entitled to.

Apparently, I'm in Maine right now (anybody who makes a Stephen King reference will be tied up and fed to the lions) and I found what seemed to be a recently abandoned house. While I was trying to pick the lock (creepily, I am getting better at this, although nowhere near as good as to practice on anything that belongs to anyone) I found out I was wrong. I felt someone's hand on my arm. I flinched and turned around, fist raised, ready to punch anyone who was there and leg it.
The guy in front of me must've been something around 80. He smiled at me.
"I'm not gonna ask what is it you're running away from, but I will ask you to let me use the key, lest you break the lock."
He was eerily friendly, and completely unafraid of the kid (well, to him I must be one) who just tried to break into his house. He invited me in and told to stay the night.
I figured, hey, if he wants to kill me in my sleep, better him than the Slenderbitch.

The house was nicely furnished, I guess in some kind of style, but beats me what it was. The grandpa treated me to some hot tea, and a bit of roast. I got a room all to myself. For the first time in ages I was guest rather than intruder.

And then the night came. You see, (I say, as barely anybody reads this) I still have the maze dream, or rather variations thereof. Sometimes it's a different kind of maze, sometimes I make it to the center, sometimes the guy on the bed isn't there, sometimes the thing at the desk isn't.
This time, evrything in the center of the maze was as I saw it for the first time.
The monitor's message read: "You should get moving".
I asked why.
"Right foot".
I looked to my right foot and attached to it, coming through the door, was Slendy's tendril.

I woke up with a start and saw him standing beside my bed, and between me and the door.
I rolled out of bed and darted towards the window (the guest room was on the ground floor), opened it quickly, and jumped out.

That was a bad idea for two reasons:
-fucking cold
-party pooper brigade was already out there

I didn't see any opening I could go for. Not with them focused on me.
Then I heard a gunshot and the old man's yell "Pete! Run!"
The guys all turned their heads at the shot, which provided a well-needed distraction.
I looked only after I passed them and it was necessary to see them. Two went for me. The rest went for the figure of gramps standing in the front door, holding a rifle.

Then I did the stupidest thing of the week - I ran into the garage, hoping that I could go through it and "regroup" with the old man before they overrun him. Stupid me. I heard a couple more shots.
It wasn't dark in there, it was pitch black. I tripped over something and stumbled between what felt like two cars and fell on what seemed to be a pile of miscalleanous tools. I saw the outline of one of my pursuers getting near me, so I grabbed the first thing I could put my hands on and swung. A door slamming.
That thing, as it happenned, was a sledgehammer. Judging by what height I swung at, I probably hit knee. As I got up the other of my two attackers also wanted to try his luck. I swung higher this time.
I think I hit his head.

I left the garage and went for the front door. One of the guys who attacked gramps was on the snow, clutching his leg and bleeding. Tracks of three others indicated them deciding to perform a tactical retreat.
Then I remembered who I left inside
I opened the door immediately only to face gramps.
"I just called the ambulance and cops. Young man, get dressed. You need to run."
As I got dressed and packed my stuff he walked into the room. He tossed me something little.
A bundle of car keys.
"I packed you some food in the trunk and some cash for gas in the glove compartment, it won't last for too long, so you could use an honest day of work to fuel it every now and then."
I was completely lost for words.
"Seriously, take the Chevvy, it could use a good run. And you're not the first who's running from something. Also, unfortunately, not the last. Don't worry the kid I shot is unconscious, locked in a room upstairs, all patched up and waiting for the squad car. Which should miss you just barely if you hurry."
I asked about the guys I hit in the garage.
"There was no-one there."
I said I had a stupid question to ask, which he immediately answered.
"Nope, it's not an Impala, sorry to disappoint you. Strangely popular recently.  The Impala, that is."

I got the car and while I was on the driveway, the bearded gramps waved at me.

So now I'm on the road in what happens to be a green Chevrolet Nova.
And I wonder...
Did I hit the guy on the head, or did I just imagine it?

See you on the road, guys.