Hey guys! Thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed (and been terrified by) this story thus far. :) I appreciate it, I really do.

Anyways, this chapter includes a bit of origin for out beloved Slenderman. :D No warnings here except for some suicidal themes and past character death.

Ch 3: Ivan

Alfred didn't go to class the next day. As far as he is concerned, he issn't ever going to go to class again. Hell, he probably isn't going to ever leave his brother's apartment. Even though he doesn't remember the full details of the horrifying dreams, he recalls still enough to make him tremble and shake and grab for his woefully absent brother once he opens his eyes to the dim morning rays.

Matthew had left in the morning, though still wary and worried over his twin's condition, and was gone by the time Alfred awoke. Despite his trembling, the first thing that he had done was to walk to the living room and, with unsteady fingers, open the curtains to look out the window. But he had found nothing.

Alfred jumps and little as his phone—which had miraculously survived the mad dash to his brother's apartment the night before, rings from where it had been thrown onto the floor near the door.

Alfred picks it up, half expecting the other line to crackle and spit and hiss like the voice in his dream-but instead it's his brother, who sounds flustered and worried and wondering if Alfred is all right, and if he needs someone to come back and be with him. Alfred waves him off and tells him he's fine with a chuckle that's not entirely forced, but is not completely natural. He hangs up on his brother with a cheerful goodbye before deflating and sinking back into thought.

Alfred would have been willing to dismiss it all as a dream or a feverish hallucination due to his lack of sleep, except he found his stained jeans crumpled on the floor of Matthew's living room. And when he took off his boxers to investigate—sure enough, the crotch there had been splotched and blackened as well.

Only once in the sunlight of the day, and without the terror of the ghost looming with only a thin strip of wall between it and him can Alfred fully process the events that had happened last night. And the more he thought about it-the more something bothered him.

It is the eerie familiarity of the monster that seems to pester and prod at him. The beast had that split second of shock that its appearance had instilled in Alfred to hurt him—and yet, while the creature's actions were awful and defiling—it had not sought to kill him in that instant.

And that gets Alfred thinking. Wracking his brain for an answer as to what the creature was, where it came from and, most of all-what it wanted from him.

The internet, is, obviously, no help. All Alfred comes across were a handful of poorly edited screenshots and eyewitness accounts of a "monster" that sounded half assed at best. Though some of them send chills up his spine, as it almost looked like his monster, only without the hair.

Besides, it looks like the thing in the pictures and videos had been created out of thin air by someone with a computer, editing software and too much time on their hand. But Alfred's monster, as far as he could tell, is one hundred percent real.

Eventually, Alfred turns off his brother's laptop and sits, legs drawn to his chest and arms folded over. Despite the shudders and tightened chest that he experiences every single time he thought of the monster and its terrible appearance, Alfred can not stop himself from playing the image of the creature over and over again in his head.

And suddenly Alfred has a thought-another image flashes through his memory, something else that had been long repressed and hidden away. His breath catches, coming back a moment later in a tight sob.

He shakes his head and clung tighter to his knees, trying to convince himself it was impossible—but the realization won't leave him alone. That hair is unmistakable. And the eyes. He had seen them in what had clearly been a dream, but-those eyes had resonated with him. He knows who they had belonged to.

Yet Alfred feels the need to confirm. He uncurls himself warily, as if his bones were made of glass, and shakily stands to his feet. He goes through the small bookcase under his brother's desk, knowing that his twin had brought along his high school yearbooks for sentimental and nostalgic value.

He pulls out the 2010 yearbook, the year of his graduation, and opens it up, the smell of newly printed paper and ink still lingering there.

He flips through the pages, going through brightly colored pictures of students and sports and clubs and theater shows, searching from the memory of one page, one page that had stood out due to the tragedy that had befallen the senior class of that year.

Alfred is nearing the end of of the book when suddenly his eyes catch sight of it. He stops flipping the pages and opens the books further on his lap.

It's a memorial page.

And staring up from the center of the page was a picture-a school photo, to be precise, with the cheesy stereotypical background of a New England autumn.

Alfred's breath comes harder as he looks at the photo. The face is different-the strong jaw, prominent cheekbones, and large nose was nothing like the monster's smooth, eggshell white face-but the hair, wavy and silver-beige, and the eyes, strikingly purple-blue, are undeniably similar.

Alfred looks away from a moment, his eyes beginning to burn and his shoulders shaking. It is too much, too impossible and all too much to take in.

After a moment of composure, Alfred takes a deep breath, and looks back the memorial page. To the photos stoic, steely gaze.

A name is underneath the photograph, and a date.

Ivan Braginski - 1992-2010.

His hands shake as he traces the small epitaph below the picture, mouthing out the words with a dry mouth.

If there was one person in Alfred's life who symbolized every single one of his regrets—it would be Ivan.

Ivan hadn't been a bad kid, not at all. He had been nice, a bit socially awkward, perhaps a little creepy, and somewhat unstable with regards to his emotions. But that could easily be attested to the tumultuous years of being a teenager in general, though the experience had always seemed to be tougher on the tall, quiet boy with an unfortunately intimidating build.

In high school, Alfred had cheery and popular, but not so much so that it all went to his head. No, Alfred had room for the metaphorical little guys, for the dregs of the high school hierarchy. So, after a few random chance encounters and mutual friends, Alfred had befriended Ivan. And although they were never close, they did enjoy each other's company. Alfred had let Ivan tag along to parties that he would normally not be invited to, and Ivan had always sat Alfred down and helped him with homework or school projects. They were civil acquaintances, and nothing more or less.

But—there had always been a few moments with Ivan that had set up red flags in Alfred's mind. He seemed to have an incredible infatuation with Alfred that danced the line between considerate and creepy. Alfred had liked Ivan well enough, sure. But sometimes Ivan's "like" trended towards the obsessive.

Notes left in Alfred's locker or in his backpack that spoke of Ivan wanting more than just a friendship. Strange gifts of flowers and candy left untagged and unmarked, sometimes in paper bags, on his doorstop. The tendency of Ivan to just appear behind Alfred at, to, or from school like some kind of ghost. Sometimes Alfred had wondered if any the shadows moving were from Ivan, or from the flutter of his scarf, though the idea was silly and stupid.

Still, Alfred had decided one day to set Ivan straight.

He had turned to Ivan one day after school, after the taller boy had intimidated and scared off all the friends that would typically walk home with him. And after Ivan had seized and kept a tight hold on his hand the entire time.

Listen, Ivan, he had said, heart falling as the bigger teenager looked down at him, I need to tell you 'bout something.

Ivan's small smile had grown a bit, and he had squeezed his hand a little tighter.

Anything, little Alfred.

Alfred had stopped in his tracks, Ivan halting in his steps a few moments after. Alfred took a deep breath, biting his lip for a moment before looking up into those unnerving but still kind bluish eyes.

Look, Ivan,

He sighed.

I know you want this to turn into something but I—I just don't like you that way, dude. I'm mean, I'm just not really into guys. That's all.

There was silence immediately following, and Alfred wondered if perhaps had understood the implications of what Alfred had said. He had tried to tug his hand away, but it was locked in Ivan's cement grip-which had started to become painful.

Ivan, come on, let go of me—

But Ivan had not. Instead, Ivan had seized Alfred by the face and brought his lips to his and had begun to thoroughly tongue and suck on the boy's mouth. Alfred had outright gagged and shoved Ivan away as the taller boy thoroughly molested him with his mouth. When he hadn't been able to get the older boy off, he had stepped down hard on Ivan's foot so that he pulled away with a gasp and a cringe.

Fuck off, Ivan! He had yelled as the boy looked at him in confusion.

Alfred—

Drop dead! Drop fucking dead, you stupid asshole!

And with that Alfred had ran, not stopping to look over his shoulder until he got home. He scrubbed his teeth and washed his mouth out with Listerine as soon as he got to the bathroom, thoughts only on how creepy and disgusting Ivan had been.

Alfred had found out later that evening, when Matthew had come into his room while Alfred was listening to music, white as a ghost and insistently grabbing on arm and taking him to the living room, where the local news was on full blast.

Alfred had looked from the television to his Matthew, clearly confused by what his brother was trying to tell him.

Matthew had taken a deep breath, pointing back to the television.

"Al, read it," Alfred had scanned the headline and listened to the reporters speak.

Local boy found dead.

It still didn't quite click with Alfred. His brother shook him.

"Al, I'm sorry, it's—it's Ivan."

The name had hit Alfred with all the force of a train. His legs had felt weak, and he had to take a few steps back and sag against the couch, watching in horror.

Ivan had hung himself in his room. With his scarf.

Alfred had watched, shaking, as the story was reported—watched with a sickening feeling in his stomach as he saw camera footage of coroner's wheeling a covered gurney out of Ivan's home. Despite having earlier told the boy to fuck off and thought of how disgusting Ivan had been to advance on him like that—Alfred felt his eyes swell with tears. Matthew had tried to comfort his brother, but all Alfred could believe at the moment was that Ivan's suicide had been all his fault. Ivan had obviously been fragile, and Alfred could not help thinking that his rejection had finally broken him.

Alfred had a hard time sleeping that night.

For his own mental sake, Alfred had eventually managed to at least partially convince himself that Ivan's death had not been his fault. Everyone, even Ivan's family, knew that he had had emotional problems for several years before he had even met Alfred. It was even suspected that some childhood illness had had a profound and tragic impact on his mental state.

But, to Alfred, there was still no question that his rejection had been the catalyst to Ivan's reaction, as crazy as it was.

And that still haunted Alfred to this very day, as he sat in his brother's apartment with an open yearbook on his lap and a picture of Ivan starting accusingly up at him.

Haunting, Ivan was still haunting him.

Alfred suddenly feels ill. Very ill. He claps a hand over his mouth, just barely stopping himself from retching all over Ivan's face.

It had to be. It had to be. Alfred didn't know how it had happened, but—

Now there is no doubt in Alfred's mind that the creature haunting him was Ivan. It made sense. It made horrible, gutwrenching sense.

As sick as it is, the fact that the monster had touched him there, had essentially kissed him—they were all products of emotions that, at one point or another, Ivan had had towards Alfred. And even though they were distorted and grotesque now, they still were Ivan's feelings. The monster, one way or another, was acting through Ivan. That, or the monster was Ivan.

The sick builds up in Alfred's stomach again and he throws the yearbook from his lap, stumbling to his feet and racing to the bathroom where he vomits the pale contents of his stomach into the bowl. The nausea leaves as quickly as it comes though, and Alfred is left wondering whether it was something he had eaten, or if it was a side effect from all the stress. Either way, he ends up feeling weak, and simply crawls onto the couch and spends the rest of the afternoon in a doze.

That evening Matthew comes home, and although Alfred jumps slightly when his brother opens the door-because, God knows, the monster could be right behind him—there is no sight of the beast as his brother trundles tiredly into his apartment. He makes Alfred soup and the two sit on the couch and watch television for a couple of hours.

Matthew seems like a ward against the monster's presence. Though he had once heard the tapping, Matthew seemed to never attacked or in any way affected or shaken by the monster. His only concern was Alfred, for the welfare and wellbeing of his brother. And Alfred thought it fine that way. He never wanted the thing to go after his brother. The creature—and Ivan—were his troubles to bear. His life to sacrifice, if need be. There's no reason for Matthew to be kept up at night by thoughts of Ivan and the monster.

Soon enough, Matthew decides to retire to his room, but only after a few minutes of assurance by Alfred that he'll be fine, he's just going to stay up a little longer and then he'll come to bed—

The tapping starts not long after Matthew goes to his room Alfred shivers at the sound, but instead of blatant fear, this time—there is a bit of pity. A bit of guilt.

He gets up, in a mirror image of the parts of last night's nightmare that he can remember, and walks over to the window. After a moment of hesitation, he pulls open the curtains.

He starts at the monster floating outside the glass, swallows, tries to steel himself despite the fact that his knees have started to quake.

Its flat face remains perfectly still even as the swarm of appendages curl from the shadows and block out the moonlight behind it. The slants of light flit across Alfred's face—everything else is dark.

He flinches again as two hands emerge from the black likes ghosts to press against the window and-they look so real, too real. Too much like the hand that had clenched Alfred's on that day a year or so ago-but still gnarled, twisted and paled in death.

Ho-l-dm-e-ple-as-e

Alfred jerks away from the window, heart pounding because-because that was definitely Ivan's voice he had just heard in his head, albeit distorted as if through a poor digital recorder—

Alfred pulls the curtains shut, his chest heaving. Moments later the tapping begins anew. Alfred covers his ears, breath tight and coming in near sobs.

His legs are jelly as he stumbles away from the window and into his brother's room, where he collapses on the bed. As he settles, he feels a gentle hand touch his hair.

"You okay?"

Alfred turns his head, looking into the concerned but sleepy eyes on his twin. Mattie's eyes, which had always been a little darker and deeper than his blue ones-

"Yeah," Alfred gulps, giving a wavering smile, "I'm fine."

Next chapter is the last!