And the next chapter! My deepest thanks to all my readers, once again.

Enjoy!

Chapter XI

The handle of a door twisted. It froze for a moment, locks being turned with gentle but audible klk-klk's. After a still moment the door swung open, creaking, and light pooled into the apartment.

In the doorway stood the Slender Man.

...

"Chrissakes, Hanna," Worth hissed. "Wake up!"

He put his fingers to the motionless red head's carotid pulse again, waiting for a beat. He noted grimly that Hanna's body temperature was dropping, and that his fingers and lips were gaining an uncomfortable blue-purple colour.

Inside, the doctor was screaming.

Worth pursed his lips, finding no pulse, and put his hands to Hanna's chest, forcing the emotions from his mind. Emotions breed thoughts and thoughts breed hysteria, the calm voice of his medical instructor reminded him. Hysteria must be put aside, eradicated. Focus on the patient. Find the problem. Diagnose the problem. Break down the problem. Devise a solution. Apply the solution. Don't let the patient die.

"Don't let th' patient die," Worth repeated. Mechanical, methodical, he set to work.

Chest compressions – 30.

"One – two, three – four…"

Allow for total chest recoil.

Worth removed his hands, waited, watching the body's chest slowly reposition from the pressure.

Open airway.

He put two fingers to the body's forehead, another two to the chin, and tilted the head back. Hanna's smile did not alter. Worth ignored it.

Rescue breaths – 2.

Worth pinched Hanna's nose closed and inhaled. He pressed his mouth to the red head's and slowly exhaled, eyes unmoving from Hanna's chest. He waited for it to rise, for the air to be drawn out of his mouth. No sign of such.

If first rescue breath is unsuccessful, commence with second.

Repositioning Hanna's head, Worth inhaled another breath and repeated. He focused on the chest. No movement.

If no sign of life, repeat above steps.

Worth found it hard to stop his hands from shaking. He had dealt with death before. He knew it like an old friend, having experienced it personally. He had dealt with Hanna dying before, time upon time – but there was no amount of familiarity that could stop the fresh and mounting panic threatening to flood him every time the younger man was stretched out on his operating table, unmoving, the probability of losing him a gaining factor that burned brightly and maliciously in Worth's mind.

Focus on the patient, his instructor's voice reminded him sharply, as he had so many years ago when the doctor had been but a student. Worth had always held a great disdain for him, joining his friends in the constant mockery of his cold and disapproving persona. And yet, though Worth would never readily admit it, it was this instructor's knowledge and advice that stuck with him – even after dropping out of school. Because of this, Worth had been able to snatch Hanna off the brink of death every time he wandered there.

But now, as the doctor compressed the red head's chest with systematic efficiency, he suspected that the instructor's advice would fall short.

...

The Slender Man regarded the space of the apartment. Considered its length, its width, and noted with curiosity the small ruins that were carved into the crown molding of the ceiling. They were small, almost invisible to the naked eye. But the Slender Man, who did not have eyes, did not have this problem.

With ease the being entered, the door closing without any force. He moved across the floor with leisurely, graceful sweeps of his impossibly long legs, stopping mid-stride when there was a sudden knock at the door. An impatient voice followed.

"Oi, Zombie-guy. Are you there?"

The Slender Man turned, stared at the door. There was more knocking.

"Hello?"

The Slender Man began to walk towards the door.

"Anybody home?"

The Slender Man reached a gelatinous hand towards the handle.

"Ugh, fine. I guess I'll just drop a note or whatever…"

The Slender Man wrapped his fingers around the handle, but paused as a slip of paper slid under the door. The person on the opposite side moved away, muttering.

The Slender Man looked down at the card. On it was scribbled a message in neat, red handwriting.

Saw Hanna run to Worth's alone. Meet there now. – Conrad

The Slender Man looked up and was gone.

...

Worth, at this point, had gotten hold of his notes. He searched through them – yellowed pages of lined paper, scrawled with his messy chicken-scratch handwriting – attempting to find a certain page. He tried his best to ignore how much he was shaking.

Finally, he found it. Throwing the other pages aside, the doctor raised his right hand in benediction. He looked to Hanna, heart pounding.

"I dunno what shit you've gotten yerself inta," he said, quietly. "But fer god's sake, Hanna – don't die."

With that he began to chant.

"Dok'h et vrok'h sa, o' mosh'd'ae phasma, na ket dae tosh'd'h," Worth said, tongue smoothing over the harsh pronunciations of the Celtic.

There was a distinct shift in the air, a certain crackle of undercurrents. Worth licked his lips, throat growing dry. "Avae na temp'h, ke'petro de choso mosh'd'ae'p."

His ears popped, and it seemed like something was standing in his peripheral vision. The doctor didn't dare look, staring at the words on the page clutched in his trembling grasp.

"Hava fla'ae, mok'tra. Et hinc, pa't'kep!"

He waited. His heart was thundering. He did not look anywhere but at the pages before him. He waited.

Something moved at his side, something dark and tall. He saw a hand that was white and reaching for him. The fingers wrapped around his wrist.

Oh, fuck me, he thought.

And then Conrad was shoving his way through the door behind him, yelling, "Worth, have you seen –"

Worth whirled, throat constricting in fright. Conrad was halfway through the door, one hand around the handle, stricken with horror at the sight of Hanna.

"Oh, god," he said, unmoving. His voice grew higher in pitch as he visibly started to quake. "Oh god!"

"God ain't gonna do shit, Peaches," Worth snapped savagely, able to find his voice and slamming the papers to the floor. His wrist was burning where the fingers had touched it. "You broke my fuckin' concentration and' now Hanna's prob'ly –"

He couldn't finish the sentence.

Turning away, his heart dropped.

"C'mon, Hanna," he whispered – desperately, hopelessly. "Don't… Don't. Just… don't."

...

Someone was calling his name.

Hanna opened his eyes. He was on his back, blinking up at a ceiling that was oddly familiar in its cracked and stained entirety. Somebody was standing next to him, talking, but he could not make out the words.

Trying to move, he found that he was frozen to whatever it was that he was lying on. Alarmed, the red head willed his limbs to move, his muscles to pull, but they were stuck. A cold was set in his bones, heavy and lulling – a kind of soft blackfrost that wrapped itself lovingly over each tendon, each tissue filament, each nerve. It massaged the blood from his fingers, froze it in its veins. He could feel it trickling through the crevices of his consciousness.

Hanna recognised it, knew it well, and tried to fight back. He tore at himself, urged himself to move, to flush out this creeping state of paralysation that went by only one name – death.

...

"Worth," Conrad started, walking towards the doctor. "Worth, what's wrong with Hanna? Why does he smell more dead than usual? Is he okay? Worth? Worth! Are you even listening to –"

"He's fine, fer fuck's sakes!" the doctor snarled, turning on the vampire. Conrad shrunk back. Worth gave him a long and hard stare, his insides hot with a protective wrath, then he turned back to Hanna. The wrath settled back to a smolder. Worth knew very well that Hanna was not fine. But he needed to try and convince himself otherwise – before his walls began to crumble.

The doctor felt sick. Dizzy. Completely and utterly shattered. He could not – would not – believe that Hanna was dead.

His body started leaning to the side, an exhaustion filling him. His head was light, heartbeat a resounding thump-thump. Worth recognised the beginning of a fainting spell. He could analyse it, the voice of his instructor reminding him in his droning, articulated voice of the steps – cause: hypoxia as an outcome of oxygen levels below 16% at atmospheric pressure, results: temporary loss of consciousness, treatment: restore blood flow to head, check for breathing or obstructions in the throat, wait – but could not apply his knowledge to it. Conrad was instantly next to him, steadying him with petrified eyes. Worth shrugged him off, trying to tell him to fuck off, but finding his tongue would not work. He could not feel his legs.

There was a very sudden silence, followed by a shot of terror to the doctor's heart like a spike of adrenaline that momentarily sharpened his senses. His ears popped again as the planes shifted. Something was standing on the opposite side of the operating table, reaching for Hanna. Conrad's nails sunk into Worth's arm.

Worth looked up and saw a man with no face.

...

Hanna realised he was in Worth's office. He placed the stains in the ceiling, the stench of formaldehyde and cigarettes. He thought he was safe.

But he knew he wasn't.

Still he struggled for movement. Refusing to fall prey to death and its satin fingers, his mind was kicking and screeching wildly. The only thing he could move was his eyes, but even then he could see little other than the ceiling and the tip of his nose.
He stopped when a hand passed over his face, the blackened fingertips a blur that he recognised to be Worth's. Fingers wrapped around his right arm. Hope flickered. Hanna was yelling at Worth in his head, waving wildly in faith that he might just see that the red head was still alive. Another hand was placed on his left arm, and another on his chest, and another.

Confused, Hanna wondered who the other person was. He could not see Worth or the other person, could only feel their hands – oddly cold – on his body. He did not hear them talking – in fact, he didn't hear any noise whatsoever.

Only silence.

Shadows fell on his face now, and the hands on his body tightened in their grip – alarmingly, with a brutal strength that terrified Hanna.

Don't look above you.

His mind seized up when the forms of Worth and Conrad appeared above him, looking down at him. Only they were looking with no eyes. They had no faces, either. Just blank canvases of torn flesh and throbbing, bloody muscles.

Hanna's entire mind shrieked to a single, horrified halt. For the barest of moments his heart stuttered once – twice – thrice – fell still.

Run.

Magic – snapping and hot – knifed through his chest. And then the blood was rushing in his head, his lungs were flooded with air, and Hanna was ripping himself away from the hands on his body. He broke their hold and rolled off the table, hitting the ground and stunning himself. The silence was deafening now, compressing against him in folds and layers, pierced only by a high-pitched whining that he was shocked to discover he was making.

Something lunged at him from above. Crying out, Hanna shoved himself away from the operating table. He scrambled to his feet – too quick, too quick, he wheezed as his vision swam – and stumbled when his legs could not hold his weight. He fell to the ground again, the pain of his knees cracking against the tile jagged in contrast to the sluggish beating of his body.

Don't look left of you.

The red head started and looked left, saw the figure of Worth standing there.

Don't look right of you.

There was Conrad.

Don't look in front of you.

Hanna's stomach lurched at the sight of Galahad standing before him.

He knew what was coming next.

Don't look behind you.

Hanna didn't need to – he knew who, what, was standing behind him. The hairs on his arms were standing up, the magic in his chest was spitting and pulling at the fibres of his lungs and the cartilage between his ribs, and his mind was screaming while his body lapsed into stillness.

The four figures stood absolutely frozen in their spots, staring at the red head. None of them moved, the air did not sift, and Hanna could not breathe. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. He didn't want to believe what he was seeing. These were not his friends. They couldn't be his friends. His friends had faces and could move. His friends would try to comfort him. He was not seeing this. He was not seeing this. But he was. He was seeing the people he knew and loved turn on him. He was seeing them fall prey to the man standing behind him. Behind him there was a man, a being, a spider, who was doing all of this. He was controlling them. He was controlling Hanna. He was the reason for all of this. All of this was real – and it was time to stop believing otherwise.

Look behind you, Hanna.

And Hanna did.

...

He didn't remember getting up, nor did he remember walking to the forest. Yet here he was, standing in the middle of a small clearing, swathed in cold sweat and darkness. It was as if he had temporarily descended into Wonderland and had now come back to the surface, mind blank save for a dulled headiness that may have been the result of a tremor of emotions to the body.

He blinked, vision struggling to grow accustomed to the fog of shadows. There was a throbbing in his chest that he couldn't place.

How –? he thought, and then remembered.

Stiffening, Hanna instantly looked down to where he was standing and – sure enough – found himself placed in the centre of an 'x' surrounded by a circle.

My dream, he breathed. It's exactly like my dream.

Only instead of the symbol being scrawled in the dirt and pine needles on the forest floor, it was drawn cleanly and precisely with a dark and wet substance. Only then did Hanna became aware of the smell hanging in the air, a slight stench of something familiar. Hesitantly, he inhaled. As instantaneous as a stab to the heart the red head's chest, nose, and mouth were flooded with the acrid, metallic, and pungent presence of blood.

He jolted with fright when something splattered on his forehead, snapping his head up to the treetops above. There was a figure perched above him, a mass of shapes that didn't look quite right. Staring at it, the red head slowly began to realise that he recognised the mass. It was the figure of a person, hanging lopsidedly from a branch in such an awkward and bent way that it made Hanna's skin crawl. He could make out the form of an arm, held out towards him. Blood was dripping down its fingers.

A sliver of moonlight peeked out from the canopy and alighted upon the figure. Its head was looking in the direction of Hanna, only it had no face.

Looking past the mutilated flesh and muscle, there was no mistaking Galahad trying to reach for him.

Hanna became overwhelmed with nausea and horror. He could not stop the contents of his stomach rising to his throat and into his mouth, the bile that had collected in his glands gushing across the roof of his mouth. He tried to scream, but his frozen body only allowed for the vomit to sputter out of his tight lips and into the air. Sour and burning, the vomit suffocated him and dribbled out of his mouth and onto his clothes. Now there was blood on his tongue, there were tears, an irrefutable need to fall to his knees and rip the swelling and erratic emotions from his very being.

He no longer had a grip on what was real and what was not. He knew that trying to understand would warrant suicide. He had broken down entirely now, his own stubbornness or perhaps stupidity the only thing making him hold on – but even that was failing now.

The Slender Man walked out of the darkness towards him. He stopped, once again, just outside the circle. His suit was immaculate. His fingers were elegant and beckoning. He stood tall, ethereal, almost smug, in the contiguous silence.

You bastard, Hanna found himself thinking. His voice rang out into his mind and seemed to echo throughout the forest – exhausted and terrified. And yet he felt the anger, the fury, which the silence around him was trying to smother. You… bastard!

The Slender Man cocked his head to the side appraisingly. Calculating.

Give… them back! Hanna demanded. The anger was hot now, crackling. Give… my friends… back!

The Slender Man straightened his head. Hanna got the creeping feeling that he was smiling. The tendrils of black slid out from his back in rolling, curling lengths. They stretched up and to the either side of the being. It was only then that Hanna saw the three bodies lying on the ground, practically invisible in the darkness. The tendrils slid over the figures and raised them up, their bodies limp and bedraggled – like dolls.

The Slender Man put Worth, Conrad, and Mrs. Salleh onto their feet. They were still missing faces.

Hanna's heart jumped. Mrs. Salleh –

A tendril ripped across Mrs. Salleh's stomach, splitting her open with vicious accuracy. A thick sheet of coagulated blood spattered onto the ground, the strength of the impact enough to spread the substance as far as Hanna's shoes. Like a rose bud cut from its stem, Mrs. Salleh's upper half separated from her lower and they both fell to the ground, twitching madly.

Intestines spilling around the feet of Conrad and Worth, Hanna could only stare open-mouthed at the body until, finally, it ceased to move.

The Slender Man, at this point, was holding something in his hands. With a sickening jerk to his stomach, Hanna realised that it was Mrs. Salleh's face. The Slender Man, tentacles dissipating, bent down to the young woman's broken corpse. He stroked the face that stared unseeingly at him softly, almost tenderly, before putting it back into its previously-missing place on Mrs. Salleh's head.

Hanna swallowed thickly. You want a face, he breathed. Don't you?

The Slender Man straightened, giving Mrs. Salleh one last look before turning his eyeless gaze to the red head. Raising one hand, the being took a long-legged step forwards. The planes did not shift and Hanna did not see movement, but the Slender Man was standing right in front of him now, fingers sinking into the flesh of his face and pulling.

Yes, said the Slender Man through Hanna's thoughts. I want your face.

Please read and review, your input will be most helpful!

No flames, thank you.