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The woods are quiet, but not still. The quickly fading daylight glitters in orange and violet jewel tones, disappearing through the trees. The grass still warm, and the night is mild, despite the Autumn season.

There is a well beaten path, not too far from the campgrounds.

Something watches in the darkness, invisible to most. But he is the scratch of the tree branches, the rustle of the leaves, that delicate touch to the ankle that's so light it might very well just be in your head.

(But it isn't. And it waits.)

Something moves, just ahead: a tendril of black darker than black wrapping around a branch, wispy and esoteric. And then it is gone, delving deeper into the woods, a modern day will-o'-the-wisp.

Should Jack choose to follow, the lights from camp slowly fade into dots of yellow light in the distance.

He is a long way from home, and the night grows longer. The moon rises, just a little, just enough to cast its golden light and illuminate the way.

If he waits too long to follow, something touches at the base of his neck, too quick to catch.

The possibilities are endless. Which'll it be?

A rustle comes from behind him. The Operator is careful, and he causes no sound on accident. He has this down to an art: fine-tuned, custom worked for every boy and girl. They are the rats and he is the piper, gleefully pulling them deeper into the forest.

And when Jack calls out, it is silent. For seconds, minutes. Up until he turns to leave, up until he breaks the spell with his movement, and then:

and then.

A heavy hand lays upon his shoulder, the skin of it without a hint of texture. It is black, clawtip to wrist, up to his fine black sleeves, tailored just-so. Up and up his arms-- and they are quite so long, for he is taller than any human-- until the white disc of his face. It has no features, smooth except for the sink of where eyes would go.

"Greetings, child," he says, a voice from no mouth.

The shadows get darker, the moon obscured by clouds.

Scarelings are always so brave, to a point. They collect themselves up and remain unaware of the implications of who they've met and what they've seen. They tell the stories to their journals or to their adults, and the adults never believe.

Over-active imagination. Those are the two words he hears the most, when listening to the tales that children weave.

"You may use The Operator, as it is my title," X says, the flesh around where a mouth would be parting, forming an odd, odd smile. The light washes out the papery white tone of his skin. There are no veins beneath.

With his other hand, clawed and sharp, X offers his hand to the boil. And he is just a boil: knobby knees, shaking voice, diminutive stature. Before he has seen much of the world. Before he has let his first blood. Before anything dark to come.

"It is nice too meet you, Jack. But you are in my forest. A trespasser." Furls of shadow began to gather around his back, fluid and cold to the touch, should Jack reach out. "And there is always a price for such a crime."

"I am afraid, scareling, that ignorance is not an acceptable currency for your debt." It is cool, but not malicious, and the grip on Jack's shoulder grows a little bit tighter. The claws pierce the fabric of his shirt, but do not yet break the skin.

"Crazy is simply the word they'll use when they do not see what has been before them for an eternity. You might be crazy, but that does not mean that fact is incompatible with my existence."

His eyes glow in the moonlight, the vivid green of jealousy. X finds it mournful that he cannot keep them. "It is fortunate for you, little one, that I do not intend to extract my payment on this day. I will merely leave the mark upon you, so that you know the debt has yet to be paid."

The shadows lurch upwards, rearing up behind the slenderman like cobras poised to strike. His voice is low, soothing. "Will you be still now, or must I restrain you?"

"Of course," X chides, and the shadows grow thicker, curling over Jack like a crashing wave. The light of the moon is blocked, and there is only the yellow glow of the flashlight, shining brightly over the two figures inside the cocoon of darkness and going no further.

"For as long as humans have existed, and been afraid-- and you are all quite so afraid-- we have walked the same paths as you, invisible to most. Not all are so gifted as you, scareling. It is why my debt of choice was not your life."

The Operator appreciates that Jack lies still, and he pulls up the hair at the base of the boil's neck, and begins to draw his sign. Small, where no one might see. A secret for the one called Jack, and no one else.

"You bear the mark of our agreement," X says, and releases his hold. It was no pact; forbidden for demon and human, but something else. A promise of we will meet another day. A gift of existence proved. A tag, hunting in the style of catch and release.

He would never mark the one, and these others were not marked in her stead.

X intends to see her much more often than this one, to grow like a reed in the wild.

"The Operator is a title of my kind," he says, and the tentacles of shadow pat at Jack's face, once then twice, before pulling away. "My name, however, is X."

The work is done with neat efficiency, and blood is drawn. But the boil is brave and clever and can see him. He laughs, and the mouth parts into darkness again.

"You are welcome, Jack," he says, low. In the distance, he watches the careful scan of lights. They are searching for something, perhaps the scareling.

"I do not know the count. Hundreds of hundreds of thousands, at the least. As many as there are humans, at the most. Werewolves and vampires exist, yes. Copious amounts. We live in the world of Halloween."

They draw closer, and X pulls away, to pace around the boil. "I am Slenderman. A Demon."

He fades into nothing, sinking into the ground until he is a shadow in the trees, a decoration of the night.

And then, with a voice disembodied and muffled: "We will meet again. I must collect on the debt."