So, I'm running out of money.

Surfuckingprise.

I did my research. I read blogs, I watched vlogs. I knew this was coming. After two weeks of cramming on the couch, too paranoid to sleep, I learned that even if this recent and unwanted addition to my life (who at first I wasn't entirely sure was real - but that's a whole other set of brain-meltingly stupid decisions by me, to be discussed at length some time that isn't now.) was just some psychopathic bitch - which she is, don't get me wrong - that there wasn't such a thing as overly prepared.

Okay, so maybe the baseball bat with the nails was a little extreme. You go through that and tell me you wouldn't do the same fucking thing.

I call her Moira.

So when I learned that I'd most likely end up hotel hopping, I started to save up. Took a second job and starting looking into a car that would be cheap and good for travelling - I was out of college by that time anyway, living with my parents and without any real future to look forward to, so I didn't have much else to do with my time. My parents weren't pleased but hey, they were never really pleased. Loved them to bits but I guess I never quite lived up to their standards.

Bluh bluh whatever.

So I started doing whatever I could, pulling in as much cash as possible. O'course I wouldn't get more than a few weeks to get my shit together before tall, blonde and infuckingsane showed up on my door, (well, technically in my kitchen) but that's a story for another time.


Things went pretty quickly after that. For the first month I lived pretty well, stopping at the regular chains for a decent night's sleep and some free breakfast in the morning. After stuffing about fifteen buffet sandwiches into my bag, I'd head out and try to move to the next city. Just wanted to stay alive, y'know? I wanted to be the goddamn posterchild of Runners everywhere. A shining example of how to be Stalked and keep on living, not just surviving.


Oh, how young and damn well naive I was.

Of course, she didn't really help.

It was okay at first. The free breakfast sandwiches lasted me a week at least, which meant I didn't have to spend too much money on food. It was easy to steal the packets of jam and peanut butter and stuff some toast in my pockets (pocket toast is, by the way, not nearly as appetizing as it sounds) to eat later, even if the bread was stale after keeping them locked in the cooler for a few weeks - anything to prolong their life, I guess. I didn't want to die of starvation or scurvy or some shit.

Really, that's my only fear. (Aside from the obvious, of course.) Fresh fruit is expensive and doesn't last long. Juice goes bad quickly and needs to be kept cold. Even though I eventually I just settled on buying lemonade powder in bulk (thank god for the internet) and filling the same ten bottles of water up at every fountain and sink I can find, I'm burning through cash faster than I'm comfortable with. I'd consider selling my liver or my laptop or hell, even the car if it means I can stay alive for a few weeks longer. Internet cafes are common enough now, but I've already lost my phone and can't afford to stay in hotels. The last thing I want is to end up on the street - well, more than I already am - but, really, what choice do I have? It's not like I can settle down somewhere and get a job. Stopping isn't an option. I can't even afford to stop and take a piss anymore, let alone find somewhere to park the car and sleep for the night.

This isn't a game anymore. This is a running down.

And really, I wonder why I ever pretended it was anything but.

But whatever. I'm not going down without a fight. If it's cat and mouse she wants, it's cat and mouse she's going to fucking get.


The cornered rat bites the cat, Cougar.


Don't think I've given up yet. I've still got plenty left in me.

I know what you're thinking.

Who's this douchebag, and why do I care about him and his idiotic shenanigans?

Well, imaginary recipient of this twenty-something's frivolous and largely inconsequential thoughts, allow me to begin by saying:

Fuck you.

You know, normally when you're approached by some chick, mid-30s at the most, who beckons to you with a coy grin and an even coyer wink, you initial reaction isn't holy shit, this woman is going to be the bane of my FUCKING existence from now until somebody takes this miserable piece of shit out of his, well, misery. No, no, of course not. In a display of genre-savviness for the goddamn record books all I could seem to think about was the valley that was peeking out from her practically non-existent neckline, and how I could see the black lace of her bra through the sheer fabric of her blouse. It's about the time that I managed to separate one head from the other that I realized that she'd already walked up to me and, purring soft as a fucking summer's breeze, said "Let's have some fun, honey. Just you and me." 


'Course I followed her. I'm a college kid who hasn't been laid since he dropped out. So when she took me to some shady-ass hotel in the middle of nowhere and sat down, crossing her legs in the most ladylike goddamn fashion and undid another button of her blouse, what do you think I had in mind?

I was grinning like the horny asshole I was, but didn't even get a chance to take my jacket off before she raised her hand, saying:

"Just a moment, little moth. I have a proposition."

A couple thoughts struck me then.

One, she just called me little moth. Alright, so many this chick's into nicknames - I'm cool with that. Whatever. She can call me Emperor Saggynuts, Lord of the Crooked Dick Dynasty if it means I'm getting laid at the end of the night.

Two, I was in some seedy hotel that I didn't remember the name let alone the location of, with no car and no money for a taxi. How the fuck this happened and where my wallet went remain mysteries to this day.

Three, I might still get laid.

Wait, I said two didn't -

oh fuck me.

Whatever. I'm beyond caring at this point. I was beyond caring a long time ago. Looking back I should have noticed that she was smiling like a bird of fucking prey and her nails were cherry red and sharpened to points and that behind the layers and layers and layers of blush, eyeshadow and foundation I could see crow's feet and frown lines.

Hindsight's a bitch, huh?

Well, it at least explained why she called herself Cougar.


I guess somewhere in that network of hers, somebody's got a sense of humour.

"A proposition?" I asked, still standing awkwardly with my jacket half off. I'm a little struck by how quickly she's become disinterested in me and the room around her, tapping impatiently with black pumps against the carpet.

"A game," she continues, and it just occurs to me that her voice has this really acrid tone under it; a sharp hiss over the purr (and now I'm staring to see why the name is so fitting) that flows from her mouth like silk. "Cat and mouse, little moth. You Run. We chase."


We?

... No, no, I think I said that.

"We?"


Much better.

"Have you heard of the one called Slenderman?" and with that, her interest in me seemed to fade completely. There's an emery board she's somehow managed to keep wedged in one of the tiny pockets of her shirt (neon pink zebra print. Classy.) that she used file down her nails, refining the already near-perfect tips to points. "Surely you've seen the blogs, watched the videos? The series dedicated to Him have gained quite a following lately. It's become something of a topic of interest among people. What with all the..." Her lips twisted at the corners, grinning at a distant memory. "Disappearances."


It's about this time I started thinking

oh


shit.


Oh.


SHIT.


I'm not sure if it's curiosity or stupidity or some bastard child of the two that kept me from ignoring the common fucking sense currently screaming in the back of my mind to run as far and as fast away from this chick as I could, or maybe the party in my pants hadn't figured out that sticking around, regardless of what she might do, is not worth losing any vital - or non-vital, for that matter - parts of me.

So of course I just kept standing there like the idiot I am, gulping loudly before choking out: "I - I'm sorry?"


She laughed at this. It was the laugh of the Wicked Witch of the West; a demented cackle I swear should've been followed by when shall we three meet again or preceded with a massive neon sign with the words CAUTION: ABSOLUTELY BUGFUCK; WILL CUT YOU and about a dozen others with warnings like DANGER and HAZARDOUS MATERIAL and  AVOID AT ALL COSTS.

"We're going to play a game, you and I," oh god, oh god, oh sweet and merciful lord in his cloud palace up above, she stood up and started walking towards me, running one of those razor-sharp nails along my skin. Not enough to actually draw blow, but enough to leave a pink trail wherever she went. Could nails even get that sharp? That's another thought I didn't have until I was above five miles down the road, out of breath and without any idea of where I was.

"You're going to Run, as far and as fast as you can..."


And somewhere in the back of my mind I thought wow, I'm so stupid that my possible murderer is even telling me to run away. 


Of course, the front of my mind was just screaming at me.

"... And I'm going to try and catch you. And when I catch you, little moth..." her mouth formed into a delicate pout, blue eyes widening in feigned innocence (and at the same time, my own widened to reach the size of dinner platters) before she continues. "I'm going to kill you, present you as a trophy to my master, and then cut you to pieces."


Her voice never wavered from the silken purr.

And what did I do?

I ran.


I fucking ran. I ran and ran and ran and I swear, I could her hear laughing even as I flew out of the doors of the hotel and onto the street.

And I kept running.

And I'm still running.

Two months later.

And you know what?

She hasn't caught me yet.


The name's Reynard. Welcome to my hell.