The Mad Ventriloquist believes in the power of stories. While he does not think that they change the world, they change minds. They give knowledge. That is very important, so the stories must be told. A while ago, a man tried to fight with stories. Today was supposed to be the day to do it. Today is a day for stories. So The Mad Ventriloquist will tell them.
A man opens the door to find his friend there, but he is not alone. Two children stand beside him, a girl clinging to his leg and a boy that looks like he's about to run. "Their parents died." the friend explained. "You mean you killed them." the man said. The boy glared and the girl let go of the friend's leg for a brief second. "Couldn't bring myself to kill the kids." The friend continued, "I'm taking care of them now." They stood in the doorway for a few minutes. "My house is not an orphanage David." he said, but he let them in anyway.
Dear Mr. Ventrilloquist,
I write to you, because I choose to. I have seen many that want to find truth, but none that seem to take it so hard to heart than you.
I have seen others like you, but you are the one I choose. It amy seem circular, but I feel you will understand. First off, I refuse to call you
mad, for I would have to admit that I am as well. I am not ready to do this. I have seen many things. I have studied many things. He is among
the strange, that I have seen, but not the only terror, that I have learned. These terrors, such as Him, are beyond good, or evil, at least in
men. It is about surviving, and not letting the things that lurk in the dark win. I hate losing, I really do. Iguess I sohuld get to the point,
then. It seems alot of us, that have seen, tend to not get our thoughts in order well. I am reaching out, to tell my story, and possibly help.
I will spare the long details, but I saw Him. It was in passing, and he was not looking for me. He has never looked for me, and I do not know why.
I am not sure if I am blessed, or damage goods, or simply not desireable. Not something a girl wants to thing about. I hear voices, long before
I heard about what He does to your mind. He's the scariest one of the dark, by far, but maybe my mind is just strange. I started studying Him, and
I found out that he goes after poeple that know about him. As I said, I am not sure why I am not a target. Possibly because everyone I know is
already dead, long before I knew about Him. As I said, I have seen dark things, and knowing dark people. Mob is such an ugly word. I want my story
to be known by someone. I don't do well, just trying to say it. I'm not sure if I'm even making sense. I have never felt so on the outside, when
it seems it is all around me. I cannot take being passive any longer.
Awaiting your response,
It was Christmas, and a man attempted to cook a nice dinner. It got burnt, which he probably should have expected. He was never very good at cooking. There was a knock on the door and there stood a friend. "Where's Derek?" the man asked. The friend shrugged his shoulders. As if he wasn't hurt. He says he doesn't lie, but that's only in words. "He left. Says he doesn't want anything to do with me. So be it."
It was a very gloomy Christmas.
A year ago, a man stood in a forest. He waited for a monster to show up, for a destiny to be fufilled. He waited to die. And while he was afraid, he was ready. The monster didn't show. The stand didn't work.
The internet flooded with stories that day. Weird stories, bloody stories, heartbreaking stories. They all had the same purpose. This man rode to battle. He defeated the slender man. So many stories. So many versions.
The monster never showed up. There was no battle. A good man was lost.
But there were so many stories.
Despite all the fear, all the doubt. Despite the fact that it didn't work. People wrote. People made stories and they gave themselves a chance to hope. They came together and the story unified them.
Doesn't that mean something?