Behind the Hollow Eyes (REWRITE IN PROGRESS)

Chapter 1: Between Static and Silence

*Please read full description before reading or the story will not make sense at a certain point*

It was a cold night, the kind of cold that didn't just nip at your skin but crept in slowly, stealthily and patiently until it settled deep in your bones like it belonged there. I walked home alone, arms wrapped tightly around myself, as if holding on could somehow keep the fear at bay. The streets were mostly quiet, the world too still for comfort, and each gust of wind felt like a whisper warning me to turn back.

My thoughts drifted, unfocused, looping the way they do when you're trying not to think about what's behind you. I half-listened to the crunch of my boots on the gravel, the sound oddly loud in the silence. Too loud. Like the world had emptied out and left me to walk through the shell of it.

Ember had sworn she saw him—Slenderman. But Ember was always the dramatic one, the one who lived and breathed internet horror stories. Jeff the Killer was her obsession. Dahlia's fixation was Eyeless Jack, and she wouldn't shut up about him. They both threw themselves into those creepy tales like they were gospel. Me? I used to think they were just that—stories. Grim bedtime tales for teenagers who wanted to scare themselves in the dark.
At least... I used to think that.

A burst of laughter rang out nearby, jarring in the stillness. I flinched, head snapping toward the sound. A group stood beneath a flickering streetlight, their outlines warped by the inconsistent glow. I couldn't make out their words. But something about their voices—it was wrong. The tone didn't match the pitch. Like echoes carried through water, distorted and submerged.

Then I heard it.

 Footsteps.

 Fast. Heavy. Not playful. Not casual. They were coming toward me with purpose, pounding against the pavement like a warning drumbeat.

 I barely had time to register it before someone seized my arm. The world spun. My back slammed into a brick wall, the impact knocking the air clean out of my lungs. I gasped, or tried to, but nothing came. The flash of a blade caught my eye—silver, sharp, cruel—and it was suddenly at my throat.

"Don't scream, or I'll cut your throat," the man hissed. His voice was brittle, like glass shattering in slow motion.

 His hand clamped over my mouth before I could scream even if I wanted to. His skin was rough, cold like he'd been dead a while. My heart pounded violently, slamming against my ribs like it wanted out. I couldn't breathe—I couldn't even form a coherent thought.

 I whimpered, barely. A sound not even worthy of being called a voice.

 "Shhh..." he cooed, soft and terrifying, like someone trying to soothe a crying baby. Like this was normal. Like I was his to quiet.

 "Are you going to kill me?" I tried to say. The words came out broken, muffled under the weight of his palm.

 He smiled. Not with kindness. The kind of smile that should never be directed at another person.
Then—then he leaned down and kissed my forehead.
Something in me recoiled so hard I thought I might be sick. My stomach flipped and twisted in a way that made me feel like I was being turned inside out.

 "Don't worry, pretty girl," he rasped, his breath rancid with the sour tang of metal and rot. "I won't—"

 He never finished the sentence. Because something pulled him away.

 One second he was there—too close, too real—and the next, he was gone, yanked backwards with such violent force that the movement blurred. I dropped like dead weight, hitting the ground hard. Cold seeped up through the pavement, but I couldn't move. I couldn't even register the pain. All I could do was breathe, like it was the only thing tethering me to reality.
I turned my head, body trembling uncontrollably, and saw him.

 Tall. Inhumanly so. Thin beyond belief, like his limbs were made of shadows stretched too far. He wasn't a person. Couldn't be. Every cell in my body seemed to recoil at once, as if it knew what my mind hadn't yet caught up to.

 "Don't touch her," the figure said. Except—it wasn't speech. Not really. It vibrated inside my skull, bypassing sound entirely. A feeling more than a sound. An echo of meaning planted directly into my brain.

 Then he moved. He grabbed the man and slammed him into the wall. Once. Then again. And again.

 Each hit was a sickening collision of bone and brick and blood. The sound was wet. Final. Like meat meeting stone. The man didn't even scream. Just broke.

 Somewhere behind me, the laughter I'd heard earlier died out in an instant—snuffed like a candle. Then came the scuffle of retreating footsteps. No screams. Just the sound of running. Just fear

 And then... static. Loud. Deafening. All-consuming. It roared in my ears like a thousand TVs had all been tuned to dead air at once. I screamed, but I couldn't even hear it. I clutched at my ears, desperate to block it out, but it only grew louder, like it was inside me. I dropped to my knees, dizzy, vision spinning.

 The tall man turned toward me. He was still holding the attacker—limp, broken, discarded like a puppet with the strings cut. He dropped him like he meant nothing. No ceremony. No effort.