Can't Say

Chapter 11

            After being led by your master down a hall to the right of the grand staircase, Slenderman and you entered a room that, no doubt, was dedicated to crafting and fabricating the trademark attire of the Creepypasta residents. Each section of the room was organized for its specific function; fabrics, sewing tools, paints, and mask molds. Some fabrics looked familiar, others not so much. You noticed the low quantity of green fabric in the stock, and asked no one in particular, “What about Ben’s clothes?”
            “Ben is a poltergeist. Thus, he doesn’t require material objects, such as clothes and food,” Slenderman answered. He strode to the side of the room dedicated to mask crafting, seeming to gaze over its contents that were so neatly placed. “That does not necessarily imply that Ben avoids our objects altogether – you’ve seen this example in the living room, already.”
            You only nodded, recalling your first encounter with Ben while he was playing his odd video game. When you turned your attention from the fabrics to your master, you found him curling a finger at you, gesturing for you to approach where he stood. You gulped, afraid to wear Slenderman’s patience thin, as you rushed over to his side.
            There were typical and peculiar things in the stash of crafting materials. One of the most odd was a full set of wolf teeth, to which you snatched up as ideas for your mask swirled in your head. You placed them on the empty table nearby, only to turn as Slenderman snatched your chin between his index finger and thumb, and then placed a plastic mask over your face. He held it there for a moment, contemplating his intentions for your disguise. The small space for your nose wasn’t very comfortable, limiting the amount of air that moved through your nostrils as you breathed. The echo of your wind was amplified, too, which made you feel a bit uncomfortable with how it would affect your hearing.
            “Master,” you mumbled, to which Slenderman removed the mask and released. “Maybe just a half-mask would do better. I could breathe easier.” You gestured over the upper half of your face as indication to how the mask would be worn.
            There was a long, unnerving silence between the two of you as Slenderman remained still for what seemed like several long seconds. His head turned to the shelves and drawers of crafting supplies, supposedly running all of his stock through his mind. The very moment he took a step back to the shelves, your master broke the silence, “I prefer my Proxies with full masks.” He plucked a particularly shiny sheet of metal from a shelf. It was only two feet in length; you weren’t sure exactly how thick it was, but it was thicker than a sheet of paper, for sure. From where you stood, you noticed smooth ridges of a scale design on the material’s surface. “This has been sitting here for some time, however; I would like to see something done with it.” Slenderman held out the sheet to you with his gangly arm.
            You took the metallic sheet with both hands, afraid to make it wrinkle, then gently swung it over to the table and laid it flat next to the wolf teeth. To your surprise, the sheet was light, like aluminum, but much more difficult to damage. Glancing between the teeth and the sheet of metal, you began sliding the teeth in place below the shiny material. A full top row of teeth might be too much, so you plucked away from the back molars until you had three left from the canine fangs. As you paused to try and imagine the mask as its finished design, a notebook and pencil were rested next to you on the table. You glanced up and over your shoulder at Slenderman before taking the pencil in hand and began sketching your design ideas.
            For the next two hours, your master watched you from behind, silent as a predator studying his prey. Every so often he would approach you and look over your various sketches, most of them scratched out, others you had circled and made little notes of what you wanted to keep. When you had a pretty regular pattern of ideas, Slenderman stopped you and slapped a wad of damp molding clay of sorts over your eyes. At first, you raised your hands to fight back, startled by your master’s sudden actions, but remembered what would happen if you didn’t comply.
            Slenderman continued to smooth the mold over the top half of your face, making sure to get each crease and curve until the edges of your hairline and ears, down to the tip of your nose. He then pushed you down into a chair and pulled on your hair until you leaned your head back so that the mold wouldn’t succumb to gravity and fall off. “Stay. It has to dry.”
            So, you did your best to recline in the chair and make yourself comfortable. A smirk crept onto one corner of your lips as the thought of Slenderman giving you a make-over entered your thoughts. How crazy would that be if he was actually a fashion designer in secret? Or at least had a brother like that? Some flamboyant entity who would talk with his hips and hands.
            You bit your bottom lip in an attempt to stifle your laugh. There was no telling if Slenderman was still in the room with you or if he had gone to take care of other things while the mold dried. You didn’t want to risk him prying into your mind and finding the mischievous thoughts that ran through it.
            In all honesty, you had noticed a more gentle side to your master ever since you became his Proxy. Perhaps you were simply being obedient enough for him? Or maybe he treats his Proxies better than candidates? It would be best to ask Hoodie or Ticci Toby, rather than finding out first hand. They seemed pretty at-ease around Slenderman, but maybe that was because they knew what they could and couldn’t get away with.
            None of this eased your worries of being a Proxy
            “I guess I’ll just have to do what I’m told,” you mumbled, “not like I haven’t been doing that all my life.” The sarcasm in your voice was thick. Frustration filled your chest at the thought of your efforts to escape the oppression of your human life were all for naught. Heck, this was probably worse!
            Maybe not quite; at least you were allowed to expel your anger here. Humans frowned upon others being angry and showing their feelings. Here, at the Creepypasta mansion, the residents didn’t seem to mind at all – so long as they weren’t the punching bags.