Slenderman

Skin. Cold as marble. No pores, no shadows, no reflections. Up close, a fine network of barely noticeable cracks, like old glass.

Fingers. Longer than they should be. Extra joints allow them to bend at unnatural angles. The tips are sharp, almost transparent.

A tie. Black, frayed. It moves without a wind. Sometimes it seems as if it's breathing.

Shadow. Doesn't obey the body. May be pulled in the wrong direction, lag behind movement, or be absent altogether.

The smell. Ozone, rotten wood, old iron. A sweetish aroma that leaves your tongue numb.

Sounds. A slight crackling, like from an old television. Sometimes someone else's whispers, just barely audible.

Posture. Motionless when looked at. Moves only when the gaze is averted.

Distortion. The cameras don't capture his face. The photos are blurry, the videos are rippled. In the pictures, he looks like a blur among the trees.

Slenderman

He's not just tall. He's a denial of proportion.

Height. Between seven and ten feet, but no one could say for sure, because he always seems taller. Taller than the trees, taller than the sky, taller than the very memory of what a person should be. His figure is stretched to unnatural limits: narrow shoulders, an unnaturally long neck, a thin body that seems stretched beyond measure.

Clothes. A black business suit that looks like it was tailored for someone else. The jacket is narrow in the shoulders, too long in the sleeves, yet it clings to the body like a second skin, without creasing even when moving. The white shirt underneath is the only light spot, and it's always immaculately white, as if it's never touched anything living. A dark tie hangs loosely around the neck, occasionally moving without a breeze.

Arms. Thin, unnaturally long. When Slenderman stands upright, his fingertips reach his knees, sometimes even lower. His fingers—too long even for such hands—are thin, pointed, with an unnaturally large number of joints. They slowly clench and unclench as he watches.

The face. This is where the scariest part begins. He has no face.

Smooth as polished marble, white skin covers the entire head. No eye sockets, no nose, no mouth. Not a single feature. Nothing that could betray emotion or intention. But the longer you look, the more it seems as if there is a face there—just hidden, concealed somewhere beneath that white mask. And if you stare too long, the outlines of things that can't possibly be there begin to emerge: vague silhouettes, empty eye sockets, crooked smiles that aren't there.

And yet you always feel his gaze. Heavy, oppressive, directed straight at you. He sees you, even though he has no eyes. He knows where you are, even though his head may be turned the other way.

Tentacles. Thin, flexible appendages extend from the back, just below the shoulder blades. Their number varies: sometimes there are two, sometimes eight, sometimes it seems there are none at all. They resemble scorched branches or roots—dark.