1

Dread resonated through the sullen streets of chipped pavement and murky stoplights of South Park. It perfumed the air and seeped into homes through cracked windows and opened doorways, and civilians sucked it in as naturally as breathing air. Nobody knew this, though everyone felt it.

The ritual had been complete, and the complaints rolled in-strange noises beyond the thicket of firs. The complaints were expected, for they happened in every town the ritual appeared. Childlike crying, growling, odd strangled animal cries, all phone calls and reports piling in the local police station. Except those were the least of their worries. They thought so, at least.

Eight-year-old Adeline Ferris, five-year-old Ethel O'Halloran, six-year-old Cheri Matthews, and eleven-year-old Hans Crozier had gone missing within the previous two weeks. Two children, previously unlisted, had been found. Eleven-year-old Ike Broflovski and ten-year-old Vickie McDaniel. Their bodies were discovered in critical condition, presumed to be animal attacks by police and locals.

Sixteen-year-old Craig Tucker, Pastor Tucker's son, reported the body of Ike Broflovski on October 20th at 10:26 a.m. He claimed he found the body due to a stroll behind his house in a patch of forest, and he found Broflovski mutilated behind a log.

The same could be similarity said for Vickie McDaniel.

Another high school boy, sixteen-year-old Kenneth 'Kenny' McCormick, discovered the body of Vickie McDaniel on October 22nd at 8:35 p.m. McCormick claimed he found the body during a walk near Stark's Pond, shoved in a cluster of reeds. The body was found in a similar condition to Broflovski's, much to the concern of the citizens of South Park.

Of course, this was only part of the ritual, and there were many more children to come. Oh yes, so many more, each carefully chosen and ideal for them to feast. It was tradition. It had to happen, or they'd grow restless and eager...

Fear clogged the throats of every parent, and it was advised not to allow children to participate in the upcoming Halloween festivities. Keep an eye on your kids, they said, or the murderers, unbeknownst to everyone, will pluck them away and ribbon the trees with their organs.

But children weren't the only victims of these invisible threats.

Pets were, too.

2

"Sparky!" Stan Marsh called through his gloved hands. "Sparky, c'mere, boy!"

He cleared his throat to suppress the tobacco-flavored phlegm sliming his windpipe, but no amount of clearing or spitting granted him that satisfaction. It disgusted him, and by extension, it sickened everyone else, too. How people perceived Stan wasn't a mystery when mutters and rumors were louder than rusty desk fans and classroom flies. Teachers, classmates, friends, family...it was all the same sludge circulating from person to person.

Cancer Patient Number One (often shortened to Patient Number One) was a popular nickname, fresh on the tips of everyone's tongues whenever Stan had the displeasure of passing them through the halls. Packets Marsh was another, though it wasn't as known.

Nicknames weren't a choice you had in high school. Everyone had one. Whether you embraced them or not determined your reputation and whether you deserved a beating. Kids were cruel that way. Either you owned it, or they'll remind you of it until the day you're buried.

Beargrass and pinecones crunched beneath his sneakers, hardened by frost sewn in intricate patterns atop the surfaces. If it weren't for his calls, he would've drowned in a sea of the exasperated gasps and grunts of Eric Cartman toddling behind him.

"Jesus, Cartman," Stan said and looked over his shoulder. "How do you expect to find Sparky if you can't even climb one hill?"

Cartman ceased, grasped his knees, and hurled over himself. Sweat oiled his face and slicked down his hair, creating copper veins against his flushed skin. Stains the size of hockey pucks wet the neck and pits of his hentai t-shirt Stan (and everyone else with a brain) resented, and his gut bulged beneath it, hanging just above the beltline. Despite the low temperature, his sweater sagged open, and he treated it as if they were in a Vegas heatwave.

"Fuck you-" he huffed "-Stan." Sweat rolled off his face when he looked up. "We practically walk a marathon, and you think it's okay to berate and humiliate me?"

"We walked for three minutes, you tub of guts."

Cartman's eyes widened, and he swiveled around. Stan's pickup resided on the gravel road behind a cluster of yellow and olive conifers, and Cartman twisted back around and made a pained noise.

Stan sighed. "Why'd you even come if you can't walk a millimeter without sweating peanut oil?"

"Well, sue me for being a good friend, Stan," he spat, and Stan already knew he was in for a good lecture.

Cartman's mouth worked a mile a minute, and Stan made a gun with his hand, cocked it, pointed it to his head, and pulled the trigger. This had been the fourth tantrum since Stan Marsh picked him up earlier that day, and he was sick of them. The first was toward Stan turning down his scheme to get KFC, second when an older lady cut them off, third when he got mud on his new Nike Air Foamposites (despite the fact Cartman knew they were going on a hike), and now this. Now fucking this.

Stan supposed he should've rationed Cartman's temper tantrums, except he was shit on luck when everyone else was busy, and venturing the woods alone sounded less than appealing, especially with the reported noises and disappearances. He'd have to deal.

"I'm just here because Kenny's busy doing God knows what, and the Jew is still caught up on his brother's stupid death. Why don't you just smoke your cigarettes and shut up, or have you maxed your limit for the day?"

A tinge of hurt sank Stan's stomach, and he grit his teeth. "Shut the hell up. His brother died no less than a week ago."

"Who cares? The Jew had it coming when he locked me in a meat locker and advertised me as pulled pork."

That part was true, and if it weren't for the severity of the situation, Stan would've stifled a laugh. A handful of days ago, Cartman got pissy toward all the recent basketball achievements Kyle Broflovski earned and decided the smartest way to deal with it was to steal all of Kyle's ribbons and vandalize them by crossing out his name and replacing them with his own-because apparently there were no ribbons for fat boys in South Park. Apparently talent played a factor, and the ribbons weren't just free handouts-unfortunate when Cartman tried to convince his way into a reward, claiming he could eat seventeen Little Debbie's Swiss Rolls in one sitting and how it was a natural born talent deserving of recognition. Mrs. Lewis, head of the academic awards, said she believed it, but it wasn't enough for a ribbon, so Cartman nicked Kyle's. The two played it out in the schoolyard that lunch, and both went to the principal's office, swatched in reddened seedlings of future bruises. Kyle even punched out a tooth, and he never lost his smile the whole walk down to the office.

Now, a cloud of anger flushed Stan's face. He slipped down the trail, snatched a handful of Cartman's shirt, and jerked him. "I said shut the hell up, Eric!"

"Oh? You wanna go? We gonna go?" Cartman's rubber lips twisted into a smile, and his breath sprayed Stan's face. It reeked of Cheesy Poofs, Liquorice, and eggs. "Because I'll go, Stan. I'll go until your face is bulldozed."

Yeah, because you really showed Kyle last fight, he thought.

His fist ached to dive into Cartman's jaw, loosen another tooth, and turn his flesh plum until his fat face looked like a swollen grape, but something lassoed him back.

It wasn't the fear of losing; Cartman might've been a bolder, but shit, he didn't know how to punch for the life of him, nor was it the kindness in his soul, but rather the thought of Kyle.

Kyle hated Cartman like fire, except the way Kyle cried the night of the 20th shook Stan to the bone. Never had Kyle cried into Stan's chest the way he had, and especially never enough to the point Stan could wring his shirt dry from the waterworks. Stan didn't even know that was allowed for boys. Boys had unspoken rules-stupid rules, but rules-where deep vulnerability wasn't to be shown or experienced together. Rants were aloud, yes, but not to the extent Kyle showed Stan. And worst of all, Stan didn't think he minded it. No, he didn't mind it at all. Not one bit. And that's not meant to sound heartless, but Stan hadn't felt uncomfortable or awkward during the heart-to-heart. He was afraid he actually enjoyed the closeness-the intimacy of it. And for every second Kyle wept, Stan felt every tinge of his pain, and finally, his eyes began to fill with water while they embraced.

Stan let go with a shove, and Cartman stumbled back like a feeble old man.

"What is it, Stanley? Can't handle the fridge?" he barked.

Stan sneered and pocketed his hands. "Let's just find Sparky, dude. I'm tired."

3

The forest had a river drawn across it, locally named Silvermere, in the shape of a down-turned lip, except not everybody thought that. Kyle always argued it was grinning, which Stan would always rebuttal.

"Name one person in South Park that smiles often," Stan said. His fingers skimmed the silver shore of pebbles until he found a flat stone and flicked it across the river. It skipped four times and sank.

Kyle squatted and watched. Fog slithered across the bank, and the moon broke its chains from the platinum clouds and rippled its warm candlelight in the water. The faint glow outlined the coarse curls of Kyle's hair in gold, and Stan felt the rhythmic beat of his heart falter before he stole his eyes away.

"Me," Kyle answered, and the indifference in his tone confused Stan whether the reply was sarcastic or genuine. But it made Stan laugh, and he punched Kyle's arm and told him to be serious.

Kyle laughed, too...

4

...Stan slid down the bank and walked the shore, calling for Sparky. The stones were tightly glued to the sandy gums of the river, white with frost. Pools of water in the shallows had been frozen with paper-thin ice, and they crunched loudly beneath Cartman's shoes as he deliberately stomped on them.

Stan was partially surprised Cartman made it this far. It had been thirty minutes since they arrived, and Cartman was still trucking along, though that was presumably due to Stan coaxing him with the promise of a Snickers for good behavior-a Snickers as real as Jack Frost, mind you. Stan had patted his pocket when he allowed the lie free into the wind, and it had been more empty than Cartman's cranium. Shame. Porky needed to lay off the sweets, anyway.

"Sparky!" he called, and the word now died on his tongue every time he allowed it airborne.

A pit sunk into Stan's chest after the fifteen-minute mark, and the call felt like senseless repetition. His eyes were heavier, too, and near the river, they grew stiff and cold in their sockets.

"Is that a shoe?"

"What?" Stan asked and turned.

Cartman shot a sausage finger toward the river. A single dirtied Converse drifted in the shallows of the shore a few feet beyond them.

Stan frowned at it. "Okay. Some kid lost their shoe swimming or something. So what?"

Cartman looked at him furiously, his eyebrows drawn together and his pupils fat bullets. "So what? It's always so what with you, Stan. Need I remind you of all the disappearances? The posters? The TV channels? Don't tell me you haven't forgotten."

"Yes. Shut up. I remember," Stan said and rolled his eyes to the dreary clouds.

"What if one of the kids lost it?" He lowered his voice and shelled a hand beside his mouth as if he were keeping a secret from someone. "Y'know...one of the murdered ones."

The lack of concern Cartman had for the bodies astounded Stan when he made it sound like a fun easter egg hunt instead of murdered children, but Stan didn't know what he expected from someone who hardly had a heart. Little shit would only be concerned if there was a cash prize attached to the posters, as well as a place in history to be forever remembered. The bodies were useless to him otherwise.

"I seriously doubt it."

Cartman sighed heavily. "Of course you do. You're always so negative. Stale Stan and concerned Cartman. What else did I expect from a future lung cancer patient."

Stan blinked in belief. What did he just say? Did he imply finding a dead child's shoe wasn't a negative thing? As a positive?

Before Stan could confront him, Cartman bent in the rocks. His meaty fingers scraped and pried at a stick glued to the ground in ice, unbeknownst to Cartman, apparently, who grunted and cursed at it.

Stan chewed his cheek, watched the clouds, counted the seconds, then asked, "What are you doing?"

"Trying to grab this dumbass stick, but it won't budge." His fingers flushed under the temperature as the ice wheezed beneath his fingernails.

"It's cemented down."

"Stan, you meathead. Do you see any cement? Because I don't."

"With frost." Stan unmistakably smiled-a first for the day. "Meathead."

Cartman cursed some stale insult under his breath, something Stan's heard a million times, as his plump cheeks looked like red Christmas ornaments, flushed with embarrassment until the stick finally gave away with a sharp snap.

"Aha!" Cartman flung it upward like wielding a sword.

Stan rolled his eyes again, and Cartman hobbled over to the shoe and poked at it as if it were a rotted cadaver. Then the stick poked through, and he lifted it. Stan turned away, uninterested, and continued his search until Cartman gasped.

"Shit!" he said. "Stan, look! Oh my God, look! You have to see this!"

Stan hadn't turned. He knew what this was. He knew if he turned and looked, Cartman would fling it at him-likely aimed at the balls or the face-and laugh his ass off while his gut jiggled like Saint Nick's after a night of cookie eating, except Cartman didn't need a jillion cookies to achieve Santa's physique.

"What?" Stan said, exhausted. "Did the diabetes finally kick in?"

"What? No!" Cartman sounded surprised, as if Stan hadn't asked that daily (he did). "I'm serious! Look look! Blood!"

That single word made Stan turn. It wasn't the urgency in Cartman's voice, the pleading, nor him being nice, but that one word. That one word turned his body and kicked his gut. Blood.

It was too far to make out, so he walked over and examined it, acutely aware and avoiding the edge of the stick to dodge being poked or hit. But Cartman was right, which was the disappointing part; his little beady eyes saw correctly.

The Converse was almost gleaming in scarlet.

"See? I told you! Tell me I told you so."

Stan waved his hand dismissively and squinted at it. "Is there a name on it?"

"What?"

Stan reared his eyes away and looked at Cartman. "I said, is there a name on it?"

Cartman's eyes flashed from Stan to the shoe, then Stan again. "God, I don't know, Stan. Is there? Be a big boy and look yourself."

He poked the shoe forward, and Stan stumbled back. His shoe slipped on the icy rocks, and his arms pinwheeled before he caught himself.

"Go ahead. Look. Look for the name, Stanley."

Stan's face flamed dully as Cartman laughed. Yeah. Real funny, guy. There could be another lost child case, and this lard-ass was laughing his jelly rolls off. Stan rolled his eyes a record-breaking third time in the last three minutes and reached for the shoe despite everything in him drawing him away.

The fabric was spongy and dense. Stan could feel it through his gloved fingers, and an iciness seethed into his skin. And there was the blood. All of it was marinated overtop as if someone dipped it into a vat of velvet cake dye, and Stan feared if he squeezed, it would run down his fingertips in gory teardrops.

He blinked and flipped up the tongue. Sharpie displayed a name scribbled in choppy handwriting. He squinted and eyed the tag carefully, mouthing each waterlogged letter until he straightened and said:

"Maisie P." Stan looked at Cartman and knit his eyebrows together.

"Maisie P.?"

Cartman withdrew the stick and shoved it into a mound of crayfish-colored pebbles. The river whispered beside them while the wind sprayed his hair aside and brightened his nose. A big, moronic laugh belched free.

"Who the hell names their kid May-zee?" he asked, emphasizing the end of her name harshly. Then, as suddenly as his laughter burst, his face dropped until it was a blank slate-nothing Stan could read or identify, and that frightened him a little. "Wait. Maisie Parkin?"

Stan's heart quickened. "You know her?"

"Short, Monroe hair, stamp-on flower tattoos, silly bandz up the yazoo. Yeah, I know her. She's the little girl that moved in a few days ago."

"Shit, dude," was all Stan could think to say. "Is she missing?"

"How would I know? I'm not her mom."

Stan scowled, though anger was the furthest thing he felt. He wasn't actually sure what he felt. It was a confused brew of surprise and disgust, reaching into his guts and clawing them out for him to shovel back up.

He just didn't understand why this happened to them. Why did they find little Maisie's shoe, and was it their responsibility now? What were they expected to do now? Was it entirely in their hands, or could they pawn it off to the police?

You dopehead, Stan internally scolded, you're supposed to tell the police. It's what they're there for.

It still strung strings of anxiety through him. Who would break it to Mrs. Parkin and hand her Maisie's blood-soaked Converse? Stan Marsh didn't know. That was all adult stuff, and as much as he hated to admit it, he was still a kid. A fucking kid.

Stan's face sank. This wasn't supposed to happen. Where's Sparky? Why couldn't they find his fucking dog?

"Oh my God..." Cartman said slowly. "I've seen this before. The missing posters, missing children, strange noises in the woods...it all makes sense now."

"What is it, Cartman?" Stan asked sullenly.

"Slenderman."

5

The bleach was everywhere. God, there was so much of it, and of fucking course it got beneath his fingernails and licked its acid tongue between the crevasses of his fingers.

This was a stupid idea. Beyond stupid. Whatever God coaxed him into this, Stan would have a piece of their ass by the end of the night.

He looked up, and the mirror warped through syrupy tears he needed to badly swipe away. He doubled in the glass with two...no four...three miserable Stan's looked back at him.

He just wanted to find Sparky. Why did Cartman have to open his big fucking mouth near the river?

Today was supposed to be normal.

When someone knocked on the door, he collected another glob of cream and stroked it through his hair. Stan's heart sank to his stomach.

"Hey, you okay in there, Stan?"

It was his father.

"Yeah. I'm okay, Dad."