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Can someone pls tell me what exactly a proxy is? I thought the term simply referred to anyone who works for Slenderman for whatever reason. But I keep seeing ppl say Surge didn't come up with the concept, which isn't true at all. It's literally in the og post that started everything. The creators of MH say there are no proxies in the series even though it's revealed at one pointAlexand the Operator were working together. So I guess the definition is indeed a little more complex

Don't get me wrong, I do not hate the proxies ok? Some of them have really cool backtories and incredible designs but.. realistically, why would Slender Man need them anyway?

Most of the proxies are used by Slender Man to stalk and kill people but... they are still human in the end. Slender Man can do both of these things just fine and much more efficient than an actual person, so why would he need them?

As my series is coming out soon, I wanted to know what people thought of my version of the stick-in-the-mud.

Rather than solely wearing its classic suit, it changes based on the viewer. Its appearance shifts based on what death means to you when you look at him. In the series it is in its classic suit, a dress, and a robe, but always faceless and dressed in all black.

There is an ancient Egyptian myth that claims it was once human, but it truly never was.

Attached to it are "Memories," fragments of the people who were taken. These ghosts can only be seen through a camera. They have no memories of their past lives, but they carry past emotions. Some of these echoes are benevolent, and some wish harm upon the living.

As well as its more traditional powers, such as mental influence and slender sickness, the entity can also force you to see visions through its head, the horrible, wretched things it has done.

Jimmy Miller was one of the Marble Hornet’s reps so they could get a clear chain of title for the movie, they helped file for the copyright of the show, and yeah this was found recently. So long for copyright diffs. I guess this kinda makes sense, in light of the comics being able to give the operator, more OG mythos stuff (clones and the ability to become a giant; rosswood as well with the whole way more violent and physical activities)

few of you might know, but I’ve spent nearly a year trying to track down and archive the original iOS game Slender: Asylum by William Poole. I actually managed to get in touch with the developer over email, but after an initial reply where he was willing to answer some questions, he never replied to my follow up email.

Since the original IPA file remains completely unarchived and lost, I decided to take matters into my own hands: I built a 1:1 recreation of the game in Unity from scratch!!

Using the handful of surviving screenshots, archived stock assets from 2012, and my own memories of seeing the game on YouTube back in 2014, I rebuilt the entire experience. it’s obviously not 100% accurate to the original, but it's as close as you can possibly get to experiencing how the game looked and felt back in 2012

You can check it out here: https://toxic-roseworks.itch.io/slender-asylum-remake

Let me know what you think, and if anyone out there happens to have an old, unwiped iOS device with the original game still installed, please reach out!

Some people didn't understand why they're considered different so here's why, apart from copyright reasons ofc, apel.

I love Slenderman but haven't really gone out of my way to seek out slender media for a while. I remember binging TribeTwelve for a project me and my friends were doing and I actually really enjoyed it! Any other series I should check out from here?

Just recently gave him a little make over (not a costume)

We can all agree Morley Grove has that title worn proudly as a crown, right?

You get snatched up- not even explicitly stated being 'killed', mind you- you get transported to a a plane of existence layered on top of your own where people can hear but not see you, your memory and very being itself becomes deformed misshapen, and mutilated by a corporeal nightmare, and to top it all off; you're forgotten. Not just by the people who loved you and missed you, but by the very borders of the reality itself, just totally slipped into the monster's inky black being to keep it going while you cease to exist.

If anyone can think of a fate worse than the Morley Spectres then I'm interested in hearing it because I honestly don't think there is for Slender media.​

Here's the survey if you wish to fill it out.

I love Slenderman as a character and he's essentially been part of my childhood, especially when I've first heard of him from around 2014-2015 back when I only knew Slenderman from Minecraft. As the years passed and my interest decreased but then increased again, I've learned more about Slenderman, and my interest for him also increased when I got into powerscaling

With that said, ever since Slenderman became a copyrighted character but with an uncertain debatable canon and a lack of knowledge on who owns the character, I was a little conflicted on what kind of Slenderman should be used when discussing power-scaling.

I'd like to hear you guys' opinion on what version of Slenderman should be used in powerscaling.

I keep seeing different power sets for him. On one wiki,he's just a supernatural unknown being who can teleport,affect cameras,and make tendrils. And on another wiki,he's an Omnipresent god who can travel across reality and "Timelines". It literally said timelines.

I mean there are pleanty of movie varioations on Slenderman but neither of them represent a real 12 page situation Slenderman was born from (or is it me who hasn't seen it). They always have a story line detached from the real Slenderman and his whole lore for scary effect where from anything only Slenderman himself is presented. I know it's difficult to recreate 12 apges where the only idea to collect pages but "The arrival" game manged to deal with it and have a good plot. And not to make him looking like raisin or tree roots, in game he is a good-looking, distinguished genleman (or at least is tried to be represented)

I was in the fandom in 2014-2017. Then went out due to Slender brother's lore and was out for the period around 2017-2019 but then went back to the main fandom due to Covid in 2020-2021 and was really shocked and questioned how much everything change. Also the strories of Jane (Arkensaw), Liu and Jeff (Woods) were rewrited by their own authors (as i rembmer that it their own original authors for Jeff and Liu ) and for some reason they are not canon and are not Creepypasta fandom lore anymore. There were a lot of fights and poeple were bullied just because you were mentioning Woods insted of a new one. And I was always confused that why Woods are can't be mentioned no longer kust because new story got published. Moreover it's the same author so actuallu both Jeffs can be considered as canon

So, I love Marble Hornets and TribeTwelve and Slender Man more than I should, but I also love Linkin Park, Transformers, and Creepypasta enough to make my own ideas and stories. So, one day I was bored and decided I wanted to imagine my own Slender Man series, but I also didn’t wanna copy anyone’s work and named my version of Slender Man: The Radiator. Now, the Radiator is like the Operator and Slender Man on creatine and steroids. 12 feet tall, muscular, way more aggressive and wrathful, and he physically moves more. He also gives people mental and emotional radiation poisoning until they commit suicide, but not physical radiation poisoning. He used to be this guy named Roark who visited Hiroshima right before the atomic bomb fell on the city, and the radiation somehow turned him into a monster instead of killing him. After that, some survivor took a picture out of fear which anchored the Radiator to the real world, and he passed that picture down to his granddaughter. Meanwhile, the Radiator reunited with his buddy Oppenheimer, then retreated to a fictional giant mountain in Montana to hide away and let that picture of him rot and disappear so he could die in peace. However, seven people making an atomic apocalypse movie about the favorite Linkin Park album of one of the characters: A Thousand Suns, accidentally recorded and disturbed The Radiator on camera and anchored him to the real world even more. Enraged, the Radiator hunted and abused these people until they figured out what he wanted, and deleted everything about his existence. I’m still writing, but I’ll give you the main story about my version of Slender Man.

The Hiroshima Reaper.

The Genesis of the Reaper: Hiroshima, 1945
Before he was the myth whispered in the damp, suffocating depths of the Rocky Mountains, he was Roark.
Roark was an American of formidable intellect, possessing a mind that operated on a plane of geometric precision and cold, calculated logic. He was a man of towering stature, standing well over six feet, carrying himself with a heavy, masculine gravity that demanded attention long before he ever spoke. He was a close acquaintance—and intellectual rival—of J. Robert Oppenheimer. While Oppenheimer chased the theoretical fire of the gods in the desert sands of New Mexico, Roark traveled to Japan. Nominally, he was a civilian observer, a man of culture and administrative duty, but his true purpose was to witness the culmination of the atomic age from the inside out.
On the morning of August 6, 1945, Roark dressed with his customary, meticulous rigidity. He pulled on a bespoke, triple-threaded wool funeral suit of deepest obsidian black, complete with a crisp white shirt and a silk tie. It was a somber, striking outfit, meant for a formal engagement later that afternoon.
At 8:15 AM, the sky over Hiroshima did not merely bright; it tore open like wet paper.
The detonation of "Little Boy" was a flash of eleven-thousand-degree heat that instantly vaporized eighty thousand people, turning concrete into liquid glass and reducing running children to carbon silhouettes on stone steps. Countless others became the ari-ningen—the "ant-walkers"—skinless, eyeless husks crawling blindly through the black rain, whispering for water they could no longer swallow.
Roark was standing near the epicenter. By every law of physics, every equation he and Oppenheimer had ever calculated, his flesh should have dispersed into atomic dust.
But the universe did not allow him the mercy of death.
Instead, the kinetic force of the blast and the unimaginable torrent of ionizing radiation collided with a bizarre, dormant anomaly in Roark’s own cellular structure. The blast wave did not tear him apart; it folded him into itself.
The transformation was an agonizing, screaming eternity compressed into a single microsecond. The obsidian-black wool of his funeral suit did not burn away. It melted, carbonizing and fusing directly into his epidermis, becoming an organic, seamless leather-like carapace that clung to his shifting frame. His bones cracked, splintering and elongating with the sound of snapping timber as his height stretched upward, halting only when he towered a monstrous twelve feet into the smoke-choked sky.
His hands, once elegant and steady, expanded into massive, clawed implements, wrapped in a thick, matte-black tissue that resembled heavy leather gloves. His muscular frame did not wither into the skeletal, wispy fragility of a common specter; he remained heavily built, possessing a dense, athletic bulk that gave him a terrifying, physical presence.
The most horrific transfiguration occurred above his collar. The heat of the bomb bubbled the skin of his face, melting his eyes, his nose, his lips, and his ears into a single, boiling slurry. The tissue fused, healed, and hardened into a smooth, featureless mask of bony, albino-white flesh. He was left completely blank. No eyes to see the ruined city, no mouth to scream his agony to the heavens, no ears to hear the dying wails of the empire around him.
And yet, he lived.
Where his spine met his shoulders, the superheated atmosphere tore open his back, and from those weeping wounds burst thick, muscular, pitch-black tentacles. These were not mere wisps of shadow; they were heavy, organic tendrils of fused flesh and static energy, cracking like whips against the debris.
As the black rain began to fall from the mushroom cloud, the creature that had been Roark stood amidst the ash. He did not feel physical heat. He felt an entirely new spectrum of existence. He was a living reactor, but his core did not leak physical isotopes. He radiated something infinitely more devastating: Slender Sickness.
It was a psychic fallout. It was the concentrated, distilled despair, grief, and mental agony of eighty thousand vaporized souls, vibrating inside his hollow chest. Anyone who came within a hundred yards of him did not merely get sick; their minds fractured. They were instantly flooded with a suffocating, clinical depression, a crushing existential dread so violent that it drove men to tear out their own eyes just to make the visions stop. He looked upon the ruined world, and in his maddened, brilliant mind, a twisted philosophy took root: The bomb made me suffer this nightmare. It is only fair that the rest of the world rots with me.
The First Evidence: Takeo’s Photograph
Three hours after the blast, a dazed, bleeding Japanese man named Takeo was crawling through the smoldering ruins near the Genbaku Dome. His skin hung from his arms in ribbons, and the air smelled of burnt hair and ozone.
Through the thick, yellow fog of the atomic winter, Takeo heard a sound that made his failing heart seize. It was not the crackle of fire, nor the moans of the dying.
It was a heavy, rhythmic stomp.
THUD. THUD. THUD.
It was the stride of something incredibly massive, heavy, and deliberately masculine. The weight of the creature caused the cracked pavement to groan. Takeo looked up and saw a shadow cutting through the radioactive mist. A twelve-foot-tall, faceless colossus in a fused black suit, its clawed hands twitching at its sides, its massive black tendrils slowly coiling through the smoke like sea monsters in deep water.
In a state of primal, paralyzed terror, Takeo did not run. His hand drifted to the small, metal camera hanging from his shoulder—a prized possession he had kept protected from the blast beneath his own body. With trembling fingers, he raised the lens, aimed it at the faceless god of the ruins, and clicked the shutter.
The soft mechanical snap of the shutter and the tiny glint of glass caught the monster's attention.
The twelve-foot entity turned its blank, albino face toward Takeo. The creature did not have a mouth, but from the air around it, a sound erupted. It was a horrible, crackling, electronic mimicry of a screaming woman—a recording of a victim Roark had heard die minutes prior, played back through a localized electromagnetic distortion.
Takeo fell backward in horror, scrambling through the ash, dragging his broken body into a collapsed sewer main. The monster did not pursue him. Heavy and laden with the weight of his own changing biology, the creature simply turned and vanished into the fog with a sudden, violent distortion of the air—a localized tear in space that left behind only the smell of burnt copper.
Takeo survived that day. He escaped Hiroshima, carrying the camera with him. When the film was developed, there it was: a chilling, high-contrast, perfectly clear photograph of the twelve-foot, faceless giant standing amidst the ruins of the atomic blast.
Takeo never spoke publicly of what he saw. People would have called him mad, a victim of blast-induced hallucinations. Instead, he kept the photograph hidden away in a lacquered wooden box, passing it down through his family as a dark, sacred heirloom. He told his children and grandchildren stories of the "Hiroshima Reaper," a cautionary tale of the true demon born from the American bomb. The photo eventually landed in the hands of his last surviving granddaughter, Kaga.
Neither Takeo nor his descendants knew the cosmic weight of that photograph. To them, it was a relic of a family tragedy. They did not understand that this single, physical image was an anchor. Because the photo existed as solid, undeniable evidence of his transformation, the Radiator could not die. His cells were locked in a perpetual, agonizing half-life, unable to decay, unable to find the release of death.
The Reunion with Oppenheimer
In the late autumn of 1948, J. Robert Oppenheimer received a cryptic, unsigned letter postmarked from an isolated, unincorporated territory in the American Pacific Northwest. The letter contained no words—only a hand-drawn diagram of a carbon atom, warped and decaying into a shape that resembled a human spine.
Driven by a mixture of scientific curiosity and a gnawing, existential guilt that had plagued him since Trinity, Oppenheimer traveled alone to a designated coordinate: a deep, abandoned concrete bunker built during the early years of the war, buried in the dense, fog-laden forests of Washington State.
Inside the damp, freezing dark of the bunker, Oppenheimer lit a single kerosene lantern. The air was heavy, smelling of iron, stagnant water, and an oppressive, metallic cold that made his teeth ache.
"Roark?" Oppenheimer called out, his voice echoing off the concrete. "Is that you? They told me you were lost in the blast. They said there was nothing left."
From the darkest corner of the bunker, a shadow rose. It didn't glide; it stood up with a series of wet, heavy pops as joints locked into place. The lantern light flickered violently, the flame turning a sickly, unnatural shade of blue.
Oppenheimer gasped, dropping his pipe onto the concrete.
The twelve-foot monstrosity stepped forward into the dim light. The pristine black suit, the bone-white, featureless face, the massive, athletic build that made the ceiling of the bunker feel suffocatingly low. Oppenheimer, a man who had stared into the heart of the sun and declared himself the destroyer of worlds, fell to his knees. The sheer psychological weight of the Radiator's presence—the wave of raw, unadulterated depression and mental decay—hit the physicist like a physical blow. Tears of sudden, irrational grief streamed down Oppenheimer’s face.
"My God..." Oppenheimer whispered, his voice trembling. "What did we do to you?"
The Radiator did not move. He stood over his old friend, his heavy, black-gloved claws twitching. He had no mouth, but he wanted to speak. He wanted to tell Oppenheimer of the eternal, burning fire in his mind, of the voices of the eighty thousand dead that played on a loop in his head, of the sheer, unbridled fury of being turned into a monument of human sin.
Instead, the air around them began to crackle with static. A voice emerged from the darkness, vibrating through Oppenheimer's own teeth. It was Oppenheimer's own voice, mimicked with terrifying, perfect pitch, but layered with the sound of a roaring fire:
"I am become Death... the destroyer of worlds..."
The sound glitched, repeating the word Death over and over in a rapid, machine-gun stutter until the audio signal broke into a deafening, metallic shriek.
Oppenheimer wept openly, burying his face in his hands. He realized, with a sickening certainty, that the atomic bomb had not just killed. It had torn the fabric of reality, and from that tear, it had pulled a god of pure, eternal suffering. He had built the weapon, but Roark was the living receipt.
The Radiator looked down at the weeping physicist with a cold, brilliant intelligence. He did not kill Oppenheimer. To kill him would be too merciful, too simple. Instead, he let the mental radiation pool in Oppenheimer's mind, leaving him with a permanent, rotting melancholy that would haunt the scientist until his final breath.
With a sharp, deafening pop of displaced air, the Radiator vanished, leaving Oppenheimer alone in the dark.
The Flight to Mount Ironhide
The Radiator knew he was a monster, and his intellect—now expanded far beyond human limits by the strange, multidimensional nature of his transformation—allowed him to understand his own curse.
He did not want to exist. The pain of his physical and mental state was a constant, white-hot agony. He wanted to fade into the blackness of death, to let Roark's soul finally find peace. But he couldn't. The photograph Takeo had taken in the ruins of Hiroshima was a physical anchor, a lock that kept his atomic structure bound to the physical plane.
He realized that if anyone else saw him, if anyone else recorded him, took a picture, or gathered solid, undeniable proof of his existence, it would create more anchors. He would be trapped in this agonizing, twelve-foot shell forever.
He had to hide. He had to become a ghost, a myth, a shadow that never left a trace.
Using his ability to distort electronics and bend light, the Radiator began his long, silent migration. He moved through the deepest oceans, his heavy, athletic body unaffected by the crushing pressure of the sea floor. He dragged his towering frame onto the shores of the American West, traveling only in the dead of night, moving through the thickest, most impenetrable forests where no human eyes could track him.
If he accidentally broke a branch, or left a footprint in the mud that looked too unnatural, too realistic to be ignored, he would use his supernatural manipulation to glitch reality, restoring the environment back to its natural state before any human could find it. He was a perfectionist of his own isolation.
Eventually, he found his sanctuary.
Deep in the rugged, snow-capped peaks of the Rocky Mountains of Montana lay Mount Ironhide—the largest, most imposing mountain in the region, rich with dense iron deposits that naturally interfered with radio waves and electronic tracking. Deep within the mountain's root was an abandoned, dirty, and long-forgotten iron mine.
It was dark. It was cold. It was dirty. It was perfect.
The Radiator crawled into the blackest, lowest shaft of the Ironhide mine. He retracted his heavy black tendrils, pulled his clawed hands into his lap, and sat in the absolute, freezing darkness. He resolved to stay there forever, a forgotten deity of the nuclear age, waiting in the silence of the earth for the paper of Takeo's photograph to finally rot, yellow, and disintegrate into dust—so that he, too, could finally die.
He waited for over a century. The world outside grew loud, industrial, and digital, but he remained in the dark, a silent reactor waiting for the fuel to run out.
Until August of 2054.

Now, I only used Gemini to clean up my story so I could share it with you all, everything else was my doing. So, if you hate Ai, I don’t blame you since I hate Ai sometimes too, just please don’t yell at me. I just wanted to save time. Feel free to tell me your honest opinions in the comments below. I won’t cry and I won’t cancel you, I’m not petty.

I will call this story Slender: Destroyer of Worlds.