The slender man, p.1
The Slender Man, page 1
The Slender Man
(A Jack Marconi PI Series)
Vincent Zandri
Published by Vincent Zandri, 2025.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
THE SLENDER MAN
First edition. January 2, 2025.
Copyright © 2025 Vincent Zandri.
ISBN: 979-8230462033
Written by Vincent Zandri.
Also by Vincent Zandri
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Also By Vincent Zandri
Begin your Moonlight journey today with a FREE copy of MOONLIGHT FALLS, the first novel in the Thriller and Shamus Award winning series. | Or visit WWW.VINZANDRI.COM to nab all Vin’s stories, novellas, and novels. | PRAISE FOR VINCENT ZANDRI
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Also By Vincent Zandri
About the Author
Begin your Moonlight journey today with a FREE copy of MOONLIGHT FALLS, the first novel in the Thriller and Shamus Award winning series.
Or visit WWW.VINZANDRI.COM to nab all Vin’s stories, novellas, and novels.
PRAISE FOR VINCENT ZANDRI
"VINCENT ZANDRI IS ONE of the most acclaimed thriller writers working today!"
—Publishers Weekly
“ZANDRI (IS) A VETERAN wordsmith who executes quality and quantity at superlative levels.”
—Book Reporter
"THE STORY OF VINCENT Zandri is the story of our times."
—Business Insider
"VINCENT ZANDRI HAILS from the future."
—The New York Times
“SENSATIONAL . . . MASTERFUL . . . brilliant.”
—New York Post
"...BIG TIME AUTHOR..."
—Digital Journal
“. . . OH, WHAT A STORY it is . . . Riveting . . . A terrific old school thriller.”
—Booklist “Starred Review”
“ZANDRI DOES A FANTASTIC job with this story. Not only does he scare the reader, but the horror
Show he presents also scares the man who is the definition of the word “tough.”
—Suspense Magazine
“(THE INNOCENT) IS A thriller that has depth and substance, wickedness and compassion.”
—The Times-Union (Albany)
"THE ACTION NEVER WANES."
—Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
"GRITTY, FAST-PACED, lyrical and haunting."
—Harlan Coben, New York Times bestselling author of Six Years
"TOUGH, STYLISH, HEARTBREAKING."
—Don Winslow, New York Times bestselling author of Savages and Cartel.
“A TIGHTLY CRAFTED, smart, disturbing, elegantly crafted complex thriller . . . I dare you to start it and not keep reading.”
—MJ Rose, New York Times bestselling author of Halo Effect and Closure
“A CLASSIC SLICE OF raw pulp noir...”
—William Landay, New York Times bestselling author of Defending Jacob
The Slender Man
A Jack “Keeper” Marconi PI Thriller
Vincent Zandri
“When you reach round a dark corner to switch on a light, be careful. Slenderman will often run his finger over the back of your hand. This is the first signal of his interest in you.”
― Jack Goldstein
Author’s Note: In 2020, the mainstream media along with select Washington D.C. establishment politicians and lawmakers called for “defunding the police.” What followed was an immediate spike in violent crimes on a nationwide level, including brutal assault and murder.
1
I was never one for politics. Maybe when I was young and working as a corrections officer at Attica, I had my ideals. Even then I didn’t like people telling me what to do, much less the government. We lived in a free country, and everyone who obeys the law should be free to live and breathe as they choose. Or so we thought back then. The golden rule? Just be nice to one another and don’t do stupid stuff.
So, when New York State Democratic candidate for governor, Benjamin Lacy, showed up at my Sherman Street office, I had my doubts that I would take the job. I should correct myself here. He didn’t just walk in by himself. Not right away, anyway. He was instead, preceded by two young, very in-shape men dressed in black suits.
I’d been standing in front of the big window looking out on the city, a toothbrush glass in hand, partially filled with Jameson Irish Whiskey. The city always looked better to me at night, with the lights from the park reflecting off the night sky, and the even brighter, colorful lights of the downtown making it look like Christmas in August.
I was also admiring the transparent reflection of my rather young looking, weight-trained physique, and the way my pecks filled my light blue button-down. Other than my usual salt and pepper goatee and mustache, I was freshly shaven, and my shaved head glistened in light that came from the desk lamp.
When the two men arrived unannounced, each of them making sure to take a good look at the office, as if they were looking for a masked gunman hiding in the far corner, I didn’t bother to turn around. I just peered at their reflection in the window and waited until they both spoke the same word into the chest-mounted radio transmitters.
“Clear,” each man said.
Eyeing them directly now, I could see how tall the white one was and how much shorter, but stockier the black one was. They both stood by the door, their eyes hidden with sunglasses, their hands folded at their thin waists. I took them for cross trainers. Maybe Orange Theory Fitness members or spin class junkies. The shorter one definitely hit the free weights more than the other one did.
Finally, I turned around to face them.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” I said, as I stole another slow sip of my whiskey.
Tall White Man and Stocky Black Man never said a word. Nor did they recognize my presence. It was like I wasn’t in the room at all. I wasn’t sure if they were being rude, or they were just trained to be assholes when it came to socializing. Or hell, maybe they were cyborgs, and they were programmed to be assholes.
That’s when Lacy walked in. He was wearing a gray gaberdine suit that probably cost as much as my entire wardrobe, brown cordovans, a white satin button-down, and a brown tie that was knotted perfectly. He was tall and thin, like he was a five times per week morning-tennis-at-the-country-club kind of guy. His hair was thick and dark but graying on the sides. I pegged him for maybe fifty. But he could have been five years older or younger.
“You’re Mr. Jack Marconi?” he said, after a long beat.
I looked over one shoulder, then the other, and drank another sip of the whiskey.
“Who me?” I said. “You talking to me?”
He stepped further into the office.
“Mind of I sit down?” he said, nodding at one of the two wood chairs set in front of the desk.
“Does it matter what I think?” I said.
He sat himself down and crossed his legs not in a manspreading, toxic male sort of way, but tightly, like a woman would do if she were wearing a short skirt.
“Do you have even a clue as to who I am, Mr. Marconi?” he asked, smugly.
I placed my whiskey glass on the desk, then set myself down in my swivel chair. I connected my hands at the knuckles and brought them back around my head, used them as a headrest while I leaned far back in the chair.
“Let me, guess,” I said, after a long beat. “You’re Steve McQueen. But then, Steve McQueen died a bunch of years ago, which would mean you’d have to be resurrected and that means you’re God. Are you God come to save the woke Empire State of New York?”
He bit down on his bottom lip. I could tell he was so annoyed he wanted to jump over the desk and choke me. His two goons just stood their ground. Maybe it was just me, but I got the feeling they loved the fact that I was giving this fairly famous politician a hard time.
“They said you would be like this,” he said after a long silence.
I drank some more whiskey. I blinked really fast, sat up, and rested my chin on my still clutched hands.
“And who, pray tell, might that be, your Excellency?” I asked.
“The police,” he said. “The State Troopers in particular who provide my security.”
“You mean like the secret agents standing against my wall?”
“Precisely,” Lacy said. “In my business there are an awful lot of crazies who would love to get a shot at me.”
“Your business being politics and all,” I said. “I suppose you’re referring to Antifa or Black Lives Matter and the way they torched a bunch of cities, killed a bunch of innocent people, and destroyed and looted a whole bunch of family businesses while the mainstream media and your party in particular, egged them on. Wonder how that’s gonna work out for everyone when eventually you meet your maker.”
His eyes went wide. He sat up straight.
“My Lord,” he said, “Antifa is just a myth. And as for BLM, they are a saintly crew who would not hurt a fly. It’s time us oppressive white folk come down off our pedestal and recognize precisely who we are.”
