FicWad

Hey lads, what's occuring, Lorna here.

So I was just bored to shit the other day in maths class (I literally cannot add three and four) perusing my phone internet (WHY IS TEN MINUTES OF WI-FI SO FUCKING EXPENSIVE??? I AM POOR, VODAFONE, WHAT THE FUCK???) and once I had checked FicWad, Tumblr, Twitter, Formspring and Gmail about 908657 times, I decided I'd read about scary shit or whatever because I would rather read about fake ghost sightings than learn about scientific notation.

I am not your typical, brash, brazen, I-ain't-scared-of-nothing-or-nobody (did I just quote FOTG?) teenager who adores horror films/stories and attends them fervently. I am...how you say...a pussy. I screech when something brushes against me, which is rather idiotic as I live with two cats and a dog, as well as a boy, who are known to be rather retarded. (I jest, I jest.) I hate being home on my own, but I guess that's rather excusable because I do live in one of the most dangerous cities in western Europe. You get the picture; I'm terrible when it comes to scary stuff. I had to sleep with the light on for three weeks after I watched The Exorcist, and my boyfriend had to check under the bed and in the closets.

It's be grand if I was like, eleven.

I'm eighteen.

That's right. Eighteen years of age. The big one-eight, the age limit, the age where I can drunk, high and chain smoke and it's a-okay. I'm eighteen, he's nearly nineteen, and he'd be like 'Lorna seriously this is just stupid there is nothing in the fucking closet' and I'd retort with 'HOW THE FUCK DO YOU KNOW GEAROID ARE YOU IN ON THIS THING TOO AHHH MY BOYFRIEND IS IN CAHOOTS WITH THE KID FROM THE OMEN LORD HELP US ALL'

....this is why I have no friends.

Anyway, I decided to write this because I heard it from my friend Pizza whilst at her house. We were going out or whatever and while I was putting on my face (you won't get that joke if you don't wear make up) she asked me if I wanted to hear something and she told me this really creepy story she heard off her brother. Me being me, I instantly connected MCR, because, well, I'm a fan girl and what have you. So this is quite short, and mainly descriptive. I also changed the ending because I didn't like the ending; it wasn't weird enough pour moi.

Hope it's to your liking or whatever.

xo lorna

Disclaimer: Oh yeah, I totally own MCR, got them right here, they're chilling with me. I feel sorry for the pathetic losers who fantasize about them and I then I secretly imprison them in my one-bedrom Belfast apartment. Wow, guys. You must be so jeaous.

On a serious note, I don't know where the story originated, but the author receives every right and credit from me for coming up with or even experiencing it. This is no attempt at plaugirism, I just thought the idea was good. Please notice this is much different from what I normally write.

Note: 'La Suiveur' is French for 'The Follower'. I was gonna call it The Follower, but it sounded hella boring, so I figured French would kinda jazz it up a bit, make it sound noble and shit. Also note this is completely fictitious.



2005


"Bye Gee," the boy smiled as he cuddled Gerard around the neck, sharing with his boyfriend a good-night kiss. The night was freezing cold, so much that Gerard was shivering in his leather jacket. Therefore, he appreciated the heat Frank was supplying him as they hugged tightly. "Are you sure you're okay to walk home? It's like, fucking arctic out there. I'll drive you if you want."

"No, baby, it's fine," the older man replied, running his fingers through Frank's dyed jet-black tresses. He felt like walking for some reason; it was a Tuesday night in mid-November so no exceedingly loud, drunk frat boys would be roaming the streets like zombies-zombies dressed in Hollister sweatpants and their Superdry hoodies. "You got your finals tomorrow, Frankie, you gotta study. You know your mom'll castrate me if her baby doesn't get all A's." He wore a crooked smirk. "Like you won't anyway."

The nineteen year old blushed, crossing his arms in a huffy, juvenile manner. He had been a little bit bothered by the fact that Gerard's roomate, Ray, had interrupted their study session together to urgently usher Gerard home; apparently someone had broken in and he had to call the cops-the intruder was nowhere to be seen and Toro was getting freaked out. Gerard lived in the fierce, grungey neighbourhood of the Bronx to counteract Frankie's safe haven of upper Manhatten. Gerard, now attending an art institute and twenty three years of age, visited his boyfriend's bohemian, upscale loft every day after classes. Frank was still at high school; after secondary education, he would attend a music college. Gerard admired and appreciated how dedicated Frank was to studying; he had been offered places at Yale, Harvard, Brown; but he had refused each time, safe in the knowledge that he would be able to share a flat with Gerard after four years of saving.

Nonetheless, he had been slightly peeved when Ray had truncated their studying-or, rather, Frank with a book in his lap, mouth being assaulted by Gerard. He had applied his best pout and fluttered his eyelashes but to no avail. Now they were standing at the porch, embracing, as Gerard was about to begin his journey home.

"I'll see ya around, okay, sugar?" Gerard called into the darkness as he walked backwards, yellow taxis whizzing by behind him, a queer buzzing noise in his ear. He pushed back a lock of black hair that had leaked across his forehead. He cupped his gloved hands around his mouth and called jubilantly, expressedly: "I love you!"

"Love you too," Frank Iero replied happily, biting his lip. He watched Gerard disappear completely into the shadows.

He pulled the door shut and bounced happily up to his bedroom. His mother was working late at the hospital so he had the house to himself. He switched on the television; the new episode of Criminal Minds was on air so he reclined on his double bed, duvet thrown askew, endless piles of school books, CD's and clothes strewn across the bed. He always told his mother he'd clean up 'one of these days'-she realized the effort to wade into his jungle-esque residence was futile.This was also the place he had lost his virginity to Gerard six months ago; however he had neglected to tell his mother that. In fact, he figured it was something both he and she could very happily live without knowing.

Tucking into a bag of Reese's Pieces, Frank lazed on his side and gazed at the photoframe balancing precariously on his desk. It was taken of him and Gerard, about a year ago, arms around each other, laughing as Gerard's younger brother, Mikey (who could represent the USA in the Awkward Olympics) fumbled with the camera and took a rather shaky portrait of the two. Gerard with his long locks of raven hair, his typical gothic, neo-vampiric fashion of dressing (in a long, heavy leather trench coat and black skinny jeans) and his lopsided smile, filled in with dozens of blunt, white teeth. Frank was snuggling against him, nuzzling in his shoulder, tattooed arms swathed around Way's neck. Their dark clothes and bright white skin had contrasted wonderfully with the virbrant green of the park, the excited screams and trills of nearby toddlers.

Frank was pulled from his daydream when he suddenly heard something. Like a bang, almost; but muffled. It had come from the nearby patio window outside his room. It unnerved him a little; he was a pansy when it came to all things supernatural or the occult. He shivered a little in his skeleton pyjamas and clutched the blankets around him tighter.

It came again. Louder this time. The boy squeaked a little and tried to focus on Spencer Reid solving a case about a string of rape-homocides in Haiti, but his eyes would involuntarily drift to the window, wide pupils wavering around the curtain. He felt for his phone and attempted to ring the first person on his mind, his beloved boyfriend; no answer. He called Ray, Mikey, Bob; he even called his mom, even though she gave him blue murder about calling her during work hours. He bit his lip and scolded himself for being such a child.

He turned to the photo again. His heart lifted of it's own accord when he spied his perfect boyfriend, with his thin, pink lips, sparkling hazel eyes, slightly chubby cheeks and his effeminate artist's hands. Frank sighed happily until the muffled thumps started again. They occured in patterns of three; thump-thump-thump and then they would cease. As the noises continued, the interval between the thumps would shorten; originally a space of perhaps five minutes, they were now emerging every ten seconds or so. Frank didn't dare blink, let alone move.

He tried his phone again. He saw but two words when he slid the button across the screen, displaying the Nirvana background on his phone.

Battery dead.

This couldn't be. He had charged it while studying with Gerard. They'd been studying for over three hours; enough time for the battery to fill up completely.

Now another noise was being added to the scenario; scratching, like some horrid finger nails squeaking against the double glass. At first he thought it was coming from the same window as the thumping (which had now ceased totally) but when he glanced to the right, he felt his blood run cold. His skin had broke into gooseflesh. Tiny brown hairs stood on the back of his neck, straight as soldiers standing to attention.

Down his plain, black-rimmed photoframe, displaying the amorous photogrpah of he and Gerard, was a thin, deep crack. It stretched down the middle of the photo precisely, between the lovers' shoulders. It was seperating them. Breaking them apart. The boy's breath came in short, broken, empty gasps. He picked up the photoframe in his small hands, passing his thumb along the crack. Blood gathered at the slit in his finger.

There was a low growl.

Frank looked up.

Then all was black.




Gerard nodded his head in time to Last Caress as he walked the dead street. The shouts of Glenn Danzig and the low hums of Jerry Only's basslines swirled around in his head.

He was trying to pay attention to the music instead of his surroundings; he really was. The violent lyrics and the blazing, groaning guitars simply shot in one ear and out the other. His hands were stuffed in his pockets as he walked the lonely, barren fifty minute stretch to his own run-down, red-brick two bedroom in the Bronx. Damn, he should have listened to the weather forecast this morning on the way to work; he had only grabbed a black coffee and his Jansport and dashed down the street. Aside from his art studies, he worked at the local neighbourhood Starbucks. When first moving from Newark (both he and Frank's hometown) to his particular spot in NYC, he had found it almost comical that the multi-corporate organization had set up a branch in his area; Eastchester, his neighbourhood, was full of thugs, gang members, prostitutes and mafia bosses. He had moved in with Ray, an architect-in-training, simply because he seemed like a nice enough guy and the rent was pretty low. As well as that, Ray was often out 'running errands'-if Gerard had cared more, he would have found it suspicious. However, it did give him a signifigant amount of time to spend with Frank, so he wasn't complaining.

This was the only downside apparent to Gerard about visiting his boyfriend. He'd arrive at Frank's sometime after dinner and leave when it got dark. Then he'd always be travelling home in the dark, ignoring shouts of homeless men, watching as intoxicated men and women fell from grimey nightclubs with fading neon signs. This evening was no different; he was walking along a dark alleyway, combat boots squelching in the post-rain conditions. He brushed some of his raven locks from his eyes and continued on his path. He had never seen New York like this. It was as silent as a graveyard. The dark was so pitch it almost hurt to look at.

Gerard jumped a little as Last Caress suddenly stopped mid-way. Goddamn. He had had his iPod for over five years now and had been avoiding an upgrade for some time now-he couldn't afford it when he was saving for a place with Frankie.

He glanced at the screen.

Battery dead.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Fuck you, Steve Jobs. You and your lack of battery...

Nonetheless, the artist carried on, cussing under his breath, small puffs of grey smoke emitting from his lips. Out of nowhere, he heard something. Like a...thump of some sorts.

Gerard was not in the mood for some teenage piece of shit tormenting him just because he was stomping a little too hard on his Doc Martens. Out of a combination of annoyance, fatigue and a depleting body temperature, Gerard quickened his pace and began humming tunelessly to himself between his teeth. He could hear, beneath his stubborn singing, some sort of shuffling to go along with the thumping, as well as very quiet moanings, like someone in such unbearable pain they can barely force a sound out. Gerard grunted irritably again and narrowed his eyes, shifting along.

The silence was really eating at him now; he couldn't think straight now. Between the lack of shitty dubstep blaring from clubs and drunken karaoke from bars and the sickly moving behind him, he was terrified. He was willing himself with every single cell in his body to turn around and look in the dull alley. He took a deep, laboured breath and turned around.


Gerard had seen many twisted and disturbing horror movies, but nothing....not The Omen, not The Exorcist, not even The Hannah Montana Movie could amount to the antipathy he was viewing currently. He could not say whether the thing crawling behind him was male or female; he didn't think it was meant to have a specific gender or sex. It was the torso of a human being, cut off at the waist, so the figure was solely comprised of a chest, a neck, a head and two long arms armed with nails six inches long, dragging itself along. The mouth was frothing with blood, scarlet, thick liquid that flowed from the base of it's throat and ran down it's neck. It's teeth resembled those of a shark, rows of pearly whites on show for benefit of the onlooker. The flesh was bright white, rotting with age, heretic spots of purple and blue splotching it's body, or torso. The hair was matted, grey and wild. The thing moaned again, a deep, terribly primitive noise, and Gerard gasped, his face draining of colour. He gathered that the exhaustion the thing was suffering was from following Gerard for miles. He had been safely harboured with punk rock music, a suitable placebo, and so had not heard the creature.

He was yet unaware that the blood spurting from The Follower was the blood belonging to his boyfriend, killled three quarters of an hour ago.

The thing stopped, balancing shakily on it's arms, supporting it's entire mass, and spat something out at Gerard's feet. It shone in the dark and the speed of it indicated it was light, rather weightless.

It landed next to the tip of Gerard's boot. It was Frank's lip piercing.

"You sick bastard," the twenty three year old could only stutter, anguish and anger mixing in his mouth to create a sickly, bitter taste in his mouth. His eyes filled with tears. He hurled his iPod at the creature and repeated, in an incredulous scream: "YOU SICK BASTARD!"

The Follower growled then, a deep launching from it's chest, and lifted it's head to stare into Gerard's eyes. In lieu of some horrid, maggot-infested eyesockets that the student had expected to see, he saw the delicate hazel globes of his lover. His heart gave another mournful lurch and he stuttered backwards. The Follower gave a screech and then crawled towards Gerard again, who, on basic instinct, turned and ran for his life. He had never been a particular fan of strenuous activities or gym class (or exercise of any variety) but he was sprinting like Usain Bolt, feet skimming the crusted New York pavements. He could hear The Follower behind him, screeching in pain, galloping faster and faster behind him, hands slapping the sidewalk, nails scratching the ground. Tears were flooding his cheeks, from the knowledge he was going to die, and the knowledge that Frank was dead. His beautiful boyfriend, oh God, his preciousness, his life.

He could feel it closing in on him now. He was gone. The Follower's skeletal fingers enclosed around his ankles and dragged him down.




That happened all of six years ago, in the burrough of the Bronx in NYC. The papers were not especially specific; just that a young man, profilic in the underground art world, had been found dead in the back of an alley way, and his eyes ripped out. In addition to this, the young man's roomate had also been found dead in their flat, and his eyes were also missing. Finally, in Upper Manhatten, a young teenager was in the middle of a homocide case after being discovered by his mother when she returned from work.

When constant readers came across the article in the New York Times, they scoffed and muttered something about the sorry state of current soceity. They presumed it was just another gangland killing, some vendetta attack. It was deemed likely, as the three victims were all in the same age capacity, were all young males and were slain the same way. But they were all wrong. This was not so; this was no gang killing.

The night had gone as follows; Ray had not texted Gerard, something else had, simply using Toro's phone, using the excuse of a burglary. The only intruder had been The Follower, who had killed and devoured Ray shortly after Gerard had left for Frank's apartment. It had then waited carefully outside of Frank's home, thumping at the windows and scratching at the panes. During Frank and Gerard's studying session, it had cut the electricity in Frank's room and so the phone had not charged, in order so the boy could not call for help. The couple had not noticed; they always studied by candle light because Frank's lights had been haywire for some time now. The crack in the photoframe? The force of the creature's banging against the structure of the room. The police never saw the photo that would have connected Frank and Gerard's murder; it disappeared shortly after Frank was killed. It was never found.

Now, this author does not currently live in New York, but it is said if you emerge on a cold, frosty November night, something might just be behind you. If you ever hear the rasping...the quiet moaning and the dragging of long fingernails...maybe even a sharp screech...don't look back. Keep on walking, keep on walking until you get to a brightly lit street and call for help. Even better, walk with someone when you're out late at night.


Sleep tight.