The Following!

The

Following

Prologue

Everyone has had the feeling that they are being watched, or that someone is following them. The feeling that haunts you day and night, tickling the back of your neck. This creature is called a Follower. I have been confronted with my Follower, but mine is not like the others. My Follower doesn’t reside in the darkness or hide under a bed. It doesn’t mask itself, creating anxiety like the others. My Follower is different. Whether that is good or bad, I have yet to decide.

Chapter 1

My eyes open with a sense of alertness; it’s back. Every night, I stare at the wall across from me. And every night, I see it standing there. I used to think it was a figment of my imagination, only a dream. But now I know that it truly exists. I have spent countless nights trying to reassure myself, pinching my arm to prove that I am awake, or trying simply to go back to sleep. No matter what I try, it always follows. It is always there. There is no escaping this inevitable being. There is no such thing as being alone.

My bloodshot eyes flicker over to my lamp, but only for a brief moment. For whenever I look away, the creature grows closer. It doesn’t move when I stare at it, so rarely do I dare to turn my head. The creature doesn’t speak, it doesn’t rest, and it never leaves. Ever since I can remember, my Follower has been there. Everytime I go to bed, wake up in the morning, or sit down in class, I see it. My Follower never leaves my side. Even when I refuse to look, when I refuse to accept its existence, I can sense it. I can feel it near me. I am never alone.

Once, as an experiment, I decided to try and go a full day without acknowledging it. I purposefully avoided it, and when I felt my Follower’s gaze on me, I tensed up, but refused to give in. All day long, I could feel my Follower breathing down my neck, piercing me with its neverending gaze. I have never attempted anything that defiant since. My Follower is there when I dream and there when I awaken. Despite my efforts, I fear that I may never be free. It is likely my Follower will never hide in the shadows like the others. It will never live its own life. Instead, my Follower takes control of mine.

Quickly, I glance over at my alarm clock with the same speed I had before. The small, telephone shaped clock reads 6:15. This is a bit earlier than usual, but there is no point in going back to bed now. As I climb out of bed, my olive toned skin roughly blends in with my wooden bedroom floors. My lengthy, blue nightgown stretches down to my feet and brushes my freshly painted, red toe nails as I walk over to my closet and change. I change with lightning speed and press my ear against the grains of the oak door to listen. I can tell my follower is standing there. Followers don’t necessarily breathe or make noise, but they give off a very subtle sound. It is almost like wind brushing past you.

In most horror movies, you regularly hear the main characters dismissing the sound of a follower with, “It was probably just the wind.” Of course, that happens right before some psycho with a chainsaw comes out to slaughter them all. Haven't we all tried to convince ourselves that? Well, I am here to confirm that it is never just the wind.

Followers are not solid creatures. In fact, they are almost ghost-like, but in a human image. My particular follower looks about my age; roughly seventeen with short, wavy blonde hair, ocean blue eyes, and tan skin. Basically, he looks like a projected image of a teenage boy. Everyday, he wears a red t-shirt and black basketball shorts, though tinted in dark tones. My Follower never ages, but has maintained the same appearance my entire life.

Most people would call this a hallucination, but I doubt hallucinations are constant creatures with their own minds and reactions. Based off of past experiences, I have also concurred that it is intelligent. Maybe even as intelligent as a human being, but alas, it just stands there. My Follower is not a ghost. He doesn’t mean to frighten me, he doesn’t try to scare me, or even show himself as bluntly as he does. But in the end, it is almost like he doesn’t have a choice.

When I come out of my closet, I feel a gust of wind as he quickly rushes to the far corner of my bedroom, opposite of where I am standing. As far as I know, all Followers have this impressive speed. They’re so fast, you can’t even see them move. You can just feel the air change as they appear in another location. Although, my follower never leaves the same room as me. It’s almost as if he is trapped. Whenever I look at him, he stays as far away from me as possible, while still remaining within the same room. I find it somewhat puzzling that he cannot find a way out. Why doesn’t he just leave?

I study my follower; his expression never changes. This is the part that scares me the most, even gave me nightmares as a small child: his face is horror stricken, and frozen in that position. The bags under his eyes are dark and sink into his skin, and the veins in his eyes look almost as if they could burst. His mouth is gaping, giving off the impression that he was screaming at one point it time, and every muscle in his body seems tense. I have no idea why he is here, but quite honestly, I don’t think it was by choice.

From what I can tell, I am the only one who can see these Followers. Nobody else seems to pay attention or even realize that they exist. The Followers just hover over them, trying to gain the attention that they will never receive. Whereas my Follower has the opposite problem. I have tried endless times to communicate with him, but he never responds. No matter what I try or say, he just doesn’t acknowledge me.

My parents have caught me talking to my Follower on multiple occasions, except they can’t see him. To them, it just looks like their daughter is a headcase. Because of this “unusual behavior,” I went to therapy for eight years. Eight years! Finally, when I was thirteen, I told my therapist that I had stopped seeing my Follower. I was just tired of people, specifically my parents, thinking that something was wrong with me. In the past, I had even overheard my parents discuss what it is they should “do with” me. I had them lost and confused without any idea as to what they should do. Finally, my therapist concluded that I just held on to my imaginary friends longer than most people, refusing to give up my childhood. My parents were thrilled to be given such a simple explanation. Of course, it isn’t exactly true, but I would rather deal with this situation on my own if it means my parents will actually look at me as a normal human being, rather than some psycho that they are guilty of bringing into the world. 

I walk over to my bathroom, brush my long, dark brown hair, clean my teeth, and head downstairs. I don’t really like the eggs and toast my mom is serving for breakfast, so I just grab a cinnamon flavored pop tart and call it good. I have to leave for school anyway. My school is not very far away, maybe a half mile. As soon as my parents found out that they were going to have a child, they bought a house in the neighborhood right across the street from the school. They are definitely the over prepared type. In fact, I haven’t seen them procrastinate a single thing in their lives. That’s probably good thing considering they have their own publication business, “Benson and Benson.” If they put off something like paying an employee or sending books through to editors, they could have a riot on their hands.

As I head down the road to school, I see our flashy, blue street sign. It reads, “Brouillet Street.” Yes, it’s French. Although, it probably isn’t pronounced the way you would think. Say creme broulee, and then forget the creme part. That is what it sounds like. Fortunately for me, my best friend, Meredith Kingston, also lives on this street. In fact, Meredith lives right next door. We walk to school together, so I stop by her house along the way. She lives in a tall brick house with green shutters, an enormous lawn, a pine tree in the front yard, covering her bedroom window, and a flower bed in front of her patio. Meredith has a huge stone patio with four lengthy columns stretching three floors up to the top of her house. If I didn’t know any better, I could mistake this place for a palace. She has, by far, the biggest house in town. In comparison, it makes all of the surrounding houses look like little huts. Apparently, her father inherited a lot of money when her grandfather passed away. He died of a heart attack before she was born, but it was supposedly a very catastrophic event. Her grandpa used to be the mayor here, so people from all over the state came to honor him. Even some of his old business partners from Chicago. Her family moved here to Puyallup, Washington just a few years before she was born. Even now, people give their condolences to her family. I guess you could say he was kind of a big deal.

I look through the branches of the pine tree and see Meredith through her window. To me, Meredith looks ready to go. Then again, she is one of those people who takes two hours to get ready. As you can probably imagine, I am often wrong about these kinds of things. However, with her window open, this seems like the perfect opportunity to draw some playful attention to her. “Hey Meredith!” I scream at the top of my lungs. She hates it when I try to embarrass her, but I love it. When she feels embarrassed or self conscious, her face turns bright red and she immediately takes a defensive stance. Unfortunately, nobody was here to see her this time. I laugh as she looks down at me and scowls.

“I’ll be right down, Lizzy!” she shouts back at me. Meredith is very aware of how much I hate the name Lizzy. Lizzy is what my parents call me. I know it shouldn't bother me very much, but it’s just one of things that gets old fast. It doesn’t matter how many times I tell her to call me Elizabeth, she sticks with my old nickname. I suppose it’s just her way of getting back at me.

I look down to see my old, worn out shoes, the ones allowing the cool fall air to freeze my feet, and decide to sit on the rough pavement in front of her porch. I guess I could have sat on the bench over by the flower pots, but it seemed like too far of a walk if she was going to be out here a few seconds anyway. As I attempt to retie my shoes (I say attempt because the old laces are a few ties away from falling apart), my phone in my back pocket buzzes with a new message from my mom:

Pick up milk on your way home from school. Oh, and have a nice day!

Most people I know would be getting text messages from their friends throughout the day, but not me. My own mother doesn’t even text me unless she needs something. I am lucky to have a friend like Meredith, because without her, I could very well be the world’s biggest loser. And trust me, that is no fun.

I sit patiently, playing word searches on my phone in the process. Not to brag, but I am kind of amazing at word searches. I suppose I have developed a talent at observing things. If only word searches were a sport, I swear I would be like the world champion.

As I wait, setting highscores on my phone, I notice something. Something very discrete, but it's enough to gain my attention. The air has changed again! It grows suddenly cold, hints my frozen feet, and causes my heart rate to speed up. My Follower is right behind me. He never gets this close! The tickling feeling on the back of my neck spreads throughout my body; starting with my neck and spreading to my my arms, through my torso, and finally to my toes. I feel paralyzed, as if I can’t move. I hold my breath. Holding my breath doesn’t really do me any good, but for some reason, it calms me down. I guess it’s just a nervous habit.

My Follower starts to lean in, almost touching me. I can even see his arm extended along the left side of my torso. His faded arm, tinted white by the blaring sunlight, just sits there for a moment. It is almost as if he is waiting for something. My fingers curl and head over to touch it. But suddenly, Meredith comes bursting through the front door. Luckily, my Follower leaves and reappears in the pine tree. For all I care, he can fall out of that tree, I think silently.

A gust of wind shoots passed us as he moves, but I try to ignore it and put on a pretty face. “Hey, Mare bear,” I say with a playful grin; only as revenge for the Lizzy reference. But she doesn’t even look phased by this comment. She runs up to me with an uneasy expression. Her eyes are so wide, you can see the whites of them on every corner. Fear seems to grow inside her, making mine much more noticeable, and harder to deny.

She looks hesitant but asks, “Was that your Follower?” I nod my head silently, my grin slowly fading. “Was he... right next to you?” I don’t respond, but I don’t think she was really hoping for an answer. Meredith is the only person I have ever trusted with the knowledge of my Follower. Probably because she is the only one who would believe me. She is almost like a sister to me, always there at my side. That’s why she is well aware of the signs of a Follower: the cold air, gusts of wind, and the dryness in the back of your throat. In the winter, it’s hard for her to tell the difference between the weather and a Follower, but somehow she can always decipher the two.

Not everyone has a follower. I don’t know why some do and some don’t, but Meredith seemed pretty upset when I told her she didn’t have one. I’m not sure why that is exactly, but I assume it’s because she hates to feel excluded. I’ve sort of picked up on that over the years.

Sometimes I see them following people, looking just like everyone else, but faded. Though I have pondered the reasoning why some are followed and some are not, I have to this day failed to the see the correlation. Everyone’s followers look different too, just like we do. You never know what kind of a follower you are going to get, or why. After witnessing some of the irrational behaviors of others, such as the manipulation of objects, or constantly creating an uncomfortable environment for the person they are following, I have to say, I am pretty satisfied with the coward that I’ve been stuck with. If I have to be stuck with one, that is. Although none of them talk, I don’t understand why my Follower is the only one that doesn’t display human emotion. I suppose it probably doesn’t matter, but the expression he’s stuck on makes me uncomfortable...

Meredith understands me, unlike most people. She can tell when I am deep in thought, and let’s me be. She doesn’t push to gain my attention or try to guess what I am thinking about, like many others I know. She just lets me live in my thoughts for a while, realizing that I’m not one to say everything I think. As we walk, the wind blows her long, perfectly straight blonde hair back behind her shoulders. I would kill to have hair like that. Mine just bunches up in short brown knots all over my head, all of which are a pain to get out. She has on a white, long sleeve shirt with a coral-colored scarf, light blue skinny jeans, and fluffy brown boots. That beats my outfit of a gray sweater with a denim jacket, dark blue jeans, and black tennis shoes. If people didn’t already know we were friends, I doubt anyone would predict our friendship. She looks like a supermodel, and I look like someone who slaps something on and calls it good, which happens to be true by the way. When you have a Follower standing right outside your closet door, you don’t really focus on things like what you are going to wear that day. As you can probably assume, we don’t look like we would be very likely friends, let alone best friends. It doesn’t really matter to me though; I am just happy that I have at least one close friend to talk to.

We walk to school silently. It isn’t a bad silence, like the awkward moment after you say something you wish you could take back. It’s just… well, silence. That is probably one of the very few things we have in common: neither one of us feels the need to speak unless there is something to be talked about. We rarely ever feel the need to end the silence. To us, it’s just enough to know that you have a friend there in case you need one-- which is basically always.

For a while, my Follower walks behind us, keeping about a five foot distance, as usual. We walk like that for most of the way there, sticking to the paved path. I know that probably sounds obvious, but you would be surprised. When we were younger, we discovered that it was quicker to cut through people’s yards. Let’s just say that did not end well.

At first, Meredith and I kind of overlook the narrowing sidewalk, but it begins to change substantially. I can feel the sweat piling up on my brow, but it doesn’t seem like Meredith has noticed, so I don’t say anything. Maybe it’s just in my head, I think to myself. I continue walking as if I have not noticed anything, but my heart rate starts to spike when I sense my Follower closing in. Meredith must have had this sensation too, because she grabs my wrist, yanks on it harshly, sending a sharp pain shooting up my now aching arm, and takes off running. She hasn’t had many close encounters with my Follower though, so her reaction isn’t a surprise.

We were only about a quarter mile away from the school, so it came into my range sight as soon as we turned the corner. The trees cover half of the view, but at least we know how much further we have to run until we reach our destination. I turn my head back briefly to look at my Follower, but my arm is being tugged on to move faster. Meredith and I shove trees out of our way, but unfortunately, I get whacked in the face as we run. I can feel a cut dripping a minimal amount of blood on my face, running down my cheek. The sting is only mild though.

My lungs burn with the intense speed, trying to sustain it the best that I can, my backpack weighs down on me, going from five pounds, to fifty, and my feet smack the pavement harshly, sending more shooting pains into my shins in many sharp, scattered points. Let me be the first to say that I am a fast runner, almost as fast as Meredith. In track last year, our team took first in every relay. Luckily for us, it was a distance event. This comes in handy when maintaining long sprints. However, track could never have prepared us for the speed of my follower. I turn my head to look back again, but run into Meredith as she turns to run in the other direction. My Follower had appeared and stopped right in front of her.

We only run for a few more seconds before he reappears and causes us to continue switching paths. Again and again, we run, trying to get around him. This pattern seems to continue endlessly until we zigzag our way to the school grounds. Obviously, we didn’t have to run far, but we are panting when we arrive, regardless of the short distance. “What’s going on?” Meredith demands. “Why does he keep getting closer to you? Did you do something wrong? What’s going on, Lizzy?” Because of the intense situation, I have decided to ignore the “Lizzy” part, for now. I might come back to it later, though.

“I have no idea. Everything was fine this morning,” I explain. My uneasy expression seems to have caught her attention. Her dark brown eyes widen instinctively with fear, knowing that I am telling her the truth. Meredith has a gift of being able to read people. That wasn’t much fun when I tried to throw her a surprise party, but it has definitely proved itself to come in handy.

I take my denim jacket and sweater off, revealing a blue Seahawks T-shirt beneath it. Quickly, I stuff both of them into my now weight-bearing bag and wait for Meredith as she takes her scarf off to dab her “sweat” and smearing makeup, not that anyone else would even be able to tell that she ran here in the first place. I swear she doesn’t sweat at all, yet I am over here sweating like a pig. It’s a good thing I keep strawberry scented deodorant in my bag because people from China would probably be able to smell my stench if I didn't. I don’t actually smell that bad, but you get the picture.

We stand in front of the school to gather ourselves, walk through the surprisingly tall school entrance, and put on “The Face.” For those of you who have not yet been introduced to, “The Face”, it is a serious, condescending look we Seniors often wear. As Seniors, we feel it is our duty to wear that look whenever a Freshman is in sight. I almost feel bad for the newbies, but we have all experienced The Face at some point or another. The way we see it, we are actually doing them a favor in including them in some of our school traditions.

Although Meredith and I have different first period classes, our lockers are right next to each other’s. So, we head over there together and attempt to open the impossible lockers. Despite what we may think, the lockers aren’t technically impossible to open, but they are extremely difficult. You almost need a crowbar to open them.

I put in my combo, 12-94-82, and grasp the knob to turn it. I grip it tightly and my two hands force the creaky, old, black locker to open. Our school colors are black and gray, which may seem a little bland, but we are the Tornadoes-- a colorless, life-sucking void that rests on our planet. I suppose it suits us. Despite that boring concept, our school contains its fair share of wild people. Actually, I would even go as far as saying that we have an abundance of those students. We are constantly lectured for “insane” behaviors, but I believe it should be directed to those individuals, not the entire student body.

I reach into my locker and pull out my prehistoric A.P Chemistry notebook, bookmarked with many of my creative doodles. When our school is renovated, we will have all of the fancy technological updates. But of course, these renovations won’t even begin until after I graduate. For now, I guess I will have to tough it through the traditional ways. Maybe college will be different.

I look over to Meredith, who seems to be focused on something. I leave her alone, though. Once again, we have the whole silence thing. Meredith stops very suddenly, however, pausing with her textbook in midair. “Elizabeth, does something seem different to you?” Meredith asks this with a very irritated, uncomfortable tone.\

I stop and look around for a moment. It takes me a second to realize what she is referring to, but I eventually catch on. Where is my follower? I whip my head around frantically, checking every corner I can find in this empty hall. Has he found a new hiding place? Has he left me alone? For good?Is he trying to find a new attack method? I never would have imagined that before, but now I am not so sure. A million questions immediately course through me at once. “Where is he?” Where is my Follower?

The first bell rings, meaning that class will soon begin. I rip the rest of my books out of my locker, slam it shut, and dart to first period. First period is my favorite class of the day, Calculus. Most people think that I am insane for saying that, but math is something that just comes naturally for me. My math classroom is clear on the other side of the school though, so I literally run through the entrance and drop my books on my desk. By now, my teacher is used to that and knows not to think anything of it. The moment I sit in my seat, the bell rings. Loud, high-pitched sounds confirm that it is a good thing I rushed, and I remain in my seat with a sense of subtle satisfaction; my perfect attendance record remains in tact.

I glance at the large whiteboard centered on the front wall of the classroom, and continue to draw a picture of Seattle, my old home. The space needle, little markets, mountain view, puget sound, and smells of seafood are practically impossible to get out of my mind. The scenery is astonishing. But no matter how hard I try to capture its beauty, I just cannot do the place justice.

The teacher, Ms. Bellmonte, sits in her chair smugly, as she watches the students reactions to the words POP QUIZ written in all bold on the board. Quizzes don’t bother me though. As long as you understand the content they teach you, you should be fine. Then again, not everyone keeps a 4.0 every semester and can ace a test without studying. Everyone has their own talents though. Mine would be a photographic memory, and my mad word search skills. The way I see it, it is both a blessing and a curse.

Ms.Belmonte, also known as, The Dragon Lady, stands at the front of the classroom, smirking, and passes out our tests. Ms.Belmonte is a tall, plump lady with blonde hair, pulled tightly back into a small bun on top of her head. She has a huge head, but it almost looks too small for her body. She looks somewhat like a reverse bobble head. I can’t help but laugh whenever I see her open drawer of Hershey’s bars in her desk. We aren’t supposed to know about it though. Ms.Belmonte labeled the drawer Files, and keeps it under lock and key. She is very protective of her candy.

The Dragon Lady doesn’t take attendance either. If you don’t complete the assignment or test that day, it is a zero. It doesn’t matter if you were hospitalized, you fail the class for the day. I would like to say that she stresses the importance of attendance, but I am pretty sure she just loves to write the letter F on people’s papers. I heard that last year, a kid at our school got into a car accident, was hospitalized for three weeks, and missed a huge test in her class. He went from an A average, shooting for ivy league schools, to failing this class and going to community college. Lets just say that she is known to ruin lives.

I have been beating The Dragon Lady at her own game, however. Every week, she picks a day to give the quiz, and every week, I ace it. She has even started giving me separate tests from everyone else. I know this, because the guy who used to cheat off of me, looked at my paper and threw a fit because she gave us different tests. Mine was harder, of course. Even with her switching my tests though, I continue to get A’s. It is almost like she wishes me to fail.

Hovering over me, Ms.Bellemonte sighs, breathing her foul breath into my face. I wish to pinch my nose, freeing my nostrils from the stench, but I would hate to upset her during the time of test taking. The Dragon Lady smacks a test on my desk, knocking both of my pencils onto the floor. She grins as I lean over to pick both of them up, and storms back to her desk, leaving behind a lingering smell of her musky perfume. As I glance over my test, I can’t help but notice that it is literally twice the size of everyone else’s.

I look over my test: Question #1: Xe^2x dx=1/2xe^2x-1/4e^2x+C =1/2e^2x(x-½)+C. She actually started off with an easier one than usual, but it only gets harder from there. I finish my test within the first ten minutes, smiling as I hand my completed assessment to Ms.Bellemonte; first one in the class to finish. The Dragon lady rips the test out of my hand and sighs as she writes the letter A on the front of it. I walk back to my desk, satisfied with the result of my test, and continue sketching my portrait of Seattle. Even with the distraction, however, I catch myself glimpsing at my Followers typical corner consistently. Although, he is not there.

The next person to finish is Sarah, my math buddy. Other than Meredith, I’d say Sarah is my closest friend. She is a little shorter with wavy brown hair, brown eyes and freckles. Unfortunately, the most we talk to each other is in math though; she usually hangs out with the choir kids. As she sits down, I quit doodling and pull out my phone beneath my desk. “How’s it going,” I ask.

I look over at her as she types back, careful of Ms.Bellmonte’s constant, observing glares. My phone buzzes silently on my leg with her reply: “Pretty good. That test was super easy. I’d ask her for some harder work, but I’m afraid she would have it out for me. I don’t know how U survive her.” Sarah points to The Dragon Lady, and then at her head, swirling her finger to make the impression that she believes the woman is crazy.

It takes everything I have not to chuckle at her or that message. “I don’t know either :) I enjoy beating her at her own game though.”

My phone vibrates again, muffled in my pocket to prevent ayone from hearing. “U better be careful. The dragon lady doesn’t mess around with that type of thing.”

This time, I can’t help it. I laugh silently under my breath, but it is enough to attract Ms.Bellmonte’s attention. She immediately looks over at me, and then what I am holding. It wouldn’t have mattered at that point if I had attempted to hide it. Ms.Bellmonte has almost x-ray vision. The Dragon Lady yells in front