Antichrist (Frerard)

5: Can I Continue To Insult You Now?

It was unmistakeable.

The trees were dead in nature; the bark either withered to a lifeless almost ghostly white, or charred and blackened into a mess a pyromaniac would dream of, and the grass grew long, almost crawling up to where the fog clung long to the ground, as it had never been worn down my footprints, and the mausoleum a top the hill, protruding from the fog in nothing more than a spine tingling, ominous manner.

Frank was in the graveyard.

Yet he hadn't a clue why.

Or how.

In fact, he had no memories of ever even getting here; the last thing blurred into his memory was a rushed apology to Ray, who had been busy on the phone with someone and in consequence paid very little attention to Frank, who just left eventually, his memory of course fading away completely as soon as he had shut the door behind him, which now almost comically donned a silver cross, and Frank ought to wonder what had possessed Ray in order for him to put it there, but right now he honestly had much more pressing matters on his mind.

He found himself almost rooted to the ground, frozen both physically from the cool air and his abundance of a jacket, yet almost frozen to the spot, his eyes fixated upon the mausoleum and the path up there - well, the shorter part of the grass, littered with the odd rock somewhat embedded into the dirt - that was all there was, not much of a path, really.

Frank's heart was beating heavily, thudding in his chest as he still found himself fixed to the spot in awe of just what to do, and how the hell he'd ended up here - he hadn't woken up or anything, he'd just suddenly started becoming conscious of his actions, and it really was a weird thought, especially considering just where he'd ended up and just how well the fog ensured that he was completely unaware of anyone or anything watching him right now.

And fuck, Frank couldn't help but wish that whoever had kidnapped him or drugged him or whatever had thought to bring him a hoodie, because goddamn, Frank couldn't place why, but it was just so cold.

And just in the same way as he grown to realise where he was and question what the hell he was doing here, he started walking, his feet moving not unwillingly, yet still without him even considering the thought.

And for what was probably even an even further unknown reason, Frank allowed himself to keep walking, his feet guiding him up the hill to the mausoleum, and he really wished that his body had developed this 'auto-walk' function back when he was still forced into doing sport in high school.

It was only as the fog slowly faded away as Frank's heart really began to pound his chest; the situation moving on from a little stomach churningly weird, to 'oh fuck I am most definitely going to die right this second tell Bob Bryar I will love him forever for giving me that joint yesterday'.

To put it simply, it had become all too apparent that Frank wasn't alone in the graveyard.

And it wasn't the hundreds of dead corpses in the ground being referred to here; it was the dead things that dwelled above ground - the ones you should be really worried about.

Yet, despite every nerve in his body practically exploding as he forced himself to turn and run back, sprint down the hill and jump over the gate and then run as fast as he could, most likely ending up in a different state in the process, yet despite this, Frank didn't stop.

It was almost like he couldn't, but he felt deep down that he could, it was weird, weirdly like he didn't quite want to.

The thing Frank's heart had stopped at stood at the front of the mausoleum, leaning back against the stonewalls, standing out in all black against the grey architecture, and as he was turned in Frank's direction, there wasn't a question regarding the fact that he'd noticed him.