by Michael Bray
Her eyes snapped open.
She was still in the chair. Not her chair, but the close approximation of the chairs she actually owned. Her chair was soft in the middle of the seat cushion and had been worn in. This one was new and uncomfortable. She wiped away sleep as the last dregs of the dream lingered in her mind. Full night had come, and the lights were on. The lamp in the corner cast a warm glow which under ordinary circumstances would be comforting if not for the outright terror of the situation. The dream had been vivid, and she wondered if the strange nature of it was a reflection of how confused and fragmented her brain was. As with most dreams, parts began to fade away, but one thing that Mark said, real or imaginary, stuck with her.
'The best way to ensure you are comfortable is to comply with the rules.'
Maybe that was the key. Maybe that was the way to escape.
FIVE
There was no sense of time. No concept of night or day. The world kept ticking, and Naomi went on existing and desperate to be reunited with her friends and family. A routine had been developed. Her lights were on an automatic timer. They told her when to sleep and when to wake up. She never heard them, but in the night, people came in and restocked her food and cleaned her house. She had tried numerous times to pretend she was sleeping and catch them in the act, but somehow they always knew. It reminded her of a book she had as a child called The Elves and the Shoemaker. In it, a down on his look shoemaker can't afford to keep his business running, even though he made the finest quality shoes in the land. The elves decided to help him, and would go into his workshop at night when he slept and worked right through so that when morning came, the shoemakers work had been done for him.
She had food and running water from the taps so she could drink and shower. The toilet worked too, but everything else was imitation. The television was a fake. The books on the bookcase looked like the ones she owned, but the pages inside were blank paper. She realized then why prisons were so effective. It was the boredom. She spent her days shuffling around the house, trying to remember the last thing she said to her children or to Colleen, and playing one awful scenario after another about how they might be out there looking for her and by now presuming the worst. She had expected to hear more from the speaker man, the man she had named Mark in her dream, but it never came. If she refused to eat, that flash in the sky would illuminate the room and she would pass out. When she woke, she was full, a puncture wound in her arm where they had fed her intravenously. Complying was easier. She ate when they provided her food, slept when they turned out her lights. Even though they didn't speak to her, she knew they were out there, watching her. Once, the food elves had delivered pineapples with her fruit delivery. She had held it up and shouted to the empty house that she couldn't eat them because she was allergic, but they kept bringing them anyway. That night, when she was sleeping, they came in and removed the pineapples and had never delivered them again.
One morning, when she was having her morning salad, the voice from the speakers in the roof spoke to her for the first time in what felt like an age. She flinched from it. To hear another human being after so long was frightening but exciting.
"You've adapted well, Molly. You have learned to work within the system. I think it's time to integrate you fully to your new life. Go to the living area, please."
A thousand thoughts raced through her mind, things she had forgotten. Hope, freedom, her friends. Most of all, her children. She hurried to the living room, the room that she now thought of as hers as much as the one she had left behind. She looked around, but everything was the same.
"I don't understand," she whispered to the empty room.
"Go to the window please," the voice said.
Naomi complied. She stood at the large bay windows, looking at the painted backdrop of green fields and blue skies. As she watched it dropped away, letting in gorgeous bars of sunlight which were so intense it hurt her eyes. It took her a few seconds for her eyes to adjust and allowed her to see outside for the first time in what felt like forever. She expected to see her garden and driveway, then the street. Opposite would be her neighbors, people she didn't necessarily know but missed all the same. She didn't see those things, however. What she saw made the emotion she thought was fear irrelevant, as a new intensity of terror raged through her body. She fell against the glass and weakly banged her palm on it.
Outside the window was a small area of grass, and a low wood fence. Behind it, a tidy gravel patch wound from right to left. On the grass was a large stone with a gold plaque mounted on the front of it. She read the words, realizing where she was.
MOLLY
SOCIALLY ISOLATED HUMAN
Molly is one of our newest exhibits. Part of an experimental program to monitor the effects of isolation on the human psyche, Molly has been separated from her children, who are in the enclosure opposite. They will also form the basis of this unique lifetime study.
Naomi stared across the path to the other enclosure. Its outside was steel, the window and interior designed to look like that of a house, much like hers. Her children were at the window. They had lost weight and looked exhausted. They stood and stared at her, their spirits already broken by their capture. She wondered how long they had been captive too. Unlike her they didn't bang on the windows or try to communicate, they stood there and stared.
As she stood there and screamed, a group of people walked down the path led by the man she had seen in her dream, the one called Mark. He was dressed in a suit and wearing a white lab coat. With him were what looked to be a half dozen students. They stood at Naomi's enclosure and looked in, pointing and making notes, others whispering and laughing. Mark stood off to the side, watching her carefully. He was exactly how she had seen him in her dream. She knew she needed to escape, to flee their prying eyes. She ran away from the window towards the back garden, but even it provided no privacy. She stood at the back door staring out. There were people standing all around the outer perimeter of the top of the fence, some leaning on the glass to get a better view. She guessed there was some kind of raised observation platform there so the visitors to the zoo could see the exhibits more clearly. She ran back inside and to the window. She banged a fist on it and started screaming.
"I'll kill you; I'll get you for this you bastards. I just want to see my children. I just want to talk to them you fucks."
On the opposite side of the glass, Mark and his students watched with some amusement as Molly mouthed her unheard threats. He made a note on his clipboard to begin advanced behavior modification. A few beatings usually did the trick to making them compliant. He turned to his students and grinned. "Well, it seems Molly here isn't in the best of moods today. Let's move on shall we? Our next exhibit is a man who has been deprived of sleep for the last month. I think you will find him quite fascinating. Later, you will see the results of our cross breeding species program."
Mark took one last look at Naomi in her exhibit, then pulled out his sunglasses, slipped them on and led his group further into the zoo. Even when they were gone and she had lost her voice, Naomi didn't stop screaming.
SUBMITTED FEAR: ISOLATION FROM CHILDREN / FAMILY
FAN FEAR FIVE:
AWAKE
(Submitted by Lauriette Hutzler)
****
The fear submitted by Lauriette was one of those rare occasions where her descriptions of the thing that she was afraid of was so vivid, so chilling already that the story was almost gift-wrapped and ready to go. The instant I read her questionnaire about the specifics of her chosen fear, the story for this one appeared and was written in a single sitting.
***
He looks at me like I'm some kind of idiot. He says they are here to help me, but I can see it in their eyes. They think I'm crazy, and maybe, just maybe I am.
I don't like this place. The walls are too white, too devoid of detail. It's the kind of place where they don't want you to get too comfortable or rest too easy. I suppose that's deliberate, although, fo
r my condition, it's probably not going to help much. I'm hooked up to machines, some reading brain function, others reading heart rate. I glance at it and see that it's currently going at seventy-four beats per minute, which under the circumstances isn't too bad. Certainly within normal resting range. I lie on the hospital bed and realize just how exhausted I am. A normal person would sleep it off, but I know for me that's not an option. I glance at the doctor who sits in the chair by the bed, clipboard in hand and know that he's my only hope of help, but also deep down I know there is nothing he can do. Nothing anyone can do. Still, he looks kind and knowledgeable and a small part of me thinks maybe, just maybe, he can help.
"Are you comfortable?" he asks, pushing his glasses back up his face.
I want to say yes but I can't help it. I glance towards the corners of the room, it's well lit and there are no dark places, but that doesn't matter. I'm still nervous, still on edge. I nod. The doctor glances at my heart rate. It's pushed up closer to eighty.
"Just try to relax. I'm going to ask you a few questions. Answer them as fully and honestly as you can, and we'll try to help you, okay?"
I nod again. The voice inside screams at me to tell him there's nothing he can do, nothing anyone can do, but I can't do that. If I do it will be a psyche evaluation and they will lock me up and throw away the key.
"Alright," the doctor says, adjusting his position and poising his pen over his clipboard. "Name?"
"Lauriette Hutzler," I say, hating how weak and afraid I sound.
The doctor scribbles on his clipboard. "Age?"
"Thirty-three."
More scribbles. The doctor looks at me and smiles. It's the smile of a man who is confident in his abilities. He doesn't know it, but it' also the smile of a man who is out of his depth.
"When was the last time you slept?"
It should be a simple answer, an automatic response for most people, but I genuinely can't remember. It feels like forever, but that can't be possible. The human body can only go so long without sleep, and I know I'm straddling that abyss of madness, teetering on the edge of a razor blade on one foot, laughing manically and waiting, always waiting for him to come.
The tempo of my heart rate monitor increases, and we both look at it. Ninety-six.
"Please try to relax," the doctor says, but there is something there in his face, barely visible beneath the warm exterior. The shadow of doubt, the shadow of uncertainty, the shadow of a man who wonders if this particular patient is simply crazy and beyond the extent of his medical ability to help. I nod again. I've learned by now that there is little point trying to convince people anymore. We wait until my heart rate goes back down to a steady seventy-eight, then the doctor speaks again.
"Alright, now I want you to relax and think clearly. Can you do that?"
I tell him I can, and half want to add that I'm not an idiot, but don't. It's not his fault this is happening, he's just trying to do his job. It's also not his fault that I'm scared, so scared. I think that's an indication of real fear. It's easy to be scared when you are alone in the dark and you hear a sound coming from the shadows. Who wouldn't be, but this is a different kind of scared. This kind of fear, in this brightly lit room, is more real. It doesn't matter that the lights are on and that there is someone here with me. I wish it did, but I know it makes no difference at all.
The doctor scribbles something else on his notepad and crosses his legs. He smiles. I can't stop staring at the toes of his shoe. Some of the leather has started to peel away and the tip flops there like a black, diseased tongue.
"Alright, now I want you to tell me everything. Leave nothing out, no matter how strange or insignificant it sounds. Can you do that?"
I nod, not sure if it's true or not. I'm here now, though, so might as well give it a try.
"Good," he says, making more notes on his clipboard. "Then begin when you are ready. Tell me all about Preacher Black."
My heart rate spikes up into the hundred and ten range at the sound of his name and I squirm in my bed. I'm desperate to run, to get out of there, but I realize there is no point. It's not something you can hide from, believe me, I've tried. The poor doctor finally realizes that perhaps this is more than just a psychological issue. He can almost hide it, but not quite. He knows I'm afraid, really afraid. It's the first honest reaction he's had since I came here. I can't help but scan the room, my eyes flicking from corner to corner, then to the door.
"Relax, it's just us here. Nobody can hurt you, nothing can harm you. Talking about it will help."
I know he means well, but they are just words. And words can't protect me from Preacher Black. Nothing can.
I tell him I don't think I can talk about it. He asks me why, and I'm stumped. It's not something that is easy to put into words. It's something beyond fear, something deeper than terror. It's something real and tangible, a bitter taste in the back of the throat, an inexplicable cold shiver. I want to tell the doctor I don't want to, but I know it's too late for that. I'm here now hooked up to his machines, and for as much as I don't think he understands, the one thing we do have in common is that we both want answers. I take a few deep breaths. I read on the Internet that it works as a calming technique, and to be fair, it does. I can think clearly, and I let my body relax and my head falls back into the soft embrace of the pillow.
"Alright," the doctor says, "In your own time. Tell me about your experiences."
I can't talk about Preacher Black, not yet. I don't even know if I can say his name out loud or not. I just know that this feels wrong. It's like I'm poking at a hornet’s nest with a stick just because someone told me they wouldn't sting. I close my eyes to try and think, but straight away feel the pull of sleep, and the anger of my body at denying it such a routine privilege when I snap my eyes open again.
"It started when I was fourteen." My own voice sounds weak and dry, the words lost in this room. The doctor hears it too. He offers me a glass of water. I take it from him, hoping he doesn't see my hands trembling. He does. We both do. I set the glass on the bedside table and look at the ceiling.
"It started when I was fourteen," I say again, this time with more authority. "I used to wake up sometimes in the night unable to move. I didn't understand what it was at first. I was just a kid."
"Sleep paralysis. More common than you might think," the doctor says.
They all said that though until they had experienced it for themselves, it was easy to brush it off as a simple medical condition. They didn't know, couldn't know that it was much deeper than that.
"That's when I first saw him," I said, unsure if I would be able to say it.
"Saw who, Lauriette?"
"You know who."
"I need you to say it. You need to say it if you want me to help you."
"Preacher Black." I expected the horror movie clichés to kick in. The flickering lights, the dramatic pause, the clawing hand from underneath the bed. Nothing like that happened, though. I stared at the doctor who looked right back at me.
"Tell me about him."
"What do you mean?"
"How does he look, when he comes to you?"
I'm not used to this. I've always tried not to look at him or think about him. What the doctor is asking goes against every instinct I have, but if it's in the interests of getting well, I'll do it. The instant I stop blocking him out he's there, in vivid detail in my mind. It dawns on me that if I happen to live to be an old woman, then no matter how senile I get, no matter how much I forget, he won't be one of them. I start to talk, not thinking consciously about it, which could be a good or bad thing. "He's tall, taller than the door frame. Slim too, he...." The tears. I didn't want them to come so soon, but nobody told them that. I feel embarrassed, but to the doctor’s credit, he doesn't judge me. He sits and waits. He's patient and for the first time, I'm glad he's here.
"He wears a hat. A wide brimmed hat. It looks too big for his head."
"What about his face? What color is his skin?"
> I shake my head. The pillow is wet with tears. "He hasn't got any. Not that I can see. All I know is that he wears a coat, maybe it's a cloak, I didn't know. The rest of him, it's just dark, pure black."
"Isn't everything in the night?" the doctor asks.
"No," I say. I'm getting frustrated. Explaining this is hard, much harder than I expected it to be. "It's different," I say as if that explains it in some way. I look at him hoping that's enough, but his pen is still poised. He wants more.
My throat is so dry. I pick up the glass and take another drink. "It's a different kind of dark. At night, there are shadows different shades. Him....he's not like that. He's the color of space, the purest color of nothing, but that in turn makes him all the more visible to me. There are no details. No skin tone, no contours, just a solid mass."
The doctor's pen glides across his clipboard again, and he looks at me. There is something new in his eyes, and I start to wonder if perhaps I might have given him a little rash of goose bumps.
"What happens when he comes to you?" the doctor asks.
I don't want to tell this, I really don't. Thinking about him in this way is terrifying to me. I know he'll punish me for it, but the doctor is waiting for answers, and I'm too far in now to back off. "Well," I say, unsure how to explain it. "He always appears by my bedroom door at first." I glance at the door to the room as I say it, then back at the doctor. "When he moves, it's kind of...jittery."
"Jittery?" the doctor repeats.
"Not fluid, it's like he skitters in slow jerks from one place to the other as he gets closer. And there's that sound."
"What sound?"
"Scratching, like dragging a chair across a wood floor. It cuts right through me."