Fan Fears: A collection of fear based stories

by Michael Bray

  "Like this?" The doctor says, and pushes his own chair back. The plastic stoppers on the legs scrape across the floor, and I feel like I'm going to be sick. I don't have to answer him and say that's the right sound. The heart rate monitor does that for me.

  "Please don't do that again," I say to him, but my voice is weak again, and I can feel my heart thundering in my chest.

  "My apologies, I didn't realize how deeply that would disturb you. Please continue."

  "What was I saying?"

  "About how he moves."

  "That's it really, he moves like that, jittery with that scraping sound. The only time things are different is when he's there standing next to me, next to my bed."

  "Tell me about that."

  "I can't move. I can never move. I'm just frozen there. He stands beside me, and he kind of waves his hands in front of my face. That motion is fluid."

  "And when he does that, can you see his features then?"

  I shake my head and glance at the door again. "No. Like I said, you can't see anything. Just black."

  "And what does he do then? Does he touch you? Speak to you?"

  I shake my head. "No. He just disappears."

  "I see," the doctor says, although I can tell from his tone of voice he's just like everyone else. He doesn't believe me. "And how often do these incidents happen?"

  I've lost faith in him, and don't feel there will be any benefit from telling him this, but if he's willing to go through the motions then so am I. "They used to be further spread apart, maybe two or three times a year. Recently, though...." I trail off and look at the equipment I'm hooked up to, then back at the doctor. "Recently it's been happening more often. Four times last month, then three consecutive nights last week."

  "And since then you have refused to sleep?"

  I nodded, the mention of the 'S' word making me realize just how exhausted I am.

  "You can't go without sleep, Lauriette. The brain needs time to rest. Perhaps something to help you drift off would-"

  "No!"

  I don't mean to snap, but I also want to make him understand. "Sleeping pills don't work. I still wake up, I still see him."

  "I see," he says, scribbling more notes. I'm curious to know what he's writing about me. Probably that I'm some kind of delusional lunatic, and who knows, he might be right. The fact is I knew he didn't see. Didn't understand. How could he, how could anyone unless they had been through this themselves.

  "Are you certain you are even awake during these episodes? Could it be they are a specific and very vivid reoccurring dream?"

  "You tell me. Isn't that why I'm here?" I snap. I can't help it. He's annoyed me, and I'm already in a bad mood. After a week without sleep, I don't think anyone can blame me.

  "It is."

  "Sorry, I just.... I want this fixed. I want to sleep at night without being scared."

  "And that’s what we intend to help you do. Now, let me explain again what will happen."

  I nod. I know the plan of course, but I let him say it anyways since I just borderline caused offense.

  "You will go to sleep here in this room. The instruments here will monitor your vital signs, brain functions and the like. I'll be in the next room monitoring you via the cameras in the corner there. I'll be sitting directly on the other side of that mirror."

  I look at the camera and it's blinking red eye, then at the mirror on the wall at the foot of the bed. My blond hair is sticking to my face and I look like hell. It's almost like I don't recognize the woman I see. I can't bear to see myself anymore and look back at the doctor. I give him a nod to show I understand.

  "Once you are asleep and dreaming, we should be able to analyze the data to give you some answers, and, of course, enable you to get some much-needed rest."

  The words come out before I can stop them for no other reason than because I need to know. "Do you think I'm crazy?"

  He smiles, and this time, it's genuine. "No," he says, closing his clipboard. "I think you have some kind of psychological issue preventing you from sleeping which manifests itself as this entity you see. Perhaps some long forgotten memory from a horror movie or book that is subconsciously affecting you. Today will be the first step towards discovering the answer."

  He stands to leave and I grab his arm, too scared to care how it makes me look. "And you promise you'll be just next door? You won't leave me here?"

  "I'll be right next door, Lauriette. Please don't worry. Today is the first step in stopping this from happening to you. I don't want you to worry. Do you need anything to help you relax enough to sleep?"

  I shake my head. "I haven't slept for almost a week. Just keeping my eyes open at all is a constant fight. I'll be fine."

  I release my grip on his coat and realize I'm so scared I can taste it. I'm so conflicted. I want him to fix me, but am also deathly afraid to be alone and know that I'm putting myself in Preacher Black's reach. I watch the doctor walk across the room and stop at the door. He dims the lights and is about to leave the room when I stop him.

  "Promise me you'll wake me up if anything bad happens."

  "Of course, you have my word," the doctor says, and then he dims the lights and leaves, closing the door behind him. I don't believe him. Words are easy when you don't believe. Things are easy to say if you are trying to keep the crazy woman who sees shadow people calm enough so you can do your work then go home to a wife and family, knowing that for you, there is nohing waiting in the dark when you close your eyes. Just words, meaningless bullshit that means nothing. If anything could be used to sum up the entire human race, then that would be it. I start to wonder if I’ll be able to sleep. I'm worked up and scared, neither of which are the best conditions for trying to do so. My body is exhausted, though, and the second I close my eyes they turn to concrete. There is no way they are opening again. The pillow feels soft and bottomless, and in seconds, I'm gone.

  TWO

  Doctor Robert Mulgrave sat down in his chair and tossed the clipboard on the table. The room was dark aside from the dim glow of his computer screen which showed the real-time feed from the next room. At three years shy of his sixtieth birthday, he was growing tired of the monotony of the job. Most cases were simple psychological blocks due to childhood trauma or repressed memories, although every patient thought they were unique and that their stories had never been heard before. Mulgrave had heard numerous stories about shadow people and children with black eyes. They went hand in hand with stories of possessed dolls, things that went bump in the night and all manner of other reasons why their sleep was disturbed. This case was no different. He poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and watched the computer monitor. A second screen showed the live feed from the video camera. He knew he was in for a long shift. The patient had been particularly uncomfortable and seemed incredibly scared to the point where he was almost inclined to believe what she had said. He sipped his coffee and winced. It was still too hot. He set the cup down and checked the monitors. She had already drifted into a deep sleep, no doubt brought on by the exhaustion. He took his glasses out of the case on the desk, slipped them on and opened his book. It was going to be a long night.

  THREE

  I know this feeling.

  I can't move. It's like someone is sitting on my chest.

  This is the worst part, where I can't tell if I'm asleep or awake, dead or alive. I'm still in this room, though. The bed is unfamiliar to me. The pillows are too soft, the bed different from what I'm used to. I open my eyes, and even then I still can't be sure if I'm awake or not. The room is empty, the light dull with the glow of the machines at my bedside. My eyes flick towards the door, but it sits closed, just as it was earlier. The camera in the corner still watches me, its red eye glowing. I wonder for a moment if it sees me awake and looking back at it or still asleep and dreaming. A dream within a dream, just what I need to add to the confusion.

  A glance in the mirror tells me I'm still in one piece, although because of the way the light is and
the shadows falling across my face, my eyes are lost in darkness and I look for a moment like a skull with hair. I don't want to see that and am about to tear my eyes away when something catches my eye. A mark on the mirror, a blemish. I can't remember if it was there before or not. It's possible, I suppose, but I don't recall for sure. I reach out to the small bedside table for my glasses, and almost knock the glass of water over. I put my glasses on and the room swims into sharp focus. The blemish on the mirror is still there, a little black smudge in the corner. Was it there before? I ask myself this question a half dozen times as I stare at that little mark on the glass. It looks like a burn of some kind. The reflection around it is warped, almost like ripples on the water. I tell myself not to be stupid, that it's just my overtired brain finally getting some much-needed recharge time, but another voice tells me I'm not asleep, that I'm wide awake and seeing the room as it is. Except for that mark, because the more I think about it, the more certain I am that it wasn't there before. I tell myself it's nothing to worry about, that it's just a mark, only.... I'm not so sure it is. It looks bigger now. It seems to have spread higher and further across the glass. I want to move, but I'm frozen in place. All I can move are my eyes as I stare at the mark in the mirror as it grows and warps the glass.

  I know what it is, what's happening, but I can't say it. Even if I could I can't move my mouth. I know he's here for me.

  Preacher Black has found me. I watch him form, sliding up the mirror, spreading and growing into that shape I've grown to fear. It occurs to me that I've never seen him in anything like this level of light. It's quite dark in the room, but not night dark. Even so, he still has no features. He's a mass, his edges unclear. For what feels like a lifetime, we look at each other and then that sound fills the room and I know he's coming towards me. That scraping is loud, sharp, like fingernails on a chalkboard. I blink and he's two feet across the room near the door. Another blink and he's at the foot of my bed. I watch his black fingers lightly touch the sheets by my feet, leaving little indentions behind as he drags them closer to me. It's this detail, this little thing that makes me realize this is no dream. I'm awake, I can't move or do anything to stop him, but this is definitely happening to me. This time, when I blink he's beside me, just feet away. I'm scared to look at him, but I can't stop myself. He's there, a solid thing. He casts a shadow on the bed, he's real, he exists. He starts to do that thing with his hands like he's some sort of illusionist or conjurer about to do his big reveal. His fingers are long and thin, longer than they should be. He does this for a few seconds, mesmerizing me with the way he moves. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I can hear the heart rate monitor going haywire. Usually, this is when he goes and I'm free from his spell, but not today. I've denied him for five days, and he wants to take his time. He leans close, the brim of his hat inches from my head, the featureless mass where he should have a face so close to mine. There's a smell on him, not of death or rot as I imagined, but a freshness. He smells like winter air heavy with snow, a crisp December morning. I exhale and my breath fogs, the smell is because of him. The cold is coming off him in waves. Something happens then that I didn't expect. He speaks to me, his words echoing around the room but also in my head at the same time. He only says a few words, but they are enough to make the last shred of my sanity snap. I scream, so loud, so hard I can taste blood in my throat. I squeeze my eyes closed and can finally move. I don't know where I am or what I'm doing. Those words are in my head, and I know they will stay there forever. Even if by some miracle I manage to exist with them in my head, I know they will always remain, an oily residue that will be impossible to wash away. As I thrash and scream, I feel him grab me, cold hands on my arms, restraining me, trying to push me back into the bed.

  I hear another voice, a familiar one, a human one. I snap my eyes open and realize it is the doctor. It's him who is restraining me and pinning me to the bed. His eyes are as wild as mine, his teeth gritted. For a moment, I feel sorry for him. He couldn't imagine his day turning out this way.

  "I saw him," I blurt. "He was here."

  I know he won't believe me. He'll blame something. A nightmare, over tiredness. I'm reminded of A Christmas Carol when Scrooge first sees Jacob Marley. 'You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato.'

  I start to laugh, but it's too high, too wild and know how insane I must sound, but it doesn't matter. None of it matters. The doctor shakes me, shakes me hard. In the background, the heart rate monitor is in overdrive. I can't see the display, but I guess it's up in the two hundreds somewhere.

  "Calm down, please calm down!" the doctor shrieks at me. I start to relax, Preacher Black is gone, for now at least. Back to wherever it is he dwells when I'm not sleeping. All the energy leaves me, as if someone somewhere has pulled a plug, and suddenly I’m too drained to do anything. The doctor releases his grip on my shoulder and switches off the heart monitor, finally silencing it’s shrill tones and plunging the room into silence. For a moment, we sit there, doctor and patient. I looked at him. He was sweating, eyes wide, shirt and tie pulled out of shape.

  "I'm not crazy, you have to believe I'm not crazy," I say, only, it doesn't feel like me. It feels like someone in the next room, or a distant radio heard over a great distance.

  The doctor slumps further into his chair and lookes at me. "It's okay," he says, his voice a near whisper. "I saw it too."

  We sit and looked at each other. The initial happiness that I wasn't crazy was quickly replaced by the realization of what this meant. I start to laugh. I don't know where it came from, but it wouldn't stop. It became hysterical. I watched as the doctor backed away, and barely heard him as he called for security to restrain me. I didn't know where I'm going, but I don't think its home, and it doesn't matter, not anymore because the doctor proved it. Preacher Black isn't something formed by my imagination, he's real. Not only is he real, he's chosen me. It feels like the laughter will subside, then I remember what he said to me and it starts up again. I recalled that hat inches from mine and that black featureless face speaking with no mouth.

  "Thanks for leaving everything open for me. You and I are going to do this for a long, long time."

  Yes.

  A long time for Preacher Black and I. A long time indeed. I don't stop laughing even when the orderlies come into the room and restrain me, nor do I fight when they inject the sedative. As the edges of the world lose focus and start to swim away, I can still hear his voice ringing through my head.

  A long time.

  A very, very long time.

  SUBMITTED FEAR: SHADOW PEOPLE

  FAN FEAR SIX:

  VERTIGO

  (Submitted by Christina Sandoval)

  ****

  I share this particular fear myself (based on the story title I don’t think I’m spoiling too much here) and so was able to really get into this story right from the offset. As you will see, this is the longest story in the book and that was because it simply took on a life of its own. If I were to pick a favourite story from this entire collection, this would be it. This is more about the psychological effects of fear rather than the outright scare factor. I hope you enjoy it!

  ***

  Shawn lowered the newspaper and looked across the table to his wife. "Hey, Chrissy, you seen this?"

  She put the half eaten toast back on her plate and took the paper from him.

  "What am I looking at?" she asked.

  "Bottom of the page, the ad," Shawn said, picking up his own toast and taking a bite.

  The advertisement was discreetly placed in the middle of the classifieds and would have been easy to miss

  CONQUER YOUR FEARS!

  Are you afraid of Spiders? Heights? Enclosed spaces?

  Free yourself from these limitations and live a free and happy life. Using our revolutionary new easy program, you can overcome those things that scare you. For more information email us at beatyourfear@GRPY.com

  Chrissy
lowered the newspaper and looked at her husband. "Seems a bit vague."

  "Give it a try. You never know."

  "I don't see the point."

  "Don't you want to be able to ride a roller-coaster, or visit the Grand Canyon? Beating your fear of heights will open things up to you."

  "I'm not so sure," she said, scanning the ad again.

  "Just send them an email and see what they say. If it seems like a scam, then it's not cost you anything."

  She set the paper down, having every intention of ignoring it, then realized Shawn was right. She was in her mid-thirties and being afraid of heights was silly. She did want to do those things like ride roller-coasters or go to the Grand Canyon, and as it seemed like it was important enough to Shawn to point it out to her, she would try it. She picked up the newspaper again and turned to the ad, then used her phone to compose a quick email asking for more information.

  When she had finished, Shawn was looking at her across the table. "Have you sent them an email?"

  "Yeah, no reason not to. It might help us."

  "Exactly," Shawn said as he turned his attention back to his breakfast. As they sat, Chrissy's phone vibrated. She picked it up and opened the email that had arrived.

  "It's from the phobia people," she said.

  "That was quick."

  She opened the email and read it. "It looks like one of those automated response emails."

  "What does it say?"

  "Thank you for your inquiry and for taking the first step in conquering your fear! Please fill in the questionnaire below and let us set you on the road to recovery."

  "What sort of questions are they asking?" Shawn said.

  "Nothing too intrusive. Name, age, address, marital status, the usual stuff."

  "Any mention of how much it costs?"

  "No, I don't think so," she said, scrolling through the rest of the email. "It just says more information will be provided on receipt of the questionnaire."