Never Fear

by Heather Graham

  “Just forget it, guys. She doesn’t want to.”

  “We always finish what we start, Liv,” Adam said. “Mirror, mirror on the wall. Mirror, mirror on the wall.”

  Chase squeezed my hand and joined in. “Mirror, mirror on the wall.”

  I snatched my hand away and stepped back, my heart slamming against my ribcage. Fog rolled in and swirled around my legs. Didn’t they see it? My panicked gaze flicked to Livvy. She offered an apologetic shrug then laced her fingers through Adam’s and spoke the words.

  “Mirror, mirror on the wall.”

  “What the--”

  A hand shot out of the mirror, grabbed Adam’s shirt and pulled him through the glass. Livvy stumbled after him.

  I bit down hard on my fist but couldn’t contain the scream. It was happening again. The mirror would take us all.

  “Jesus, Vanessa.” Chase whipped his head toward me, eyes wide. “Did you see that? Where the hell did they go?”

  I pointed to the mirror then pulled my hand back when a face appeared. The eyes were nothing but black holes, the mouth wide and deep.

  The fight-or-flight response is a peculiar thing; an in-between state that is based purely on fear and adrenaline with just enough confusion thrown in to make your head spin and your heart erupt through your throat. I wanted to curl up in a ball and pretend this messed-up situation was nothing more than a nightmare vivid enough for the big screen.

  I heard Livvy screaming, begging someone to help her. I couldn’t move, couldn’t look away from the face swirling in the mirror.

  The mouth formed an ‘O’ and sucked in the fog. I lurched backward, away from the vacuum. But Chase got caught in it. He reached for me, struggling to stay on his feet. The mirror took no pity, dragging him through the glass as he screamed.

  I covered my ears, but I would never forget the horrific sounds. They would meld with the others that haunted me.

  Come to me…

  I jerked away from the whispers, stumbled and fell, catching myself on all fours. Pain shot through my entire body. I swore I could feel my mind splintering into bits so small I’d never be able to put all the pieces back together. The mirror’s laughter slid over my skin like a million leeches, sucking out my blood through microscopic straws, draining all the warmth from my body.

  Come to me…

  Frantic, I crawled over broken glass, ignoring the pain as the shards lodged in my knees and palms. No matter which direction I went, I couldn’t get away from all the mirrors; away from the screams. The candlelight danced and flickered as if it were mocking me.

  Another face emerged. Chase. Oh, God.

  His face, contorted with fear and pain; his hands, clawing at the mirror. He called to me, shouting my name over and over. Pleading for me to help him.

  I couldn’t see Livvy, but I could hear her sobbing. Adam was silent and I feared something even more terrible had happened to him.

  Every fiber of my being screamed at me to turn and run away. But how could I leave them? I shook my head, pounded on the floor until my knuckles were dripping blood.

  Mind and soul fracturing, I reached out for Chase’s hand and tumbled through the mirror.

  Falling.

  Falling.

  Falling.

  I landed with a thud, my legs twisted in unnatural angles, my wrists tethered to the floor.

  The face moved toward me, leaned close. I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.

  Black eyes glistened and the face spoke to me.

  “Vanessa, it’s time for your medicine.”

  4

  oneirophobia

  Fear of dreaming

  connie corcoran wilson

  The machine gun fire was deafening.

  Two groups of men, clad in camouflage, approached. Black masks. Three men in each group. They ran in a half-crouch towards the confused employees in the plant lunchroom.

  “What the fuck?” Gregory Chandler shouted at co-worker Brad Clemens. “What’s going on?” Recognizing imminent danger, Greg shouted, “Hit the floor!” Both men dove beneath the cafeteria lunch table. Just an ordinary day at the John Deere Harvester Works in East Moline, Illinois, where combines were assembled.

  Until now.

  Be quiet!! Lie Still! Play dead! These thoughts raced through Gregory Chandler’s head as he watched the boot-clad gunmen come closer.

  Brad was hit. A red stain slowly spread across his chest. He lay there beneath the table, facing Gregory Chandler. Slack-jawed. Eyes glazed. A thin rope of drool suspended from his lower lip. The hot dog he’d been eating fell to the floor. A ketchup stain on Brad’s cheek simulated the blood now gushing from wounds in his neck and torso. A surprised look reflected in Brad’s blue eyes, pupils dilated in death. A sickening smell wafted towards Greg; he tried not to inhale.

  Just barely breathe. Don’t look at Brad. Quiet. Play dead. Greg’s eyes were shut tight. He hoped his eyelids didn’t flutter and give him away. He prayed that the killers wouldn’t shoot more rounds of ammunition into the two men lying face-down under the cafeteria table, both of them now drenched in Brad Clemens’ blood, as the pool widened and stained them both.

  The strangers came closer. Cubans armed with automatic weapons--machine guns. The assailants had just mowed down half of the first-shift workers sitting in the gigantic cafeteria eating a peaceful lunch. A veritable cacophony of percussive noise. Screams echoed from the tiled walls. The employees had no more chance than the theater goers at the showing of “Batman: The Dark Knight Rises” in Aurora, Colorado when a psychotic red-haired gunman named James Holmes fired into their midst, killing twelve and wounding seventy. Innocent casualties were everywhere. Confusion and chaos reigned.

  ***

  A hand grabbed Greg’s shoulder.

  “GREG! GREG! WAKE UP!”

  Cynthia Chandler was shaking Greg. Concern clouded her features. “What’s the matter? You were muttering and shaking and screaming!” Cynthia was upset.

  Still groggy, the dream still fresh in his mind, Greg tried to respond.

  “I--I was at work…”

  “Yes…?” she said, her tone indicating she wanted her husband to continue.

  Still too groggy to articulate clearly, Greg said, “Cubans. Cuban assassins.”

  “What?” Cynthia wasn’t tracking. For that matter, neither was Greg Chandler. It was so REAL. It seemed as though it was actually happening! The sound of machine gun fire still echoed in his brain. The smoky haze. The odor. Brad’s dead body.

  “What’s this about Cubans?” Cynthia asked, puzzled.

  “They--they were in the cafeteria. They were armed. They shot us.”

  “O--kay.” Cynthia did not sound as though it was okay. She sounded like she was humoring her husband. She cocked her left eyebrow quizzically.

  “Never mind. Just hold me. Hold me a minute,” Greg said, moving his head to rest on Cynthia’s ample bosom. He tried to calm his rapidly beating heart, to slow his respiration and bring it back to normal.

  Cynthia snuggled Greg’s head against her breasts. She said, “Okay, but remember: I saved your ass from certain death.” She hugged him tightly, smiling to herself. “Don’t you dare get yourself killed in a dream. Leave that to me when there’s a good reason.” She chuckled. “You know I’m gonna’ kill you if you die on me at forty-six. The kids and I are counting on you.” She kissed the top of his head with genuine affection.

  Eventually, both Greg and Cynthia drifted off into fitful slumber.

  Tuesday morning.

  The Chandlers’ cheery kitchen. Greg Chandler looked like he’d had a rough night. Cynthia Chandler poured Greg a steaming hot cup of strong black coffee. She offered it to him, holding the coffee mug at arm’s length, when he entered the room. As Greg stretched his right hand out to receive the cup, he ran the fingers of his left hand through his thick, dark, tangled hair, ruffling it into a messy pile that looked like a small bird’s nest. The slight blonde and the tall, dark, forty-six-year-old Brad made
a handsome couple.

  “Honey--you were just having a nightmare. Nobody shot Brad. Nobody’s shooting at you.” Cynthia paused and then added, almost as an after-thought, “Who’s Brad, anyway? Do I know him? And why Cubans?”

  In the harsh glare of daylight, the previous night’s dream seemed silly. Stupid. Greg felt slightly embarrassed to still be talking about armed Cubans in the cafeteria.

  “Uh… I dunno. I just knew they were Cubans--somehow.” Greg’s simultaneous sipping of his coffee confused his articulation of the sentence. It came out half-gibberish, all muddled together. He seemed to want to drop the subject.

  “Honey--do you even know any Cubans?” Cynthia appeared amused. She chortled.

  “Well--there was Desi Arnaz,” Greg answered. Slowly. Dully. Even he smiled at his answer and the length of time it took him to respond. He was tired.

  “R-i-i-i-g-h-t,” said Cynthia. “Very timely. A Cuban who appeared on I Love Lucy in the fifties. What were you doing in this dream? Time traveling backwards?” Cynthia still sported a slight smile. She sounded like she, too, was suffering from the lack of a good night’s sleep.

  “Well, I didn’t know I was limited to only current Cuban celebrities in my dreams,” Greg said, trying to amuse. “I could have said Gloria and Emilio Estefan, if you had explained the conditions of my nightmares to me beforehand. But Gloria and Emilio don’t sound too menacing.” He took another sip and added, “Gloria would have to sing me to death.” Greg smiled. He grabbed Cynthia around the waist, breaking into song: “Rhythm is gonna’ get you.” He laughed, and then resumed, in a more serious tone. “These guys were scary, Cyn’. And they were after me. I know they were. They were whispering my name.”

  “Whispering?”

  “Yeah. You know: Greg-oh-ree! Greg-oh-ree! But softly.”

  “So, let me get this straight: these ‘Cubans’ are shooting machine guns at random Deere employees in the plant cafeteria at lunchtime, but they’re whispering your name while they’re doing it? What are you…the patron saint of cafeteria workers or something?” Gloria smiled, knowing she was being a smart ass. Then, seeking equal time, she sang the next verse of Gloria Estefan's famous song: “At night, when you turn off all the lights, there’s no place that you can hide.” Both of them joined the upbeat rhythm chorus Greg had sung earlier. The pair laughed when they finished singing the “rhythm” part, with Cynthia pretending to be shaking maracas and her booty simultaneously. It would be the last time that they would find anything amusing about Greg’s nightmares. And they wouldn’t be doing any more singing of upbeat songs over morning coffee.

  Greg looked sheepish. “Yeah. I mean… I don’t know. They were just scary as shit. And they were after me. I know they were after me. And, yes, they were whispering my name.” Greg was adamant, détente or no détente.

  “If they were whispering it, how could you hear them over the noise of machine gun fire?”

  “Damn! The woman can be maddening when she wants to be! Greg thought.

  Greg remembered the second verse of Gloria Estefan’s song. He realized it was exactly what he had done in his dream. “In bed, throw the covers on your head. You pretend like you are dead.”

  Greg had always liked that song.

  Until now.

  The cheerful, upbeat rhythm belied the menacing message. What was “the rhythm?” Why was it out to get him? This thought, following on the heels of their recent duet popped into his fatigued brain.

  “I don’t know, Cynthia. I just know that this group of big scary Cuban guys was out to get me. And they DID get Brad.” Sipping his coffee once again after blowing on it to cool it, Greg added,” You should know Brad. Remember the Christmas party? The blond guy with the glasses? I told you about him. Before Christmas vacation he left work to get a vasectomy. He came back to work the same day. Passed out in the parking lot next to his car. Security had to haul his unconscious ass into the building and take him to the infirmary.”

  As he finished telling this old story, which both of them had laughed about at the time, Cynthia and Greg laughed for real. Their last laugh for days. It defused the tension in Greg’s voice. But not in his brain.

  Lunchtime: John Deere Harvester Works, East Moline, Illinois, Wednesday Noon.

  When it was time for lunch, Greg avoided the Killing Ground. He could still see every detail of the cafeteria the way it had been in his nightmare: smashed French fries on the floor. Half-eaten hot dog. Spilled Coca Cola. Bullet casings. Blood. Slack-jawed corpse of Brad Clemens, blood oozing from his mid-section, saliva dripping from his open mouth. Shocked look on Brad’s face.

  Instead, Greg walked to the machines near his office that held bags of chips and pre-made sandwiches. He wondered if he’d be able to enter the lunchroom tomorrow or the next day, days after his nightmare. He knew today was too soon. The previous night's dream lingered in his consciousness. He could not snap out of the feeling of impending doom.

  I could stand to lose a few pounds, anyway, he reasoned, defending his cowardice with a more logical excuse for chickening out.

  Evening, Day Three, Wednesday:

  As the evening wore on, Cynthia and Gregory Chandler watched a recorded episode of The Walking Dead. They followed that up with a Game of Thrones replay. Greg dozed off occasionally. That was normal after a long day at work. The gore quotient of the shows they watched was high. The Red Wedding episode. Smashed zombie heads.

  At one point, as they ate their food on TV trays, Cynthia said, “They ought to call this show ‘Smashing Pumpkins II’ or something. Why does every show have to have zombies getting their heads brutally smashed with a rifle butt, and always while I’m eating?”

  Cynthia was not as big a fan of The Walking Dead as Greg. She objected to viewing really gruesome shows while dining, but she traded Modern Family for zombies. She was definitely more squeamish than Greg. Most of the time, Cynthia was the only one awake to watch anything, as Greg habitually dozed off. Especially tonight.

  Greg was feeling less and less happy about turning in. He had to be at work by 7:30 a.m. Middle management supervisory duties had its perks, but it also had its drawbacks. Arriving before the rank-and-file for early morning meetings was one of the duties.

  Greg routinely went to bed at 10 p.m. in order to try to get eight hours of sleep. But tonight, he couldn’t make himself turn off the television set. He wasn’t ready to knit up the day’s raveled cares in the arms of Hypnos, the Greek god of sleep.

  “Aren’t you coming to bed, Hon?” Cynthia was holding her toothbrush, fully lathered, in her right hand as she peered from inside the master bathroom door that opened onto the family room.

  “In a minute,” Greg said, looking and sounding preoccupied.

  In reality, Greg was dreading dreaming, fearing sleep.

  Zombies. White Walkers. Cubans. Who will try to kill me tonight?

  Midnight. One A.M. Two A.M. Three A.M. Finally, Greg couldn’t keep his eyes open. He watched Jimmy Fallon. Seth Meyer. Carson Daley. Repeats of The Today Show. He had no idea what the programs were about. The steady drone of voices anesthetized him from thinking about his nightmare. It didn’t stop him from worrying that a NEW dream might await him tonight.

  As he finished washing his face and spat a final bit of toothpaste into the bathroom’s double sink, Greg thought, If I encounter Cubans again tonight, I’d better find a more current Cuban celebrity when I tell Cynthia about the dream. He smiled wryly. Is Andy Garcia still considered famous? Will he be good enough for Cynthia when I freak out? How about Mark Cuban? ‘Shark Tank’? I’m really losing focus now. Getting loopy. And I know it.

  He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. Apprehensive. He accidentally bumped the mirror that jutted out from the wall while leaning over to place his toothbrush back in the holder. Swore wearily. Muttered aloud, “I keed, Greg. I keed.” Bad Cuban accent.

  He crawled into bed, exhausted.

  ***

  The first shot grazed his ear. He rea
ched up. Felt something warm. Blood. It was blood.

  Shit! They’re back!

  The Cubans weren’t in the cafeteria. It wasn’t even lunchtime. It was morning. Bright. Sunny. Cheerful. Greg was in his corner office. Sunshine was streaming through the windows, bathing the Berber carpeting in light. It refracted from the beveled edge of a glass door of the bookcase in the room. Rainbow-colored reflected rays of light were shining in his eyes, preventing him from getting a good look. He couldn’t see the men coming down the hall because of the glare. One of them had managed to shoot through the glass of his office window. That bullet had brushed his ear.

  Greg clapped a hand over his right ear to stop the bleeding, but he seemed incapable of any other movement. He was paralyzed with fear.

  Although he couldn’t see the men, he could hear them. They grew louder as they came closer to his office door, whispering his name with increasing volume: Greg-oh-Ree! Greg-Oh-Ree! GREG-OH-REE!

  Panic. Short, choppy breaths. Heart beating like a hummingbird. His tongue felt like a dry brush in his mouth. Hands sweating. He couldn’t think clearly. Am I having a heart attack? Greg dropped to his hands and knees. Collapsed, really. He crumpled into the knee-space beneath his desk. He hoped he could control his bladder and bowels. Brad had lost that ability in death. But Greg was very much alive and as frightened of the next few moments as he had ever been afraid of anything in his life.

  Maybe they won’t know I’m here. Maybe they won’t see me. Maybe they won’t kill me. WHY do they want to kill me? He prayed that his breathing wasn’t as loud as it sounded in his own ears.

  They were coming for him…whoever “they” were. They were calling…well, whispering…his name. When they reached the door, he’d know who “they” were, but what good would that do him? They had already shattered the glass in his office windows with a stray bullet. He had no weapon. He was no match for men with guns.