Never Fear

by Heather Graham

  “He began to… melt. His face… the skin… pieces floated away. But nothing changed his eyes. Not until the third day. They sort of… glowed. Then they began to watch me back.”

  Chapter Six

  Before I could gauge his reaction, other than to note the unnatural paleness that settled over him, Stu grabbed my hand and tugged me to my feet.

  “Come on. Let’s get out of here.” His words were urgent and completely out of context from anything we’d discussed.

  I barely managed to lock the door behind me as he hustled me outside and toward his big Ford F-150. I was fairly certain this rushed departure was another one of Stu’s unconventional approaches to getting me to face my fear. What he didn’t know yet, was continuing the act might be… unnecessary. At least, I hoped it was.

  Despite the rapidly rising anxiety that had nearly crippled me, I’d finally told someone what had happened. Or at least what I had believed happened when I’d been a seventeen-year-old girl, trapped in the water for days with a dead friend, watching as his skin putrefied and sloughed away… Jesus.

  Every day since--in every memory--every vision--every dream--the eyes seemed more alive. Always watching.

  In the telling, the story finally shifted into place and I realized just how impossible that vision truly was.

  This was nothing short of an epiphany.

  Could I finally be ready to let it go?

  I’d managed to say the word d-dead. Dead--Dead--Dead.

  “Is that what the dreams are? What you’ve been seeing?” Stu asked, startling me from my thoughts.

  It took me a minute to think back over our conversation and place his question. “You mean seeing a d-dead boy and thinking his eyes were somehow glowing? Yes--that’s where the dreams always go. The other things--what I see when I’m awake--” A shudder raced up my spine. “Like when I would try to drive past the c-cemetery… it was more… obscure. Like catching movement from the corner of your eye, but turning and finding nothing there. Only sometimes there were… faces. Faces like--” I gagged, then sucked in a deep breath, trying to maintain my hard-fought control.

  “Faces like your friend Vance.” Stu’s voice sounded flat. Grim.

  “Do you think I’m mad?” I asked again, my voice a harsh whisper in the dark.

  “I think there are realities and--” He gripped the wheel tighter, then slowed for a turn. My head whipped around as I peered into the dark, trying to get my bearings.

  “Have you ever seen a zombie movie, Hannah?”

  I looked back at Stu to judge his seriousness, but he didn’t meet my gaze. “You mean other than that stupid exercise video you made me watch? Are you kidding? No. Just… no. I understand about the whole exposure theory--you keep exposing me to incrementally more challenging elements of my phobia until I learn to cope, but seriously, Stu… this isn’t like a fear of flying where my goal is to be able to fly without having a panic attack. I have necrophobia… an unnatural fear of the d-dead. I told you in the beginning--for me, a cure means I can drive past a cemetery without having a panic attack. It means I can sleep through the night-- It doesn’t mean I want the ability to watch B-grade movies where monsters have to eat brains in order to keep their body parts from dropping all over town.”

  Stu snorted a laugh. “That’s only the low-functioning zombies, you know. They need brains to survive, shed body parts, and generally can’t function as sentient beings.”

  “Don’t know--don’t care.”

  “You should. Those are who you’ve been seeing. They want access to the light of your soul, but they don’t realize eating you would also kill the light within you--thereby making you one of them and no longer a desirable source of healing energy.”

  I sighed. “Really not funny, Stu.” We passed a familiar sign, and my stomach did one of those elevator-down-the-shaft sort of dives. I rubbed suddenly damp palms against my thighs. “Where-- Whatever you have planned for tonight… I’m thinking I’ve had enough breakthrough. I’d like to go home.”

  “There’s a whole other level of zombie that also wants access to the energy that fairly hums off you, Hannah. But they can get that energy through proximity. These high-functioning zombies can engage in pretty much every activity and manage polite society virtually undetected.”

  “Is that what that American Z-z-zombie movie--wait. You know what? I don’t care. Stu, I’m not joking. Turn around. I don’t want to do this tonight. I-I’m not ready for this level of exposure yet.”

  Relief flooded me as Stu braked, and I thought he was going to turn around. Then my hands started to shake as he ignored my request and turned right into the cemetery.

  “The thing is, most sources of light and energy--like yourself--never realize they’re surrounded by the high-functioners,” Stu continued. “And for the human, there’s not a noticeable energy drain because the high-functioning zombie can use simple proximity to regenerate--although, physical contact is even more effective. The energy sources go on about their charmed lives, relatively safe from the feral zombies once they are claimed by the high-functioners.”

  “I don’t want to hear any more about the stupid plot, Stu.” I was really getting pissed. I wanted to give the man credit for the earlier breakthrough, but I needed a minute to breathe, to sort through my thoughts and the implications. To maybe see if I couldn’t actually get a few hours of sleep without dreaming for a change.

  “Take. Me. Home.”

  “Soon,” he agreed. “First, we need to send a message. Make it clear you are not a source of brain food.” He gave a soft laugh. “This was certainly not how I thought this would play out.”

  Stu pulled to a stop just inside the cemetery gate, then reached for my hand. Threading our fingers together, he heaved a sigh. “I didn’t expect to be here so soon.”

  I heard the smile in his voice and smiled in return. It was as if that simple touch melted away my frustration and the edge of fear. Stu had made it clear that we wouldn’t date until he considered my necrophobia gone. Tonight I’d told him things I’d never shared with another, had made more progress in a matter of a few hours than in a lifetime of counseling. Now he was holding my hand and I considered that a very good sign.

  “Kiss me?” he asked, his voice soft and warm, like a heated caress against my heart. I leaned in, drawn by this man like no other. His laughter and smile, his quick wit, and quirky way of dealing with my anxiety. Everything about him fit me perfectly--and if we were about to take our relationship to a new level, then maybe it was exactly right we start it here. There wasn’t another person on the planet who could’ve convinced me to come through those gates.

  My tongue flicked out to moisten my lips, then I closed the distance between us, appreciating Stu’s patience in letting me set the pace. When our lips were just a hairbreadth apart, I whispered an answer.

  “Yes.”

  Ever so softly, Stu brushed his lips against mine. Once. Twice. On the third time, I parted my lips in invitation, and Stu deepened the kiss. His tongue invaded my mouth, sliding against mine. Exploring. Claiming.

  Stu twisted his fingers into my hair and changed the angle of our kiss, barely giving me time to breathe and amping up my need. When he finally pulled back, the sound of our breath was harsh in the quiet of the night.

  “Want you, Hannah…”

  “Yes,” I agreed. I started to pull my T-shirt over my head, but Stu stilled my hands.

  “Here?” he asked, with more than a hint of laughter in his voice.

  I blinked as I looked around, belatedly remembering where we were. I laughed with sheer joy at the absurdity of the situation. Two hours ago, I couldn’t say d-dead… now I was seriously considering having sex in a cemetery. What a way to tell my fear to fuck off.

  “I’m game if you are…” I jerked my shirt the rest of the way over my head, toed off my sneakers, and gave him a long look.

  Stu started to unbutton his shirt and his slow smile was all the answer I needed. We both unfastene
d our jeans, then Stu scooted toward the middle of the seat so I could straddle his lap.

  “You make me crazy, Stu Maxwell,” I whispered against his mouth when he was finally buried inside me.

  “And you, my love, make me feel alive.”

  His words took my breath away. He’d called me love. My lips curved into a smile I thought might be permanent. I leaned my head back far enough to focus on the face I was growing to love… and met his glowing green-eyed gaze.

  14

  Agateophobia

  Fear of Insanity

  Mathew Kaufman

  “Welcome to Laurel Mountain Sanitarium, Mister…? “ the man said, reaching out to shake his hand.

  “Daggets. Frank Daggets,” Frank said, accepting the hand. His arm quickly soaked with rain.

  “I’m Frederick von Haussen, Superintendent of the facilities. Please, come inside. The rain can be most unpleasant,” von Haussen replied.

  Just then a flash of lightning shot across the storm-filled sky. It illuminated the tall stone building in a bluish white hue. The lightning flashed several more times. Thunder cracked through the air. It filled Frank’s ears as he hunched at the sound and glanced up.

  “Are you all right, Mr. Daggets? Surely you are not frightened of a bit of thunder. Laurel Mountain gets storms three-hundred plus days a year. Goodness. Let’s get inside. “

  Frank felt ridiculous after von Haussen caught his reaction to a bit of thunder. He tried his best to regain his composure. He climbed the thirteen stone steps that led to the large wooden doors of the entry way. Above the doors, carved in stone, read “Laurel Mountain Sanitarium. “The door was cracked; a guard watched the interaction and waited for von Haussen’s return.

  Once von Haussen reached the top step, the large wooden doors creaked open. Frank stepped inside, glad to be out of the downpour, but not glad to be inside this place. It was dark inside. Small yellow lights slightly illuminated the sanitarium walls. Frank looked at his new surroundings.

  The welcome area was not much more than a red area rug bordered with gold embroidery. Large patches of fringe along the edge were missing. A small tube radio sat atop the table, an orange glow emitting from the dials. The opening of “The Lone Ranger” played quietly. Several well-worn wooden chairs surrounded a table that had seen better days. It was close enough to Frank that he could see gouges in its top, near where the radio sat. His eyes widened and he gasped. Those look like fingernail gouges.

  The gasp drew von Haussen’s attention.

  “Ah, yes. I see you have noticed our table. Some of our patients enter the facility in a less-than-willing manner. Please, pay it no attention. None of our patients are dangerous anymore. The ones that would be considered as such are kept well sedated. “

  “What the hell happened to the carpet?” Frank inquired.

  Von Haussen laughed, “Ah yes. It seems to be something of a tasty treat to a few of our ward. “

  Frank forced a smile. His knees felt weak and his stomach turned. He did NOT want to be here. Psycho-crazy-insane folk scared the hell out of him. They just looked dead and broken. He had argued with Mr. Wainwright, the owner of Wainwright Plumbing, for over an hour about doing a job here. Frank had only been with WP for a few months and was in no position to turn down a job. Mr. Wainwright had made that absolutely clear.

  “Mr. Daggets? Mr. Daggets!” von Haussen snapped.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I--” Frank started to speak.

  “Mr. Daggets, I know a sanitarium is not the most comfortable place to be, but you must keep your focus. We need these repairs done and my staff’s time is very limited. We do not have time to hold your hand. Is that clear? “ von Haussen said, obviously irritated.

  “My apologies, Mr. von Haussen. Please show me to the areas that need the work,” Frank said, flushed with embarrassment.

  “This way,” von Haussen directed.

  Both men and the guard walked down a long cinder block-lined hallway. The walls were painted a putrid green; not a lime color, not an avocado color. Something in-between. The paint clung loosely to the walls. Years of moisture had taken its toll on the paint. Large flakes of the hideous color hung, folded over, off of the walls.

  The hall ended at a large steel door. The guard stepped to the front. His keys jingled as he grabbed them. He selected the correct key and inserted it into the lock. The guard gave it a turn and with a metal on metal clang the lock released and von Haussen pushed the door open.

  “We are now in the disturbed patient wing of the facility. Most of these patients are here due to some sort of disorder that was too much for their families to deal with. A handful of them are here for crimes against humanity. As I mentioned earlier, you needn’t worry about our patients. Those in the violent wards are kept in a constant state of sedation. Should one of the wards bother you, please let a guard or a nurse know. Now, to troubles at hand. Nixon, would you mind? “

  The guard, Nixon, stepped forward and again searched through his keys until he found the one he was looking for. He inserted it into the lock and gave it a turn. Again, the familiar metallic clang broke the silence and the door unlocked.

  Nothing could have prepared Frank for this.

  The smell was atrocious. It assaulted every one of his senses. EVERY ONE! The foul smell of human shit filled the air. It hung so thick that Frank could taste it.

  They stepped inside the small room. Despite the shit smell, Frank’s attention immediately went to the woman in the corner of the room.

  She sat on a metal bed that was bolted to the wall. A paper thin mattress lined the bed. She wore white pants and a white shirt. The woman looked to be in her early thirties. She sat staring at Frank. No sound. No movement. Is she even breathing? She looked like a mannequin.

  Just then, the sound of a flushing toilet was heard from somewhere down the corridor. The toilet in the cell began to gurgle.

  “Step back, here is goes again,” Nixon said, and took his own advice.

  Feces spewed from the throat of the toilet. It looked like thick brown toothpaste. Air was also forced through the pipe. That made things even worse. As the air, a horrendous smelling breeze, was forced through the fecal paste, it popped like a bubbling cauldron. Specks of feces shot into the air. Frank watched as Nixon and von Haussen retched.

  “The whole--west side--is like this. It is-- Please, just fix it,” von Haussen said

  Frank nodded and turned back toward the door.

  “Jesus Christ, HOLY FUCK!” Frank yelled, and lost his balance on the slippery sludge-covered floor. He fell on his ass directly through the door and landed back in the corridor. “What the fuck is--”

  Frank, now on his back, stared up into the doorway. There she stood. The woman from the room, her blank stare locked onto Frank. Again, no movement, no sound. Frank’s heart pounded, his eyes wide.

  Then blackness.

  ***

  Frank awoke to von Haussen’s voice. “Are you ok? Frank? Can you hear me? “

  “What the fuck just happened?” Frank interrupted as the memory of the woman’s face returned.

  “I should have warned you. Sometimes our patients exhibit behaviors that are completely normal for them but not for sane people. Like Claire; she’s a sniffer. She smells everything. Doesn’t talk, doesn’t move much, just sniffs,” the guard interjected. “We’re so used to her and she already knows what we smell like and uh…I was distracted by all the crap. I’m very sorry. “

  “Jesus,” Frank said, laying his head on the ground. He brought his hands up to his face and wiped the moisture off. This job is going to be--worse than awful. Frank wiped his sweaty hands onto his dark blue uniform trousers. Nixon extended his hand. Frank latched on and was pulled to his feet.

  “Thanks,” Frank said. He brushed the muck off his back and pants.

  “You fainted real good there,” Nixon said. “You need a few minutes to pull it together?”

  “No! I want to get this done as fast as possible. I need t
o get my tools. “ Frank said to von Haussen.

  “I’ll leave you in the care of Mr. Nixon. He will escort you in and out of the main door. You will be provided a key that opens the individual cells as we do not have the staffing to post someone with you all of the time. I ask that you open only one cell at a time please. We would not want any escapees,” von Haussen said.

  With that, Frank nodded and together he and Nixon walked back to the doorway that secured the corridor. They passed through and Frank heard the clang of the door being locked.

  “I’ll be back in just a few minutes,” Frank said as he glanced back at Nixon.

  Nixon nodded and Frank proceeded to the front door. He grabbed the handle, a cold brass lever, and pushed it down. The wind had picked up significantly since Frank had arrived. It shoved the heavy door into him as he opened it. Once outside it took two hands for Frank to pull it closed.

  The rain had died down slightly but the sky was still lit with lightning and cracked with thunder. Anxiously, Frank descended the stairs. His boots splashed into the puddles that soaked the now muddy driveway. Rain splattered his face. He wiped at it furiously with his already wet sleeve. The wind gusted as Frank leaned into the back of his pick-up. He lifted the blue tarp that covered his tools and began to look for what he needed.

  Shhhh, the wind seemed to speak to Frank. Goosebumps sprang out of his arms. He ignored the noise and continued to rummage for the required tools. Fraaank, the wind spoke again. Behind you, Fraaank. This was too much for him to ignore. He was flooded with nervous energy. A gust of wind caught the tarp and whipped it out of the truck bed and over Frank’s head.

  He panicked and began violently writhing inside the tarp. He fought against the wind. It wrapped the tarp around Frank. He stumbled in a struggle to get the tarp off. Something pushed into him. Through the tarp the wind spoke again. You will die here, Fraaank.