Forgotten Fears

by Bray, Michael

  Not one.

  I could still hear them, though, and somehow that was worse because it felt like they were mocking me. As was my way when faced with something I don’t want to deal with, I turned back to the bottle, crashed out on the sofa and drank myself into oblivion.

  It was only half an hour ago that I woke up from that, and as I write my head is still fuzzy, although I’m pretty sober now after what happened. God knows, I would kill for another drink now (the irony. Ha!). I really feel like I need one. Anyhow, no time to get ahead of myself. The sirens that I imagined I could hear earlier are definitely coming, and not a moment too soon, as the little guys have started to scratch around again in the walls. I better hurry up and finish this.

  It was pain that woke me from my alcohol induced sleep. A tingling sharpness in my wrist. Headache thundered in my skull, and I forced my eyes open and looked down at my arm, which was hanging over the edge of the sofa.

  There were two of them sitting there. One of them I’m almost certain was the one who had glared at me from the cupboard door as he had helped his wounded kin from the mousetrap. The other was ignoring me, tiny white teeth gritted in determination. They were holding a single blade from a pair of kitchen scissors and were sawing away at my wrist with it as if it were the world’s biggest redwood. Blood was already flowing, and I screamed out and threw my arm in the air, the two little people launching across the room like rag dolls. Although my wrist was bleeding pretty badly, I was lucky to have woken up before they did any serious damage. It was only then that my overloaded brain realised what had been happening.

  The little people had been trying to kill me.

  I expected the idea of that to make me afraid, but instead, it was anger that surged through me, and I snatched up the hammer from the seat cushion beside me. The noise in the walls was deafening, a scratching mass of scurrying movement all around. It sounded like an army back there, and I was their primary target.

  Again, it just dawned on me that I should have left, just got the hell out of there, but I inherited my father’s stubborn streak, and - with another swig of whiskey to steady my nerves - I readied my attack.

  Most of the noise was coming from the kitchen. Subtle scratches, stealthy thuds. That seemed to be where they were most active, and if mousetraps didn’t work, then maybe a more direct approach would. Tightening my grip on the hammer, I charged across the room, kicking the door open and swinging the weapon with every ounce of strength I could muster I…

  There was no way I could stop myself. I need to make that clear right now. Besides, how could I know she would be there?

  I saw Hilary a split second before the hammer made contact with her forehead, her eyes wide and frightened, her mouth open in surprise as her wild-eyed, plaster dust covered husband came at her. The sound was a wet crunch as her skull bowed inwards, the tray of toast and coffee that she was carrying crashing to the floor in a symphony of spilled liquid and broken crockery. She didn’t scream, I don’t think she had time. But don’t worry, I screamed enough for both of us. There was so much blood. I tossed the hammer aside, watching as it left a bloody streak behind where it slid to a halt by the wall, reminding me of the one left by the little persons severed foot. I cradled her head, and although I prayed that she would be okay, I knew just by looking that she was gone. Her eyes were glassy and wide, and I knew just by looking that she was gone. Blood ran from her nostrils and ears, and the top of her head was misshaped, a concave depression which quickly filled with blood. At some point, my screams turned into sobs, and I started screaming for help, hoping that someone would come and tell me what to do.

  That was when I saw them. The little people.

  They were everywhere. Standing on the worktops, peering out of the cupboards. I even saw the one that I had caught in the mousetrap, standing on makeshift crutches with his tiny stump bandaged. There were more of them than I could have ever imagined. The two that had been hacking at my arm walked defiantly past where I knelt on the kitchen floor, my trousers and arms drenched with Hilary’s blood. They looked at me as they passed, tiny faces glaring and smug. They knew they had beaten me, they knew I was broken and wouldn’t retaliate. I watched as they disappeared back into the walls, squeezing through gaps in the worktops, others through the holes in the walls that I had made with the hammer. The rest through the cupboards. The scratching as they made their way deeper into the spaces between the walls was very loud, and one I knew I would never forget. Revenge was no longer an option. I didn’t care anymore. I don’t care anymore.

  And that, I think brings us pretty much up to date. The scratchers are still moving around in the walls, and although I have closed the kitchen door I know Hilary is there. I didn’t think I loved her anymore, but knowing what I have done, knowing that she will no longer exist in the world feels me with a guilt and sadness for which I know I can find no words to be able to ever accurately explain. The fact that she came back to help me despite everything tells me that maybe she did still love me after all. But now she will never love anyone ever again. The Scratchers saw to that.

  I also know that the police won’t believe me and that in all likelihood, I will spend the rest of my days in some kind of institution as doctors prod and poke me and try to convince me that what I saw wasn’t real. But I know it was. Despite the breakdown and the alcohol and everything else, I know those little people are in the walls. And I know this is all their fault.

  The police are here now, I can hear them knocking on the door. I should let them in, but I don’t think my legs would support me. Those little bastards in the walls know enough how to play the game, though. For the first time since this all started, they are silent. It has just dawned on me, as the police start trying to break down the door, that this could all be a figment of my imagination. Not Hilary of course, she’s dead, no doubt about it. But them, the Scratchers might not even be real.

  What if, despite everything, I have imagined the whole thing? Could it be that my exhausted brain could have created them to fill the gap left by Hilary when she decided that Ted was a better option for a life partner?

  Is it possible that the lack of sleep and excess of whiskey and vodka has rotted my brain to the point of hallucinating these things?

  It’s possible, but I don’t think so. I know my mind, and I know what is real. I also suspect that this isn’t over. I expect that one day in the not too distant future, as I sit in my cell with the padded walls, that I will hear them again, skittering and scratching as they cut their way through to me. After all, I killed one of theirs, and if I’ve learned anything, it’s that they are vengeful little bastards who will want revenge. Either way, there’s no point worrying about it now. If and when that happens, I guess we will just take it as it comes.

  It’s time to go. The police are almost in and I have a lot of explaining to do.

  Wish me luck.

  Trenton.

  SEAT 6A

  [This was one of those stories that started off as one thing and morphed into something else entirely along the way. The original idea was to do a story about my very real fear of flying and the anxiety it causes. I won’t spoil it here, but the story naturally morphed along the way into what you are about to read. This was initially written way back during the first batch of writing session for Dark Corners, and was only cut because it didn’t fit with the theme of the rest of that particular collection. Those who have read Dark Corners will note that the unwelcome passenger of flight 444 is actually Monde, who appears in a couple of the other stories within the collection. ]

  CINDY STIFLED A yawn as she looked at the expanse of empty seats on American airlines flight 444. The idea of another long flight filled with whiny passengers who thought it was acceptable to talk to her like something they had stepped in filled her with dread. Although she had worked her way up to the position of head flight attendant, she was jaded with the lifestyle and was desperate for a break, to do something different with her life. This flight would be h
er three hundredth, and she was thankful that the most drama she had ever encountered was a mid-flight water break of a heavily pregnant passenger, where she along with the other attendants had been forced to deliver the baby as they flew over the Pacific. It was always in the back of her mind that one day something worse might happen. A hijacking or a passenger becoming violent, but she tried not to think about it too much. She had just turned thirty-five and still considered herself in decent shape. Slim with hazel eyes and brown hair, she had strong cheekbones and a kind smile which endeared people to her. She walked to the open rear door of the jet, breathing in the cool, crisp Chicago air. It was a little after six in the morning and there was a small smudge of orange just beginning to creep over the horizon line. Apart from a few small patches of cloud, it looked like it was going to be another scorcher of a day. Unable to put off the unpleasant task to come any longer, she made her way through the aircraft towards the cockpit. Pausing for a moment outside the door to compose herself, she knocked and entered without waiting for a reply. She was just about able to hide her grimace as she locked eyes with the pilot, Captain James Henshaw. He was relaxing, sipping a Starbucks as he went through his pre-flight checklist. He gave her a quick, greedy once over then turned his attention back to his paperwork. Although he had always prided himself on looking his best, Cindy could see the cracks starting to form as age started to win out over his attempts to cheat it, which pleased her immensely. His cheeks had begun to sag ever so slightly, giving him a bulldog-like appearance. His eyes were developing crow’s feet at the edges and had great dark rims underneath from either too little sleep or too much drink when off duty. Combined with his paunch which strained at his pristine white shirt, Cindy wondered how he had ever managed to talk her into bed in the first place.

  “Good morning, Cindy,” He muttered, keeping his eyes down.

  His voice was smooth, the words rolling with slick assurance from his tongue.

  She held the clipboard she’d brought with her towards him. “Here’s the flight manifest.”

  Henshaw turned to face her. “How many on board?”

  She felt a flush of anger, hating the fact that he could so easily stir up a reaction in her. She glanced at the manifest still clutched in his right hand, and then back to him and his smug blue gaze nestled underneath ugly salt and pepper eyebrows. She thought he wouldn’t look out of place in one of those over-dubbed hair dye commercials for middle-aged men desperately trying to cling to their youth. Stifling the urge to laugh at the mental image, she decided to just answer his question and waste as little time as possible in his presence.

  “All full apart from two seats. Cancellations.”

  “Very good,” he nodded, waving away the unread manifest.

  Screw this, she thought. He won’t beat me this time.

  “Any adverse weather for the trip, Captain?” She said as confidently as she could, making sure to push her chest out to show the arrogant captain what he couldn’t have anymore.

  “Clear all the way as far as we can see. It’s gonna be another hot one today.” He replied, taking an opportunity to let his eyes linger over the front of her blouse. “So,” he said, smiling in what she knew was his best flirtatious way. “What’s on the menu today?”

  He raised one eyebrow as he waited for an answer, the innuendo impossible to miss.

  Somehow, she managed to stifle the urge to punch him in the face. “Either fish, roast beef or lasagne, sir.”

  She was pleased with the way that his guard dropped momentarily to show his frustration at her rebuttal. Like a switch being flicked, Henshaw realized he wasn’t going to get anything from her, and reverted back to the smooth pilot voice. “Put me down for fish.”

  She nodded, writing on her notepad and adding a doodle of an angry faced woman tearing her hair out by Henshaw’s name.

  “And the co-pilot and navigator, sir?” she said, not missing a beat, her face neutral as she waited, pen poised over her pad.

  “You’ll have to come back and ask them,” he snapped, still sore at her resistance to his attempts to flirt. “They should be here within the half hour.”

  “Very good, Captain,” She said, spinning on her heel and walking away, able to feel his eyes crawling all over her. Just for good measure, she made sure to wiggle her ass as best she could as she left to remind him again of what he couldn’t have anymore.

  Twenty minutes later she had calmed enough to forget about Henshaw, and was pleased to have something to distract her as the rest of the flight crew were starting to arrive, faces she knew well, and one, in particular, she always looked forward to seeing.

  “Hi, Hun, how you been doin’?”

  “I’m good Sylvia, how are you?” Cindy replied, hugging the smiling woman warmly.

  Sylvia Hosier was African-American, with one of the broadest New York accents you could ever hope to hear. Her eyes were warm and friendly, her skin the colour of rich coffee and despite having a good few years on Henshaw, unlike the captain hers was both worry and line free.

  “I didn’t know you were doing this run now,” Cindy said, genuinely happy to see her friend.”

  “I’m filling in, you just lost someone to maternity leave haven’t you?”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t know they’d be sending someone as experienced as you.”

  Sylvia smiled. “I don’t know quite how to take that honey.”

  “Oh god no, I’m thrilled you’re here. It’s amazing to see you again.” Cindy replied, hugging her friend for a second time.

  As they separated, Sylvia held on to Cindy’s arms, keeping her at arm’s length. “I heard about you and Robin, I’m so sorry. I thought you two were solid.”

  Cindy shrugged and tried her best to smile through the pain. To anyone else she would have lied, told them she was fine, but not Sylvia. She would know.

  “It had been coming for a while, Sylvia. It wasn’t his fault, I was responsible for it all.”

  “don’t you go beating yourself up about it, do ya’ hear? You have to move on.”

  “I’m doing my best. That’s all I can do.”

  “Well, if it helps, you look great, hon. Really great.”

  Cindy smiled, feeling awkward but grateful. “Thanks, I’ve been trying to keep myself healthy. I let myself go a little after the divorce.”

  Sensing her friend’s embarrassment, Sylvia changed the subject. “Anything specific I should know for the flight?”

  Glad for the not so subtle subject change, Cindy picked up her notes. “Not really. By all accounts, it should be a straightforward trip. All full bar two.”

  Sylvia took the flight manifest from Cindy, scanning over it.

  “Damn girl! You never said horny Henshaw was captain.”

  Cindy laughed, grateful for her friend’s effortless ability to lighten the mood.

  “It’s okay; I dealt with it, Sylvia. He’s an asshole. I’m not letting him get to me.”

  “Did you take the cockpit crew meal order?”

  Cindy nodded. “Partly, but he started trying to get a reaction, so I left.”

  Sylvia sucked air through her teeth. “That son of a bitch. How he kept his job is beyond me. Then to try and put the blame on you…” She put a hand on Cindy’s shoulder, directing her towards the coffee counter in the galley. “Tell you what, you leave it to me. I’ll head up there and take the rest of the order; you go ahead and make us a coffee then we can have a catch up before we start boarding.”

  Unable to hide her relief at not having to deal anymore with Henshaw, she smiled. “Thanks, I really owe you one.”

  Sylvia returned the gesture, a sea of white against her dark skin. “Hell, you do girl. Now go on, you make that coffee.”

  Within the hour, they were ready to start boarding. As expected, it was already getting hot, the sun now beating down without mercy on the runway. Sylvia was standing by the front hatch waiting to greet the passengers as Cindy busied herself making last minute checks in the galley. The pa
ssengers were starting to filter on, each doing the same subconscious thing that each and every one of them did. They would look around the plane, scrutinizing it, checking where the exits were, and looking at the roof and the windows as if they could see any flaws that might cause any potential problems. Some, of course, hid it better than others, but even the confident ones still had that underlying tension that came as part and parcel of air travel. She slipped effortlessly into her role, smiling broadly at the passengers as she passed them, pausing to reassure, guide them to their seats, sharing jokes which she had heard a hundred times before, helping to ease worries and distract people from ideas about a mid-air wiring fire or faulty rivet that could potentially cost them all their lives.

  She heard a commotion from the front and looked up to see a group of seven or eight football jocks, joking and laughing as they jostled each other. Cindy squeezed to one side, allowing them room as she endured the usual chorus of wolf whistles and smart comments.

  “Take it, easy guys, it’s a long flight,” she said, finding a little of their exuberance rubbing off on her.

  “You hear that goof, she meant you, and she’s going to spank your ass,” one of the jocks said, and they all laughed as if the comment by their blonde-haired buddy was the funniest thing they had ever heard. Ushering them into their seats, she turned, bumping into another passenger and dropping her clipboard on the floor.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, crouching down and gathering her papers together, which had come loose from the board. She tried to ignore the jeers and whistles from the jocks, suddenly wishing she were somewhere else. She glanced at the passenger’s feet; the leather shoes looked expensive, possibly Italian. She spoke as she stood, finding herself unusually flustered.

  “Let me show you to your seat, then I’ll get you a...”

  The word she meant to say was ‘drink’, however, it never made it past her throat. As she stood, she took in his jeans, stone washed, again a perfect and stylish match to the Italian shoes. The jacket was black leather, complimented by a white shirt, top buttons open to show a bronzed wedge of chest. She looked at his face, his smooth Mediterranean complexion, the jet black hair brushed backwards away from his face to rest on the nape of the neck. All of those details were ones she hardly took in. All she could look at were his eyes.