Fan Fears: A collection of fear based stories by Michael Bray Page A
Authors: Michael Bray
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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,
"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,
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