Rising Fears by Michaelbrent Collings

figure shrunk away from his fingers, keeping its back turned at the same time.
    "Don't," said Sean.
    Jason's hand stopped in midmotion. A long, eerie moment passed.
    Then the boy spoke again. This time, however, his voice was different. Bubbling. Like he was speaking the words through a throat that had been viciously torn out.
    Like he was speaking words around blood.
    "It got me," said the boy.
    "What got you?"
    Another long moment. Then: "It got me."
    "Let me help you," pleaded Jason.
    "You can't. No one can."
    And the boy began to turn....
    "Because it's started," he said, and completed his turn. "Fear."
    Jason screamed. The face had been torn and destroyed by something out of this world, something for which he had no name. He was taken by a primal panic, a fear that went back to the days when people huddled in caves during thunderstorms and prayed for the gods to stop throwing fire at them. He stumbled backward, seized by an irresistible need to flee, to escape, to fly away from this place and this horrible specter that confronted him.
    Then he tripped, his boots slipping in the thick mud, and when he looked up, the boy was gone.
    Now, instead of Sean, a woman and a young boy stood in front of him.
    "Oh, God, please, no," he whispered.
    It was Elizabeth and Aaron, dressed as they were in the picture on his desk; as they had been dressed on that day, that fateful and horrible day of days when everything changed.
    Jason looked around, and saw that the forest was gone; disappeared. In its place, he was now standing on a city street. One that seemed familiar. He heard a tinkling laugh, and turned in time to see....
    His wife and son were disappearing around a nearby corner, laughing and practically dancing with joy as they ran from him. "Hide from Daddy!"
    They turned the corner. "NO!" screamed Jason, a shout that came from deep in his gut and took every ounce of his strength and converted it to sound. "NO!" But neither of his loved ones heard. He ran after them.
    And as it always did, time...
    ...slowed...
    ...down.
    He couldn't get there fast enough.
    A black crayon rolled out of a blacker alley. Black from black, evil from evil.
    Two shots rang out...
    And Jason jerked awake with a scream!
    He looked around.
    He was back in his house. Still in his recliner chair, files still spread out over his lap.
    The TV was on, but there was no reception; only snow played on the tube. Jason rubbed at his eyes. He must have fallen asleep for a moment.
    He had fallen asleep - had had The Dream - while working on the files that pertained to Sean's disappearance, so small wonder he had jumped right into a dream like the one he had had.
    Then he froze as he realized something. His hands. They were not the clean hands of a fastidious county Sheriff.
    They were dirty. Grubby. Mud under the nails. As though he had fallen down.
    He looked at his pants. The knees were stained with mud as well.
    Then the case files on his lap drew his attention. On top of them was a now familiar piece of white paper. Black crayon writing in thick letters. This time, however, there was no cryptic message about a crack in a dam or about being next. The message was short, and to the point.
     
    iT'S sTarTED

 
     
     
    ***

FOURTEEN
    ***
    Jason looked out a nearby window, casting about for anything that would take his mind off the horrifying appearance of this newest - message? threat? - whatever it was from beyond.
    Outside, the mist was so thick that he could barely see anything. Just a few shadows. Maybe they were houses in the distance, maybe they were just nearby trees.
    And maybe they were other, less harmless things.
    That last thought came unbidden into his mind, and he tried to laugh it off and cast it out without another thought. But he couldn't. It was a real concern. And a moment later he could see why he had such a concern in the first place.
    Because some of the shadows seemed to be moving.
    He went slowly to his front door and opened it.
    The mist was