Amid the Recesses: A Short Story Collection of Fear (5 page)

Doctor Olsen shot back in
his chair.

“
---someone from the other
lane lets go and you go with it. No control. Just an illusion of
control. So, I’m a stairs kind of guy.” Mark stepped toward the
side of the chair and shoved his hands into the pockets of his
slacks. “The main stairwell was under construction. Sure, I could
have ran around the building and taken another flight. I should
have. But, whatever, right? I took the elevator. I got in, hit the
button. Floor fifteen. Up I went and stopped at floor fourteen.
Don’t you hate that?” Mark chuckled.

Doctor Olsen smiled, but it
was lost in the darkness. “Almost there, hm?”

“
Almost there.” Mark
repeated. “Another guy came in. Tall, sweaty guy. Mostly bald on
the head, looked nervous—a nervous that stinks. I usually blame it
on my eyes. They make people uncomfortable.” Mark gestured to his
eyes, which emitted a spectral glow in the darkness of Doctor
Olsen’s office.

“
It may
be, Mark. In ancient Middle-Eastern societies, there was a belief
that bright eyes carried a curse. It’s called
‘
ayn al-ḥasūd’, or the ‘evil eye’.
Your eyes are different than most even in this bright-eyed society.
I imagine your differences could invoke a response. Most
differences do.” Doctor Olsen said.
“Continue, please.”

“
So, there he was, there I
was. I asked what floor he was going to. Fifteen. One floor. This
guy took the elevator up a floor.” Mark lifted a finger. “Couldn’t
walk to the other flight of stairs for one floor? Anyway, the doors
closed, the elevator started moving. Remember what I told you about
that lack of control? There it was. Everything went dark about
halfway from the fourteenth to the fifteenth floor. The elevator
stopped and I heard some sort of alarm bell.” Mark rubbed his hands
together then looked down at his open palms.

Doctor Olsen stopped
writing as Mark silenced. He waited for Mark to
continue.

“
You know, when most people
turn off the lights, their eyes don’t immediately adjust. They’re
blind for a minute, right?” Mark asked.

“
Yes.
‘Adaptation.’”

“
Right. Adaptation. I don’t
have that problem, doctor. That’s when it happens.” Mark kept his
eyes on his hands.

“
When what happens,
Mark?”

“
That’s when I see what’s
not supposed to be seen. When the lights go out.”

Mark’s comment caused Doctor Olsen to
look toward the light switch near the door. It seemed farther away
than before.

Mark continued. “I looked
over at the bald guy in the elevator and he was surrounded by four
kids. They were watching me and pointing at him. There was blood on
his hands.” Mark curled his fingers into his palms and lowered his
hands to his side. “The kids’ lips were blue. Their skin was pale.
They looked dead. They pointed at him. He did something, I knew
it.” Mark returned to his seat. After he sat, he leaned
forward.

Doctor Olsen noticed Mark’s
unease. “You saw children? Their pointing—you felt it meant that
the man in the elevator was guilty of something?”

“
He
killed them. What else could it have meant? I bet he knew that I
knew, too. Sick son of a bitch
knew
that I knew. That’s why he
looked at me that way.” Mark said. He scooted to the end of the
chair.

Doctor Olsen’s eyes
narrowed. “What did you do then, Mark?”

“
It came over me. Instinct,
doctor. I hit him. Over and over again, in the dark. I felt my fist
smashing into his head. I felt his head giving away under my fists.
It just made me want to hit harder, doctor. When I looked up, the
children were gone. They’re never there for more than a second.
They need to be gone before adaptation, right?” Mark asked, as if
the doctor would know.

Doctor Olsen shook his
head. “These things you see, they disappear shortly after you
initially see them? You think that’s why other people can’t see the
things you see?”

“
Something like
that.”

“
Are they always people,
Mark? The things that you see?”

“
Not always. There have
been things that are difficult to describe, doctor.”

“
Such as?” The doctor
asked.

“
Just things.” Mark said.
He wiped his sweating hands on his pant legs.

Doctor Olsen relaxed into
his chair and wrote on his notepad. “When the elevator was finally
opened, Mark, that man was badly injured. He had to be rushed to
the hospital.”

“
I know. If they saw what I
saw, doctor, they would have done the same thing. I don’t expect
anyone to understand, but that man did something. I know it. You
don’t have to believe me. No one does.” Mark’s voice
weakened.

“
What else do you see,
Mark? You said this sort of thing has been happening since
childhood. Would you try to explain?”

Mark hesitated. “I think
the things people are afraid of, doctor, the silly things—“ Mark
looked up and stared at Olsen. “I think people have a reason to be
afraid.”

Doctor Olsen cocked his
head to the side. “Afraid of what, Mark?”

“
I remember kids telling me
that I should jump into bed, because the things under the bed would
get me if I didn’t. Things in the dark.”

“
Achluophobia is actually
very common. Fear of the dark.” The doctor said and leaned his
cheek on a balled fist.

“
Are people afraid of the
dark or what’s in it? Like, are people afraid of heights or are
they afraid of falling? People should be afraid of what’s in the
dark, doctor.” Mark’s voice trembled barely above a
whisper.

“
What’s in the dark that we
should be afraid of, Mark?”

“
When I was a kid, I was
hiding under the bed. I was going to try and scare my mom, you
know. I planned it all out. She would come in, make my bed like she
always did and I’d scare her a good one. Just for fun. Well, she
came in, looked around and thought I wasn’t in the room. She shut
the light off and closed the door. When the lights when out—“ Mark
paused.

“
What happened?” Doctor
Olsen asked.

Mark gestured to his side.
“Right there next to me was the thing that grabs your ankles if you
don’t jump into bed. It had long, sharp fingers like knives. They
curled and twisted. Its mouth opened so wide that it could have
swallowed me whole. It didn’t make any sound. Its black skin
bubbled like tar. I remember its breath smelling like a dead cat.”
Mark’s eyes became distant. “I scrambled from under the bed and
felt those fingers graze the bottom of my foot as escaped. I ran
out of the room screaming. I didn’t even notice the
pain.”

Doctor Olsen listened as
Mark described his story. He observed Mark’s
disposition.

“
I left bloody footprints
through the house. When I explained what happened, no one believed
me.” Mark’s eyes refocused on the doctor. He spoke with a sincere
clarity, “When I get into bed now, doctor, I wait by the door for a
minute. When I get into bed now, I jump into bed.”

“
A typical adult doesn’t
deal with those sorts of concerns, Mark. Adults worry about things
like making ends meet, or how they’re going to take care of their
elderly parents” Doctor Olsen said.

"A typical adult doesn't
have this 'gift.’” The absurdity of the word was evident in Mark’s
voice. “These things are everywhere, doctor. They’re in your closet
when you reach for your favorite shirt. They’re breathing down your
neck when you’re drying your hair after a shower. They’re curled up
behind the driver’s seat of your car. They’re probably right behind
your chair, doctor.” Mark pointed toward Doctor Olsen.

The doctor stood and cut
Mark off. “I think we’ve done enough for today, Mark. Thank you.
This has been a productive session. May I escort you to the door?”
The doctor didn’t wait for Mark’s answer. He flipped on the lights
without warning. The doctor released the breath he’d
held.

Mark watched the panicked
doctor. His eyes thinned as he adjusted to the light. He stood.
“Sure. Thanks for your time, doctor. Same time
tomorrow?”

Doctor Olsen nodded and
manufactured a weak smile.

When the psychological
report was required in court, Doctor Olsen explained to the jury
that Mark Branson suffered of severe schizophrenia which resulted
in the attack.

The judge leaned forward. “Do you
think Mark Branson should be subjected to psychological evaluation
in a treatment facility, doctor?”

Doctor Olsen examined the
prosecution’s desk and Gregory Belford, the victim.

His face was bandaged. One eye was
covered by white gauze. Doctor Olsen stared into the one
exposed.

“
I believe—“ he started.
Doctor Olsen looked to Mark, who sat on the opposite side of the
courtroom.

Mark stared back with a look of
indignation. He had the look of a man that knew the doctor’s answer
before it was said. He waited.

“—
Mark Branson should spend
some time in a mental health facility. Haskell’s Recovery Center is
equipped to handle someone of Mr. Branson’s specifications.” Doctor
Olsen cringed after saying “specifications.”

The judge nodded. The jury
agreed with Doctor Olsen’s suggestion and sent Mark to evaluation
at Haskell’s Home for the Mentally Ill, often called Haskell’s
Recovery Center.

Three nights later, after
Mark Branson’s conviction, Doctor Olsen read in his study. The fire
flickered across from him and sent shadowy elongations across the
quiet room. The doctor twisted uneasily in his chair. The dancing
shadows made it impossible for the doctor to pay attention to the
text on the page.

“
Sharp fingers like
knives,” the doctor whispered in the empty room.

The doctor’s phone rang.
The suddenness of the sound sent his heart into his throat. He
clenched the fabric of his sweater at his chest. He released a
breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He answered.

“
Doctor Olsen.” He
said.

“
Doctor Olsen. It’s
Detective Upland. Do you have a minute?” The man asked.

“
Sure. What is it,
detective?”

“
I thought I should make
you aware of some recent developments concerning the Branson case.
The man that Branson assaulted, Gregory Belford?”

“
Yes, yes. Is everything
alright?” The doctor asked. His eyes cast to the open door of the
study.

“
Not quite, doctor. He’s
dead. Found him under his bed sharing space with four dead kids.
Coroner’s report is suggesting he’s done some despicable things,
doctor. Seems he was maybe sicker than your Branson fellow.
But—“

The doctor’s skin crawled.
“But?”

“
Belford’s legs were both
broken. His fingertips were a bit ripped up, like he was dragged
under the bed while trying to get away. I verified that Branson was
locked up at Haskell’s. Couldn’t have been him. It’s strange,
doctor. I was wondering if you knew whether or not Branson had any
plans of pursuing Belford, or if he mentioned an accomplice?” The
detective asked.

Doctor Olsen didn’t answer.
He stared at the fire. He stared at the light.

“
Doctor Olsen? Doctor
Olsen, you there?” The detective asked.

“
Y-yes. Yes, I’m here. No.
No, I’m sorry, detective. There’s nothing I know that can help you.
I’m sorry.” The doctor’s eyes turned to the shadows on the
wall.

“
Hm. Alright, doctor. Have
a good night. I apologize for the interruption.” The detective
said.

“
Think nothing of it.” The
doctor hung up the phone.

RETURN TO THE TABLE OF
CONTENTS

The Eastern Tunnel

“
Wait! Wait, damn it!” Ian
yelled as he ran behind the departing bus. As the bus pulled away,
Ian was left in a black cloud of exhaust and futility.

It was a day where nothing
went right for Ian. The alarm clock didn’t go off when it was
supposed to, or he’d hit OFF instead of SNOOZE. He didn’t have time
for coffee. At work, his desk was backed up with files from the
weekend. His boss mentioned he’d have to stay late that day to
complete the work. Missing the bus after work was the last kick in
the bricks. In the evening, that meant a thirty-minute wait for the
next bus. Ian sunk onto the bus stop bench and buried his face in
his hands.

“
Hello.” A voice came from
his side.

Ian pulled his face from
his hands and looked to his left. He saw a little girl clad in an
oversized pink, puffy jacket. A scarf wrapped two or three times
around her neck. Black birds were printed on the scarf. She wore a
denim skirt and pink leggings. Colorful rain boots swung back and
forth under the bench with a few inches of clearance from the
ground. A backpack was strapped to her back and was partially
unzipped. Sealed envelopes hung from the opening.

“
Hello.” Ian said. “Where’d
you come from?”