Fear

A Story by OverSoul

An odd interpretation in short story form of the song "Don't Fear the Reaper"

Fear

The rain pounded on the wooden house, casting a translucent veil around it, small bullets exploding on the rooftop, sending rhythmic shockwaves of splashing water against the stiff metal shingles. The house screeched, its wood cracking, splintering into tiny shards. Standing outside was a blank-faced girl, her eyes glinting, watching with a strange combination of emotions, fear and panic, but an almost demonic happiness that crawled across her face like a wretched disease, her eyes lighting up, hurriedly glancing from side to side, watching how the house growled in pain. The house groaned deeply at every merciless gust of wind, bellowing with all its might, like a wounded lion, desperate to become what it once was. Suddenly a giant, shadowy hand groped down for her, her whole being enshrouded, trapped in the clutch of those four, dark, red fingers. She could barely hear her own blood-curdling scream forced out of her crushed, exasperated lungs. Her hands tore at the dark claws, squealing, “Please don’t kill me, please!” And when that last word squawked from her mouth, the house stopped, the claw disintegrating into an inky puddle, leaving a cold, eerie silence. Then the door of the house creaked open, inch by inch, and a wraithlike, black silhouette floated out. Beneath that shadowy disguise laid what scared her most, all her horrors and pains, all her guilt and fear meshed together in those two piercing crimson slits that opened in the darkness, peering up at her. Those two piercing slits forever embodied in her mind.

Mary bolted upright, her eyes wide open and staring ahead, sweat dripping across her face. Just a bad dream, she told herself. Just a really, really scary bad dream. But deep down in Mary’s heart she knew it was more than that. It had to be more than that. She opened the door of her room and tiptoed down the creaking wooden stairs, almost frozen with fear at what she might find. The throbbing of the rain above her sent ricketing chills along her spine. Lightning threw its spindly tendrils of light down to earth, thunder cackled in its wake. The power is off, she reassured herself, as if talking to herself would stop the growing feeling of dread she felt weighing her down in the empty pit of her stomach. Mary crept into the kitchen, and lit a few candles, placing them around her small house. When she tried to turn on the faucet, no water splashed out, just a deep gurgling sound. Okay, she said to herself, this is getting a little spooky. She wearily sat down, trying to drown her thoughts in yesterday’s newspaper, when a heart-stopping crash emanated from the living room. Then another and another, and then four more, in quick succession, like a demented, hellish orchestra. She rushed to her living room and witnessed what had happened. All seven of the light bulbs had popped, the glass shattering and then cascading down onto the floor, like a savage, roaring waterfall. She froze there, paralyzed, trying to make sense of what had just happened. All seven of the light bulbs in the living room had popped, yet none anywhere else. She suddenly felt as though something drew her here, beckoning her to be in this room, a ghastly feeling inhibiting the back of her mind that just kept growing.

A few dogs started barking in the distance, loud, rough, warning barks to an intruder, as if they were protecting their territory. And then the barking ceased all of a sudden, like a bullet of silence piercing the air, and was replaced by shrill, high-pitched whimpering. Mary quickly ducked behind her couch, with only her head peeking out; knowing something Evil was coming for her. Something that embodied all her fears, as cold as ice, yet as hot as fire. Its rage, she imagined, like a savage gorilla. The temperature plummeted, turning the room into a glistening, prehistoric freezer, and Mary still crouched there, with only her head peeking out. All her candles smoldered, and then quickly flickered out. Sparks leapt up, their last chance for freedom, then dimmed and extinguished, surrendering themselves to the mercy of the cold. And at that moment the doorbell rang, a startling booming sound echoed around the house. Instinct whispered to her to answer it but in her mind she knew she shouldn’t. The doorbell rang again, the sound reverberating against the walls, shattering her brain with its malevolent nuance. Then it rang again, and again, and once more, and on the thirteenth ring, the grandfather clock in the corner struck midnight, and a flash of lightning illuminated the window. Mary’s eyes froze wide with fear, the reality finally dawning on her. The black silhouette seeped through the door; its eye’s gleaming, like it finally caught its much deserved prey.

“Come on, Mary” it whispered, almost snarling the words out in its guttural tone. She was drawn to it, her brain screaming No but her legs wouldn’t obey. I’m like a living puppet, she thought to herself, bent to the will of others by a few simple strings. Mary never uttered a word, her mouth wouldn’t move, paralyzed with fear. She felt her hand move and unwillingly grasp the phantom’s hand, as if it knew better. Its hand felt cold and it reeked of death, like a cracked, icy tombstone sheltered in a spectral mist. “Good Mary,” it hissed through its rotted yellow teeth, as if she were a lost puppy, trembling in the ghastly outdoors. The phantom gripped her hand tighter and then lifted off the ground, air grinding under its feet, levitating a few inches above the floor. And they flew, up into the air, straight through the ominous iron-gray clouds and away from the lights of the town. Like some wild, deathly dream. The wind swept through her hair and caressed her arms and fingertips, its savage strength tossing her against the phantom. She tried to release it’s hand, realizing and not even caring if she fell a thousand feet. But it wouldn’t let her, it wouldn’t stop gripping her hand, it just grasped tighter to her arm. And then it cackled, smiling its deathly grin, rancid drool draping out of its agape mouth, its laugh like the whimpering of a thousand people dying.

“Come on Mary, Don’t Fear the Reaper”