Pebbles: A Collection of Short Stories

Nyctophobia

It's happening again. It seeps in quietly with just the simple flutter of your eyelids. The slow vibrations begin in your brain, echoing the questions. Are your eyes open, or are they closed? Are you sleeping, or are you awake? Are you alive, or are you dead? The questions continue to swirl until they attack mercilessly, hacking at your brain until it's split into two hemispheres. Logic is telling you the flutter of your eyelids means you're alive just in a darkened room. It's a simple cloud cover that stifles only one of your five senses. But the loud irrational monster is screaming. You're blind. You're buried. You're dead. The quickening of your pulse sends boiling blood coursing through your body as sweat begins to drip from every pore. Your chest clenches in a painful vice of fear and anxiety.

You were asleep, and now you're awake. There's nothing more to it. The rational side of your brain is trying to be heard, attempting to coax your mind to trigger your arm to lift to the nightstand. One simple movement and the darkness will be gone. The uncertainty will be chased away by the warm glow of light. But the villain is louder. Did you hear that? Was it the wind, or was it footsteps? Is that pounding a nearing menace or your heartbeat?

You can't breathe; you can't swallow. Your throat is dry with saliva pooling in your mouth. You'll drown! The beast within you is winning. All your other senses are tense. There's an overpowering metallic smell filling your nostrils as you taste the warmth of blood flooding your mouth. The footsteps of the nearing demon overtake your ears. Your skin is crawling from a painful rub of convulsions. Adrenaline courses through you, stiffening your muscles.

Your eyes are playing tricks on you. Your mind is desperately trying to control your spiraling physical senses but a dizzying splash of yellow attacks from nowhere, followed by rapid bursts of red and orange.

The murky waters are taking over, sloshing over you. The cold is pulling you to its oppressive depths. Your mind screams that you're safe; you can breathe. But your lungs constrict in the panicked need for fresh air. You're lying alone in your bed, but your body feels the strong hands of death holding you down. Your body doesn't feel the sheets; it only senses the frigid waters of your terror. You open your mouth to scream. You must be able to scream; your mind assures you that you're on dry land. But suddenly, your saliva is the same icy water that your body feels. A gurgle drowns your voice. Your eyes bug in a final effort to salvage a breath, but your lungs won't allow the air in; they're too convinced they'll only receive water. You scratch at your throat, digging your nails in painfully deep, willing logic to allow you to live. The monster can't win like this.