Phobophobias by LINDSTUDIOS

Phobophobias anthology

serie 1

JAN LOPEX

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LIND Studios phobophobias.com

Print ISBN: 0-9000000-0-0

Ebook ISBN: 0-9000000-0-0

To Krys

This book is dedicated to you with heartfelt appreciation for all the ways you have inspired and supported me on my journey. Your love and companionship have profoundly impacted my life, and I am grateful for your presence in it. May this book serve as a small token of my gratitude and a reminder of your special place in my heart.

Because my phobia is to live in a world where you are not by my side.

With love and appreciation, your husband

Jan Lopex

DISCLAIMER

Phobophobia Anthology Series 1

This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this anthology and products portrayed on the following pages are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The subject matter portrayed throughout this Digital Anthology is based on Phobias and Disorders and could be triggering for sensitive individuals or persons suffering from such phobias or disorders; only proceed if you feel you can handle the content.

The contents of this anthology are meant for entertainment. They are not intended to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent any condition or disease or as a substitute for direct expert assistance from a licensed practitioner. Please consult your physician or healthcare specialist regarding your exposure to the material mentioned above. This publication is meant as a source of entertainment for the reader. If such a level of assistance is required, we encourage you to seek the services of a competent professional.

The use of this book, website, and digital media, implies your acceptance of this disclaimer.

Pediophobia

Pediophobia is a type of anxiety disorder that is characterized by an irrational and persistent fear of dolls. People with pediophobia may experience intense feelings of fear or disgust when they encounter dolls or other humanoid figures, such as mannequins or ventriloquist dummies.

GREENEyes

Step out of the light and into the shadows of the eerie and unsettling world of Bryan, a young boy whose fears take on a life of their own. This is a haunting and powerful reminder of the importance of listening to children's fears and the devastating consequences of ignoring them.

Phobophobias

Bryan never liked Tumu the Doll, a Christmas gift from his ever-absent father, just another unwarranted gift to overshadow his parental irresponsibility. Like every Christmas, another toy was the only constant besides his alcoholic breath. And by the looks of it, he was also getting worse at picking toys. What was he thinking, a horrendous elf-like doll with a sinister smirk that sent chills down Bryan’s back every time he laid eyes on it.

Tumu, the Doll with its fluorescent eyes and teeth, was a ghastly visage at night once the lights went off, just green shining eyes and teeth peering back at you.

"I can see it, mom. It keeps looking at me. Please don't make me go to bed. It’s waiting for me."

"How many times I have to tell you, there's nothing to fear. You must go to sleep."

"Please, mom, don’t make me go to bed. It wants to pull me under."

"Be a good boy Brian, close your eyes, and sleep."

A soft knock at the door.

"Good morning Mrs. Dawson; you are here early today."

"Yes, I needed to see Bryan early today; the house feels empty without him. Hoping one day soon I'll be able to take him home."

"Well, after a year’s long coma, there’s going to be some therapy associated with his release, but he'll be there soon. Especially after waking up yesterday and speaking nonetheless."

"Yes, the Dr. told me, but exactly what did he say?"

" It's kind of strange now that you mention it. He said:

TUMU’S GREEN EYES UNDER THE BED."

Ecclesiophobia

Ecclesiophobia is described as an irrational or excessive fear or aversion to religion or religious institutions. People with ecclesiophobia may feel anxious or distressed when entering places of worship,hearing religious music, or engaging in religious practices. This phobia can be caused by past negative experiences with religion, cultural or social conditioning, or personal beliefs and values.

SUNDAY MASS FOR THE SOUL

In this short story, we explore the main character's fear and curiosity about the church, ultimately leading to a horrifying discovery. The introduction sets the tone for the story, delving into the history of the church's violent past and the protagonist's unease with its ominous atmosphere. The story is a chilling reminder of the power of fear and the dangers of blind devotion.

Phobophobias

I’ve always been afraid of the church; history has countless stories of the barbarism inflicted on others by the church, the crusades, the burning of witches at the stake, mass executions of innocents that didn’t share their beliefs, detailed instructions for torture like The Witches Hammer and countless other acts of questionable morale. Yet, in my heart lived the fear of it, intertwined with an ever-lingering curiosity; I didn’t want to be told about it; I wanted to see it for myself, sit there and listen to what they had to say, but fear always overtook the curiosity. People seem to die there, I watch them now and then, and once they exit the cathedral, their eyes look somber, like something has been taken from them inside those walls. The wooden door windows added to the mystery of the place; I reckon it must be dark and humid within those walls, with no light shining through. Perhaps somewhat welcoming for those with heavy hearts looking to escape the judging gaze of their fellow men. A dark corner below the heavens where men can hide and tell one another hidden murderous desires and seek forgiveness before going back out into the light is terrifying. While absorbed in my philosophical evaluation of the darkness of human behavior, I hear some parishioners chat happily and enthusiastically about something called stained glass.

The wooden windows of the church were to be replaced; according to them, it lets the light shine inside, and it is joyous and colorful, and an artist of the craft has been commissioned to create colorful stamps of their most significant victories to shine upon the parishioners, with all the glory and triumph they represented; my curiosity once more, overtook the fear. My father never liked the church, something terrible had happened to him, I could tell by the look in his eyes. He constantly spoke of the atrocities of the church and always reminded me to steer clear from them, “they kill those that don’t think like them,” he said with a lofty tone.

It’s been sometime now, and they have replaced all the wooden windows with this stained glass, a rainbow of colors now added life to the once somber cathedral. But the magic was inside, they said; as the sun shined through the glass, it bore forth the most beautiful and colorful visage of triumph and victory, sure to put tears in anyone’s eyes.

I stood hesitant at the steps, trying to muster the strength to overcome my fear; I wanted to see, I wanted to know, and once more, curiosity won over the paralyzing fear that had my heart pounding at my throat. One step at a time, I made my way up the stairs; I looked at the massive wooden doors with etched signs and a strong smell of history. I pulled the doors and made my way in; they all seemed so absorbed in their devotion, so I passed by unnoticed; as I looked to one corner, I saw some women and children lighting candles. I look to the other side and see some people going into these wooden cubicles; those were the ones father spoke off, where men tell each other their evil deeds.

But as I work my way to the front, colorful rays of light hit me, this must be the stained glass at last, and as I look…horror strikes me. I fall to my knees in total dismay; whatever courage had crept up in my heart and had fueled my entry into this place had abandoned me. Fear overtook me, my heart once more pounding at my throat, I wanted to scream, but the words had been stolen by this murderous visage I was now looking at, whose vivid colors now wrapped the whole of my body as it shone on me, yes, this brutal image was bleeding on me. There I was, looking at murder, not just any murder, but the fatal demise of my father, his chest pierced by a sword. Looking in horror, I remember his words when he said, “They kill those that don’t have their beliefs.” A winged man above him, his eyes filled with rage and murderous intent. As I look at the bottom of the window, there, etched in gold on one of the glass pieces, it read, Saint Michael, defeating Lucifer. They have planned my father’s murder; I must leave this place and head back to hell; little demons like me shouldn’t go to church. Sunday Mass, they call it, Sunday Massacre of lost souls.

I am always there, yet never truly seen, A formless shape, elusive and keen. I dance and flicker, a mere silhouette, A dark reflection that you can't forget.

I follow you wherever you go, A shadowy figure, haunting and slow. I'm the darkness that's always near, The absence of light that brings fear.

Athazagoraphobia

Athazagoraphobia is a fear of forgetting someone or something, as well as a fear of being ignored or forgotten

My MUSES

My Muses is a story that explores the dark side of art, obsession, and the quest for eternal beauty. Joyce, a woman approaching her 40s, seeks to capture her youthful beauty in a nude portrait. Her search leads her to Jeff's paint studio, where she becomes one of his muses. However, as the story unfolds, it becomes clear that Jeff's art is not just about capturing the beauty of his subjects.

In just two more months, Joyce will be celebrating her 40th birthday. Looking at her naked body in the closet door mirror, she reminisces of yesteryears while admiring her still beautifully toned body with pride. Worrying like all of us, it will be taken apart by the inevitable and cruel pass of the years.

Joyce was always a woman of exceptional beauty and elegance, and although she had a never-ending list of suitors throughout her life, she never married; she didn’t like to be tied down. But now, as her life starts to become more passive, the realization that she was aging, and had no one to remember her dawned on her.

Still gazing at her reflection in the mirror, an idea sparked in her still youthfully rebellious mind. A nude portrait of herself, something to perpetuate her beauty, to remind her of the many deleterious acts of her youth. One last frolicsome personal adventure, yes, that’s it.

Who will dare to forget her now, her voluptuous body in her Eve’s dress for all to admire, hanging from a wall? Now, there was only a minor obstacle to conquer, who would she go to for this task. Indeed, it was something to consider cautiously;

Apotemnophobia is the fear of amputations or amputees.

People with this phobia may experience intense anxiety or panic when faced with images or real-life situations involving amputations or amputees.

Missing PIECES

"Missing Pieces" is a suspenseful story about a man named Steve who is excited to start his new job as a store manager. However, his day takes a dark turn when he notices a strange man with a red suitcase following him. Steve's fears escalate as h is confronted with the truth behind the man with the red suitcase, leaving him questioning everything he thought he knew.

“Today is going to be a great day.”

Yes, those were Steve Greer’s first words after receiving the call two days before from the Human Resources office of John & Ray’s Dept. Store. After a dry spell looking for a job, he was finally going to start working as a Store Manager; he was to oversee the opening of the new location couple of miles away from his home. After hanging up with HR, he was to call a guy named Michael to help him set up the store opening. Everything was working like a well-oiled machine. On his way to the Dept store, Steve noticed a man with a large red rollable suitcase across the street from him, it seemed odd, but he was in such a happy place that morning that he just smiled at the stranger and kept on his way.

Once he arrived at the train station, going up the stairs, he noticed the man with the red rollable suitcase. And an eerie feeling seemed to invade him as he locked eyes with the stranger again. This time he didn’t smile at the stranger; he just hurried up the stairs and onto the train platform. With his cup of java, he waited patiently for his train to arrive;

upon entering the train, he noticed the man with the red suitcase entering the same cart, seated a couple of rows away from him. Once more, a feeling of uneasiness invaded him, and he decided to change train carts. His mind started racing, his fears took the best of him, and all sorts of vile images invaded his mind.

“What does he carry in that suitcase? Why does he keep following me?

With the train coming to a screeching halt, Steve gets off the train only to notice that the strange man is now standing next to him.

“Hmm, Excuse me? “

“Oh God, get away from me” Steve starts running away from the man to distance himself from this possible killer, only to lose his footing and fall from the platform on the train tracks, a little too late to miss the next incoming train.

“Mr. Greer, how nice to have you back; the surgery was a success.”

Upon opening his eyes, Steve sees that he has been amputated in both legs and an arm, his greatest fear now unfolding before him.

“Mr. Greer, you have a visitor; he’s been with you since the accident. He was the one who brought you to the hospital.”

The man with the red suitcase comes into the room, and Steve’s eyes can believe what they are seeing.

“Who are you? You were following me.” “Yes, am Michael, you called me, remember? I was to help you with the store opening; I am the mannequin man; I put them together.

Gephyrophobia

Gephyrophobia is characterized by an extreme and persistent fear of bridges or crossing them. People with gephyrophobia may experience intense anxiety, panic attacks, and avoidance behaviors when faced with the prospect of crossing a bridge or being near one.

Let's Cross Together

Let's Cross Together is a gripping story about a man named Wendell who suffers from gephyrophobia, an extreme fear of crossing bridges. After an accident, he seeks help from a psychologist who suggests cognitive-behavioral therapy. Wendell is paired up with Mark, who becomes his “Phobia Coach,” and as their friendship blossoms, Wendell learns to confront his fears. However, when Mark reveals his own phobia, the story takes a shocking turn that will leave readers on the edge of their seats.

Phobophobias

“This is Antoine Shelby from WYES News reporting live from the Rosenbloom Bridge, it is now 3:15 pm, and there seems to have been an accident; as of this moment, we don’t know the nature of it, but eyewitnesses claim a man that was driving towards the bridge came to a screeching halt and got out of the vehicle, he stumbled and is now laying on the pavement, we are unsure if he was struck by another vehicle, but police and emergency personnel are at the scene, we will return with these and other news at 6:00 pm, This was Antoine Shelby from WYES News.”

“Sir, can you hear me?”

“Yes, I was having trouble breathing and became light-headed.”

“Well, Sir, do you suffer from any medical condition? Your heart is racing, and you’re sweating profusely.”

“Am a gephyrophobic; I suffer anxiety attacks when I am near bridges.”

Laying on the gurney at the back of the ambulance on his way to the hospital, Wendell thought about the many times before this happened; yes, the telltale signs of another

anxiety attack were there, the sweaty palms, the heart-pounding incessantly, the dizziness and finally the blackout. The medication wasn’t working, and a different course of treatment had to be tried; hopefully, he would find it at this hospital.

“Hello, Mr. Scott; my name is Dr. Jeffrey Wilks am a psychologist, and I will be working on your case. “Have you ever tried Cognitive Behavioral Therapy aside from anxiety medications?

“No, what is that?

“Well, CBT focuses on helping people like yourself identify the underlying negative thoughts and beliefs that contribute to feelings of fear and anxiety; in plain words, we get to the root of the phobia that brings on the anxiety attack.”

“I am going to start you on a low dosage of Buspirone, and we will meet this afternoon for our first CBT group session.”

A little nervous about the session but optimistic, Wendell entered the room where the group was gathered with Dr. Wilks.

“Well, today we’re going to start a different exercise on our way to conquering our phobias; I have written your names and placed them on this envelope; I want this side of the group to come and grab a name. The way this is going to work, the person’s name you have chosen will be your “Phobia Coach” for this week; you will

Wendell’s fear turned to rage; Mark was mocking his phobia; he wanted to kill him and felt so betrayed. Meanwhile, Mark kept spewing taunts as he backed towards the end of the bridge.

“You’re such a loser, so afraid to confront me, aren’t you, can’t even stand in front of me, come on, don’t think about wanting to hit me. Come and do it, you pathetic excuse of a man.”

Pushed to the limit of his patience Wendell now stood in front of Mark, lunging towards his scrawny throat, when suddenly Mark started jumping and screaming, “You did it, I knew you could do it” “All you needed was to be mad enough to forget about your fear.”

Wendell, in his rage, had crossed the bridge on his own and was now just a couple of steps away from finishing the trek; he looked beyond the railing and could see the cars in the street below the bridge. Never had he imagined he would accomplish this. Silently savoring the moment, both friends stood still while looking at the cars below with teary eyes.

“Well, Mark, I guess now is my turn to be your “Phobia Coach” what is your phobia?”

“You’re such an inspiration, Wendell. I know you will help me too; thanatophobia is my fear.”

“What fear is that?”

“The fear of losing to death somebody you care about”

Mark pushes Wendell forcefully over the bridge without a moment to react, and his body hits the pavement below with a thunderous thud. Above, Mark looks at the Dantesque scene with tears, softly muttering a farewell to his friend before walking away.

“Thanks, I knew you could cure me, I will miss you, but now I know I will be ok.”

“This is Antoine Shelby from WYES News reporting live from the Rosenbloom Bridge, it is now 5:45 pm, and a man has jumped from the bridge, hitting the pavement below on what appears to be a suicide; police and emergency personnel at the site have identified the victim as Wendell Scott, the same man that two weeks ago was transported by EMS from this same bridge after jumping out of his car once he arrived at this same bridge, on what could have been his first attempt to take his life. These and more news tonight at 10:00 pm, This was Antoine Shelby from WYES News.”

Gingerphobia is the unreasonable fear of gingers from years of myths that caused gingers to be sacrificed and bullied for simply having ginger hair.

Gingerphobia

Phobophobias

The witch must die; her deeds won't go unpunished.

She’ll surely die this time; I have fought this battle plenty of times, with her always returning to wreak havoc again, taunting me to strike once more. But I know her; she can't go unnoticed before me.

My father killed the first one, and I learned how to identify her always-changing visage. Long red hair, YES, LONG RED HAIR, that’s where her evil thoughts are hidden. Every red lock of hair intertwined like writhing snakes upon their prey. The long red hair was the only constant in her appearance, and the lying, oh my God, the constant lying. It is best to kill them; no matter the form of torture, they will always say they're not witches, this I know very well. As I sat and waited for the perfect moment to strike, memories of my childhood flooded my mind. My father had always warned me of the dangers of witches, especially those with long red hair. He had taught me everything he knew about identifying them and dealing with them, but this one had managed to slip past my radar

for far too long.

But like my father always said, “don't ever believe what a red-headed witch says; they’re deceivers,” when he struck dead the one living under our roof. The witch had been living under our roof for years, I can't believe I was so blind; I even called her mother for so long, but not anymore; the red-headed witch must die. I have watched this one carefully, studying her every move, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. As she went about her day, I noticed that she was becoming more and more careless. Her overconfidence it’s going to be her downfall.

Finally, the moment I had been waiting for arrived. She was walking alone near the train tracks, and there was no one around to witness what was about to happen. I approached her quietly, my heart pounding with anticipation. I'll bide my time, and when the moment is right, this one I'll push onto the train tracks. I can see it now vividly in my mind, with a swift push, I sent her tumbling onto the tracks, her long red hair tangled around her like a net. The sound of the approaching train grew louder and louder as I watched her struggle to free herself, but it’s it was too late.

As the train barreled down the tracks, I felt a

sense of relief wash over me. The witch was finally dead, and her evil deeds wouldn't go unpunished. I knew that my father would be proud of me for carrying on his legacy and ridding the world of another red-headed witch.

Knowing that as I walk away from the scene once more, I won’t be able to shake the feeling that this won’t be the end of it. Witches always lurk in the shadows, waiting for their chance to strike. I would have to remain vigilant, always watching and waiting for the next one to reveal itself and her long red hair.

Monophobia

Monophobia is the fear of being alone or the fear of loneliness. People with monophobia may avoid being alone as much as possible. This fear can impact a person's daily life and relationships, making it difficult for them to enjoy time alone or engage in solitary activities.

Ethel and Charles bought their house in Buffalo Grove in 1958, as soon as it was established in Illinois. Ethel remembered the day Charles carried her in his arms across the house threshold; she was just 22 years old when she married Charles. They were a vivid portrait of the American boomers. The economy was booming, and everywhere couples were pursuing the dream of the picture-perfect family and white picket fences in suburbia, so, eager to embrace the family life, Ethel and Charles tied the knot and purchased their love nest, soon to be filled with the laughter of children, well at least two as they had planned so many times in their love-filled daydreams. But they would each soon find out that not everything is stable and picture-perfect in suburbia. The collective thought of the stereotypical nuclear family of the time was of an economically sound family with two or three children. Children were precious assets and the center of the family. Charles had a managerial position at a manufacturing firm that remunerated his efforts quite well, he had a dream job, with a dream house and a dream wife, but something was lacking in his picture-perfect dream. After trying for three years, they had not conceived,

which started to strain their idyllic marriage. Ethel was a stay-at-home wife who baked, sewed, tended to the flower garden, and so much more; she was a busy bee all day. But nothing made her shine as much as when Charles arrived home from work; after all, she was very much in love. But lately, he was coming home late every day, and when he finally arrived, he was distant and reflective; his loving gaze was not there; something had stolen it. Charles finally broke down; he had resented her for the past years for their inability to conceive, only to find out that he was the cause. Something as old as history was casting a giant shadow on their family dream. Ethel was supportive and empowered her husband with a sense of worth that made them thrive as a couple. With plenty of money to spare and a huge house, Charles decided to start a hobby to alleviate his longing for kids. During dinner at a friend’s house, Charles noticed a painting on one of the walls, it was signed Norman Rockwell, and it was beautiful; it was Charles’s dream transferred into canvas, and he was immediately in love. And from then on, he spent most of his time looking for Rockwell paintings to adorn the walls of his childless house. These were his kids now, and he loved them dearly. What started as a passionate hobby turned into an obsession that

kept him from home and Ethel most of the time. This unwanted, alone time imposed on Ethel was piercing her sanity, all day alone in a house with nothing but painted faces of happiness peering back at her while she crumbled under the heavy weight of solitude.

The following night Charles arrived with a new “canvas child,” his eyes beaming with excitement, and as he entered the living room, his heart dropped, all the paintings were missing, and there was nothing but bare walls. And there standing amid it was Ethel. Hands trembling with nervousness, she approached Charles and spoke.

“The children are sleeping; I just tucked them in.”

And motioning to the door that led to the basement, she urged Charles to have a look at the children sleeping. And midway in his descent, Charles saw his beloved paintings all propped in easels in a circular motion with white drapes covering them.

“What did you do, Ethel?” “Why?”

“I was so alone, Charles, but I finally understood how you felt, and trying to understand further how they fulfilled that space in your heart, I found a quote from the painter, and everything was clear, the pursuit of our dream was there.”

That was the last time Ethel would feel alone again and the last time they would need to find

another canvas child. She finally realized their dream of picture-perfect marriage and white picket fences at the end of her solitude. Happily, ever after, or at least till death came for her. She was 82 when she died; neighbors found her dead body sitting by her forget-me-nots flower bed; how ironic. Entering the house looking for Charles, they remembered how with the pass of the years, she had told them he had secluded himself in the basement, his sanity escaping him, not being able to shake from himself the depression of a childless family; he was a broken man. But once they arrived at the basement and turned the lights on, Charles sat on his rocking chair surrounded by his paintings of smiling children. His body was mummified with a deep wound on the back of his head. The skin of his mummified face pulled hard at his mouth corners, drawing a ghastly grin. There he was, smiling at his children in death. And there, on a white canvas, this was written:

“The View of life I communicate in my pictures excludes the sordid and the ugly. I paint life as I would like it to be.”

― Norman Rockwell

With Love forever, Ethel

and your children.

for the sacrifice that's looming. for the temptation that I bring, What am I? You'll find out if you cling.

Necrophobia is the fear of dead bodies or anything related to death

Phobophobias

Tonight is a good night for Jack. It is Friday, and his pockets are full, eager to down some brews and chase some broads. They all know Jack, the corner broads by the old bus stop. Friday Jack, they call him, always faithful to them and eager to spend his money on some cheap loving.

But tonight, there's a new chick by the old bus stop, and Friday Jack makes his move. "Hey there, sweetness, are you on the clock for me."

"Yes, love, I am waiting for someone to take me home."

"I've never seen you here before. Are you new in this corner?"

"I've been here a long time; I am just waiting for somebody to take me home and join me."

"Well, sweetness, I'll take you home."

"Good, will you give me your heart and join me tonight?"

"Whoa, babe, we'll see about that; let’s start by taking you home; where is it at?"

"Lot 65 at the local graveyard, Friday Jack."

Looking at her, he realized she was death incarnate; his heart pounded forcefully at his throat until it couldn’t take any more, dropping lifeless by the old bus stop with a fistful of

I am the fear of fear itself, A phobia that sits upon a shelf. My victims tremble at the thought, Of feeling fear, their minds distraught.

I am the one who haunts the brave, Who fear the fear that they can't stave. I am the shadow that's always there, The fear that lurks, a constant scare

Nyctophobia

Nyctophobia is a fear of darkness or the night, and it is a common fear experienced by many people. The fear of the dark can be linked to a fear of the unknown or a fear of potential dangers that may be hidden in the darkness.

Phobophobias

July 14, 1995, 11:27 pm, as Bosnian forces make their way through the streets of Srebrenica, Osman and several thousand others run towards the forest to escape the military contingent set on killing them. Looking back for just a second, he could see the columns of smoke hundreds of feet high arise from the houses set ablaze by the invading forces. There was much fear in his heart; Osman was not a man fond of the night nor the mantel of darkness that it brought with it. As far as he can remember, he had never remained in a room if there wasn’t light in it. His nightstand always had a candle burning thru the night or at least until he fell asleep. We all have our fears; this was Osman’s fear, the dark. But tonight, his sense of self-preservation has him running for his life in the thick of darkness, venturing deep into the forest and unknown surroundings. His senses are hyperactive, his heart pounding incessantly, and the sounds of the others running through the forest mimic a runaway train that prevents him from hearing his breathing.

The frantic pace, the fear, the hunger, the thirst, and the many gashes on his arms and face from the branches he kept meeting in the dark were debilitating not only to his body but

also to his mind. He was never a fit person; he loved to eat and lived a sedentary life; he loved a good book and the warm comfort of his home. The brief reminder that all his life possessions were now going up in smoke sent him to his knees in a cry of desperation he had never felt before as hundreds more fearful souls engulfed in the forest’s darkness ran past him. He took a few minutes to gather himself and started to make his way across the dense forest between him and sure death.

The loud sound of the human stampede was far ahead of him, he was now alone, running in the darkness, but he was alive. That was all that mattered at this point. As the minutes passed, the sound of the others was ever farther from him; he now realized he needed to lose some weight; he was out of breath and drenched in sweat; whatever little vision he had in this darkness was blurred by the desperation and sheer fatigue. Just another short pause before going on, he felt he was going to collapse. He sat for a moment near some shrubs, gathering himself while gasping for air; now, with the others gone ahead, he could hear every sound in the forest, every owl, every breeze running thru the leaves. There was no moon out tonight, sheer darkness; how was he to find his way back to the others. Lowering his gaze from the skies, he sees a boy

behind some saplings in front of him.

“Sir, let’s go; you can’t stay here; they are upon us.”

As Osman reaches the boy, he notices that there, behind the saplings, hundreds of children are huddled together in the dark. They all started running in the darkness again as he got to them. As he runs among them, he asks the boy if they know their way out of the forest. “Yes, we made it to the other side; they sent us to get you” “We are almost there.”

But it wasn’t long before Osman felt his body succumb to the ordeal of these nightly events, and once more, he needed to take a momentary rest. As the kids come to a halt, he sits at the bottom of a tree; for the first time this night, he felt a slight breeze caress his face while he closed his eyes, taking in every sound shrouded in the darkness of the forest. Finally, he gets up once more and walks toward the children. They all look at him with tired eyes.

“Hey, kids, sorry I had to stop there, but it’s been a long night, and I’ve been running for hours. I Am exhausted, hungry, and thirsty, and that’s not the worst.”

“What can be worse than this, Sir?” “This God-forsaken darkness, it’s eating at me, at my soul and sanity.”

I am the darkness that creeps and crawls, A shadowy figure that covers all. I am the fear that grips your soul, A phobia that's out of control.

Beware the phobovore that feeds on dread, Its hunger never satisfied, always well-fed. It preys on the fears that you hold tight, And devours them in the dead of night.

The legend of Faust is a cautionary tale, Of what happens when ambition prevails. His hunger for power led him astray, And his soul was claimed without delay.

The shadow of fear is always near, A reminder of what you hold dear. Will you face your fears or run away? The choice is yours, come what may.

Phasmophobia

Phasmophobia is the fear of ghosts or supernatural beings

Sharlene was a strong woman that managed her household with Swiss army clock precision. There was never time to waste, not in this household. With two twin kids, Rob and Marcia, who were young prodigies each. Rob was a young musical genius who had taught himself to play the piano and various other instruments and was to become the newest addition to the Juilliard School of Music at age 10. And on the other hand, there was Marcia, a very talented painter. She was also pursuing a scholarship for the Harvard University Art program and was to become one of its youngest art students. Sharlene and her husband Robert were very successful realtors and co-owned the It’s Your Castle Real State Agency, yes, they were a busy bunch, and all that hard work was finally paying off. But it wasn’t always like this; they had their share of failures, especially in a market that was so saturated, they had to come up with a winning business strategy to survive, and they did as a family. They decided to avoid the Open House style other realtors were using. They, in turn, agreed that every time there was a property for sale, they would do a scheduled showing, which had become their winning ticket. As potential buyers arrived,

Tocophobia

Tocophobia is a fear of childbirth that occurs in women who have not previously given birth. It is often based on unrealistic or exaggerated beliefs about childbirth, and may be related to a fear of pain or a fear of losing control.

Phobophobias

Oliver Anderson: “Well, Megan, the way I see it, if you’re not going to honor our beliefs, then you shouldn’t live here any longer, you very well know what the Prophet said, you’ve become of age, and you’re to be married. You know the importance of bearing children; it is your duty, your heavenly task. It is of the utmost importance for your ascension to the heavens.”

Megan: “I won’t marry that old man; please don’t make me do this; I don’t want children; I won’t have them; neither you nor the prophet can make me do it.”

Lucy Anderson: “Please, child, we have talked about this; I couldn’t have been happier than the day you or your brothers and sisters were born; it is our duty to the Prophet. He has called for you.”

In a moment of total fear and desperation, Megan runs out of the house and races thru the streets with nothing more than her pastel blue gown, headed to the limits of the compound. A 16-year-old girl, pressured into marrying the Prophet of a fundamental Mormon group, yes, a child bride, meant to bear countless children as her duty to God, the prophet, and the congregation.

After jumping over the barbed fence and being shielded by the night sky, she makes her way out of the confines of the temple grounds. She’s never been out of the compound, every turn and corner is a new experience, yet somehow in her race for freedom, she reaches the skirt of the Wasatch National Forest. Without hesitating, she enters the nightly embrace of the wooded area. She prays, slumping over a nearby rock with the night sky as her witness.

Megan: “Oh Lord, please help me; I don’t want to be an apostate, but you know I am afraid of giving birth. Isn’t there another way I can serve you? Give me a sign, I beg you.”

Breaking the silence that permeates the forest, a reverberating sound, and a bright light flooded the clearing where Megan was praying. Unafraid, she walked towards the light, where a figure started to emerge. He was tall and handsome with penetrating purple irises, and as he walked toward Megan, he extended an inviting hand.

Megan: “Who are you? Where do you come from?”

The Man: “I come from beyond your clouds and I am one of many. There isn’t much time; we must leave now; it is time for the ascension.”

Whisked away on a fiery chariot like the prophet Enoch, this seemed the answer to Megan’s prayer, ascension without a forced marriage, as-

cension without pregnancy, everything would be alright after all. Once inside the ship, it hurled through the night sky and into space, then a multitude of men came from all corners of the starship to greet her, to honor her. They called her the BEARER.

The Man: “We are a dying race, a sickness killed all our females, you’re our only hope, you must know the importance of bearing children, this will be your duty, it is your heavenly task. It is of the utmost importance in your ascension to the heavens. You will be a mother to many and all.”

Megan: “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

SCOPOPHOBIA

Scopophobia is an excessive and irrational fear of being looked at, stared at, or being in the spotlight. It is a type of social anxiety disorder and can cause extreme discomfort and anxiety in situations where one feels they are being watched or scrutinized.

Phobophobias

It was early in the morning when Sharon heard the truck come to an abrupt halt at the house across the street from hers. That house had been for sale for quite some time, but by the looks of it, somebody had purchased it. She always considered herself a social invalid but had a knack for keeping a vigilant eye on whatever happened in the neighborhood. She proceeded to go to her usual lookout spot, the window by the kitchen; it had a flower bed at the other side with perennials that rose just above midglass, enough to conceal part of her face as she pretended to do the dishes while looking at the house across from hers.

As the workers proceeded to unload the belongings of the persons moving in, she visually cataloged everything she saw, and her mind ran wild with theories about the new tenants. And while absorbed by her rampant imagination, the truck’s motor turned over, and as it left the front of the house, she caught the first glimpse of the new neighbor. Sitting on a rattan chair, he seemed to be in his forties, with a black and blue flannel shirt that did little to hide his big shoulders and chest. When she looked at his face, she noticed his eyes were looking straight at her, and like a high school girl, she dropped

out of sight while holding her mouth, afraid he would hear her giggle. After a few minutes of hiding below the window, she ventured to look again, and he was looking straight at her with a grave face.

She decided to go about her business; enough investigating for today. Once she finished her afternoon chores, she plunked down on her sofa and grabbed her phone; she dialed her friend Eunice; they would share what they both had seen during their daily neighborhood watch. Eunice was a 75-year-old widow who lived a few streets down from Sharon; neither of them had a family nor entertained neighbors at their home, just two lonely women who delighted in watching others and gossiping about them.

“Eunice, love, how are you?”

“Just getting back from the market, hon.” “I saw the truck across from your house. Did you get a look at your new neighbor?

“I was calling you about that, and I think he caught me looking at him.”

“Best be careful, hon; we need to keep a watchful eye on that one from what I hear.”

“What did you hear?”

“I heard he was involved in a shooting some time ago. I think he is a thug; I heard somebody got injured, maybe lost their life, I am not sure, but we better keep an eye on him and call the police

if anything seems suspicious.”

“Come on, I am in trouble now, shoot, his face was serious, and his eyes were fixed on me.”

“Well, hon, steer away from him, ok.”

As day turned to night, Sharon kept herself from looking across the street; she felt restless, trapped, and above all, afraid. She was sure he had seen her and wasn’t happy with her snooping. Before turning in, she decided to turn off the lights and take a quick peek through the window, and the man was still sitting in the darkness on his porch. He had not turned on his porch light, and all Sharon could see was his silhouette when suddenly he reached into his pants and took out a box of cigarettes, putting one in his mouth. When he brought the lighter to his face and lit the cigarette, she noticed once more that he was looking straight at her, and with the lit cigarette in his mouth, he stood up. Afraid he had seen her and was now coming for her, Sharon ran towards her room in the dark, not before stumbling on a dining chair and falling against the wall; a solid thud and a crackling sound filled the silence of her home. While gasping for what little air she could intake while life escaped her body, Sharon heard her phone ring, and then the answering machine came on: “Hey, silly bird, it is Eunice; you’ll laugh yourself

to sleep after you hear this. I spoke with one of the neighbors today, and they told me the story of your new neighbor. That man is the one that got shot years back in that same house during a robbery; he was always the owner of the house; he just got back from living with some relatives during his recovery. And listen to this, oh God, he wasn’t looking at you; he is blind; he lost his eyesight when he got shot. Isn’t that something, child, and here you were, afraid he’d seen you. Anyways I’ll come by tomorrow, and we can both look at him and laugh this off.”

Sharon saw everything in her neighborhood; her demise was the only thing she didn’t see.

In the depths of the night, I come alive, A shadowy creature that makes you strive. I am the phobovore that feasts on your fears, Growing stronger with every tear.

Faust made a deal, a bargain with death, For knowledge and power, beyond his breath. But his soul was claimed, a price too high, His fate was sealed, forever to lie.

Phobias are my tools, my weapons of war, A powerful force that sends you to the floor. I am the shadow that haunts your dreams, A phobia so real, it's not what it seems.

Samhainophobia

Samhainophobia is the fear of Halloween. It is a relatively common phobia, especially among children. People with this phobia may feel anxious or panicked at the thought of Halloween, including costumes, decorations, and trick-or-treating. Some may also have a fear of ghosts, witches, or other supernatural creatures associated with the holiday.

Phobophobias

October 28, 10:00 am

Nothing says Halloween like a good old jack-olantern, a bag of candy, kids covered in sheets pretending to be ghosts, or the plastic skeleton sitting at the front porch ready to greet those looking for a sweet treat. But not everyone is keen on the start of this season; you may say some abhor it.

Martha Hughes was such a person, it was her least favorite season, and the idea of decorating with things that represented death was one she couldn’t fathom. And as the cold air of the approaching winter sent chills down her back, so did the idea of watching somebody don a mask, not being able to see who was behind it. She had just moved in during the Summer and was still a stranger to her neighborhood. She liked her privacy and didn’t entertain having people over; it was just her and her little dog Rufus.

As she looked at the houses surrounding hers, a plethora of Halloween decorations flooded the front yards of the homes; the sight to her was ghastly and kept her secluded while the season lasted. But not all homes were decorated that way, at least not with plastic or manufactured decorations. There was old man Sam’s house, his