In Order to Obtain an Understanding of Fear

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In Order to Obtain an Understanding of Fear

Hey, all. For those of you that actually do read my stories, then this if another horror story. I've been aiming to write three, and this will be my third one. Hooray!!

For those of you who were drawn in by the title, no, this is not a fan fiction. This is an original story with an original plot with original characters, and any similarities between this story and real settings, people, or situations are completely coincidental.

And now, on with the story!


There's one thing I can't understand about horror writers: How do they know what will actually frighten their readers? How does Stephen King know what will make his fans scream?

A flash of static in my eyes woke me up, and the white noise pulsated in my ears, giving me a headache. I groaned, glaring at the television through slitted eyes, and then throwing an arm over them to try and get back to sleep. The noise, however, only seemed to get louder.
I groaned again and rose from the stiff and creaky roach-motel bed to turn the knob on the box and sighed in relief as the room went dark and silent. Then I tumbled back into bed and fell asleep listening to the sounds of nighttime that this place had to offer: scratching inside the walls, a coyote howling somewhere in the woods outside, crickets offering up their tunes to the starlit sky, and a warm breath of wind across my face.

The morning sun was bright and cutting as it gleamed through the sheer motel curtains and into my eyes. The static noise coming from the television set was loud in my ears and I threw my pillow at the damn thing, but to no avail. A pillow wouldn't turn the T.V. off. I had to get up and do that myself.
Rolling out of bed, my knees almost buckled beneath me, not used to the weight of my body after a long night sleep. I shook my head and shuffled into the bathroom to void my bladder, and the tiredness receded from my head like the tide going down along with the moon. Washing the last of the hand soap down the drain I opened the door and stood there, confused.
The was no noise. The television screen was black, and reflecting the drapes over the windows that were moving softly in time with the AC. I shook my head and rubbed the crusty sleep-gunk out of my eyes. I remembered getting up late last night to turn off the tv...I must have still been half asleep when I went into the bathroom. I must have only imagined it was still on.
An odd, shivery sensation made the hair rise on the backs of my arms and the back of my neck, and made goosebumps erupt on my skin. I had the feeling that something was in the room, hiding from me and watching me, waiting to do something bad to me, and I looked all around the room before I straightened and laughed at myself.
“There's no one here but me,” I said into the empty room. The door had been locked since last night, and the windows were both shut. There was no way something could be in my room, unless it had been there the whole time. I shook my head, slapping myself lightly on the face to clear it. It was so stupid to be scared of something that wasn't there.
I heaved a sigh, and dressed for breakfast. Day was dawning and my editor was most likely already at the diner, checking his watch and debating on ordering a slice of pie.