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  PHOBOPHOBIAS

  COMPILED & EDITED BY

  DEAN M. DRINKEL

  WESTERN LEGENDS PUBLISHING

  CALIFORNIA | CONNECTICUT | ENGLAND

  PHOBOPHIOBIAS

  Cover Artwork: © 2014 James Powell

  Used with permission.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places are either invented by the authors or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real events, locations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. Or so the State would have you believe.

  Book Cover & Interior Design

  D.T. Griffith

  Copy Editing

  Dean M. Drinkel

  Western Legends Logo

  Created by D.T. Griffith

  © 2014 Western Legends Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-1502987785

  ISBN-10: 1502987783

  Western Legends Publishing

  P.O. BOX 1226

  Hollywood, California 90078

  WESTERNLEGENDSPUBLISHING.COM

  COPYRIGHT DETAILS

  “Introduction” © 2014 Dean M. Drinkel

  “A Is For Achluophobia” © 2014 Sam Stone

  “B Is For Botophobia” © 2014 Barbie Wilde

  “C Is For Catoptrophobia” © 2014 Rakie Keig

  “D Is For Demophobia” © 2014 Andrew Taylor

  “E Is For Ecophobia” © 2014 Mike Chinn

  “F Is For Felinophobia” © 2014 D.M. Youngquist

  “G Is For Geumophobia” © 2014 Christine Morgan

  “H Is For Hadephobia” © 2014 Dean M. Drinkel

  “I Is For Ipovlopsychophobia” © 2014 Lily Childs

  “J Is For Judeophobia” © 2014 Daniel I. Russell

  “K Is For Keraunophobia” © 2014 Jan Edwards

  “L Is For Lockiophobia” © 2014 Peter Mark May

  “M Is For Mottephobia” © 2014 Amelia Mangan

  “N Is For Nostophobia” © 2014 Tim Dry

  “O Is For Ombrophobia” © 2014 Raven Dane

  “P Is For Pathophobia” © 2014 Phil Sloman

  “Q Is For Quietus” © 2014 Nerine Dorman

  “R Is For Rhytiphobia” © 2014 Mark West

  “S Is For Samhainophobia” © 2014 John Palisano

  “T Is For Trichinophobia” © 2014 John Gilbert

  “U Is For Ufophobia” © 2014 D.T. Griffith

  “V Is For Vehiphobia” © 2014 Adrian Chamberlin

  “W Is For Walloonphobia” © 2014 Lisa Jenkins

  “X Is For Xenophobia” © 2014 Christopher Beck

  “Y Is For Ygrophobia” © 2014 Christine Dougherty

  “Z Is For Zelophobia” © 2014 Emile-Louis Tomas Jouvet

  For: Milou & Ganbry

  Table of Contents

  INTRODUCTION

  A IS FOR ACHLUOPHOBIA

  B IS FOR BOTOPHOBIA

  C IS FOR CATOPTROPHOBIA

  D IS FOR DEMOPHOBIA

  E IS FOR ECOPHOBIA

  F IS FOR FELINOPHOBIA

  G IS FOR GEUMOPHOBIA

  H IS FOR HADEPHOBIA

  I IS FOR IPOVLOPSYCHOPHOBIA

  J IS FOR JUDEOPHOBIA

  K IS FOR KERAUNOPHOBIA

  L IS FOR LOCKIOPHOBIA

  M IS FOR MOTTEPHOBIA

  N IS FOR NOSTOPHOBIA

  O IS FOR OMBROPHOBIA

  P IS FOR PATHOPHOBIA

  Q IS FOR QUIETUS

  R IS FOR RHYTIPHOBIA

  S IS FOR SAMHAINOPHOBIA

  T IS FOR TRICHINOPHOBIA

  U IS FOR UFOPHOBIA

  V IS FOR VEHIPHOBIA

  W IS FOR WALLOONPHOBIA

  X IS FOR XENOPHOBIA

  Y IS FOR YGROPHOBIA

  Z IS FOR ZELOPHOBIA

  BIOGRAPHIES

  COVER ARTIST

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  “What is constitutive is the action that divides madness and not the science elaborated once this division is made.”

  Michel Foucault, Madness & Civilisation

  “Only those things are beautiful which are inspired by madness and written by reason.”

  André Gide

  Editor’s Note

  In the stories that follow, each author’s original spelling and intention has been retained depending upon their nationality (e.g. through vs. thru, color vs. colour).

  INTRODUCTION

  Wow–where did that time go? It seems like only yesterday that I was running down Shaftesbury Avenue to try to get to Forbidden Planet in time for the official launch and author signing of Phobophobia. I detest being late at the best of times but earlier in the day I had had a meeting in Soho with a producer to discuss a book I had been ghost-writing which I was also writing the screenplay for.

  We had had something to eat, a few drinks and before you knew it the whole afternoon had passed – I remember looking at my watch and slightly sobering up remembering that I needed to be at the store for five – it was now ten too! I went back to the table – much hugging, shaking of hands and air-kissing followed before I high-tailed my backside onto the road and I started to sprint – not easy I can assure you.

  I was very honoured when I stood outside the Forbidden Planet to see ‘Tonight! PHOBOPHOBIA signing!’ pasted all over the window and heading down the stairs to the signing area – I was almost overwhelmed when I saw hundreds of copies of Phobophobia scattered about then absolutely was when the Manager showed me a large pile of books which had been ordered / pre-sold and required my autograph on them NOW! Okay mate calm down – do you have any beer or wine maybe, oh, water okay...where’s the nearest pub?

  The next couple of hours are a relative blur (and perhaps only slightly due to that lunchtime drinking session). As well as myself there were several of the other contributors, one of whom was Barbie Wilde (amazing girl Barbie – did you read the interview she did with me in Fangoria? If not – check out Issue 331) and before you knew it her fellow Cenobites from Hellraiser/Hellbound were milling about – particularly Nicko Vince (Chatterer) and ‘The Black Pope’ himself, Doug Bradley (Pinhead). I had met Doug a few times previously so it was great to ‘catch up’ and funnily enough I had also met Nicko when I was a student at a Clive Barker book launch – there was much chattering that night (see what I did there?).

  I had some ‘normal’ friends also coming but they appeared to be running late – eventually they managed to get there – they’d been having lunch in Covent Garden and had got into a rickshaw which decided to take them in totally the wrong direction – but they arrived in the end and purchased another ten or so copies. The launch was a real success, so much so that they allowed us an extra half-hour to sign – we really pushed a lot of copies.

  We had a film-crew in attendance too, Ben Ward and Kenny Wilson, and they picked up some amazing interviews with the contributors, guests and ‘Joe Bloggs’ off the street who had come in to see what all the fuss was about.

  Once we finished up there we headed over to a pub near London Bridge as the British Fantasy Society were holding one of their Open Nights and had kindly allowed us to do a second launch. This was also a success in the fact that we sold a crate-load of books and picked up some new fans during the night – what wasn’t so great was due to the layout of the pub we were locked away in the ‘snug’ and thus we all missed our own book launch!!!

  When the pub closed we headed to a Private Members’ Club in th
e West End – but I won’t say anything about that here to save the blushes of those that attended – but they know who they are and exactly what happened! I know I certainly can’t listen to a song by Mr C / The Shamen without smiling.

  I’m not sure of the exact date, and perhaps in the great scheme of things it’s not really that important (though it’s on YouTube if you really want to check it out) but we then did a reading at the Big Green Bookshop in North London about six or so months later. That was a blast too, a couple of us speaking to an (almost!) attentive reading-group. I don’t think they really knew what hit them but again we sold some copies and made some people happy – we can’t complain.

  ***

  Phobophobia was always screaming out for a sequel. I know it’s been a good seller for Dark Continents, has garnered some brilliant reviews and has gone on to launch some outstanding writing talent. However, in 2014 DCP shut up shop – a sad day indeed.

  BUT all was not lost and I approached John Palisano of Western Legends who agreed to pick up the sequel I had been putting together. I was honoured too that I was able to bring on board quite a few of those original writers but also to include some of the newer writers I have met during the last couple of years and worked with on my other anthologies – so a great big thank you everyone who contributed to both Phobophobia and Phobophobias.

  Whilst writing, I must thank John Prescott because without him asking me to be involved with his M Is For Monster anthology a few years ago, I know I wouldn’t be sitting here on my balcony in Cannes writing this introduction. Love you John and can’t wait to work with you again sometime soon.

  It’s almost three years between Phobophobia and Phobophobias – what a three years that has been – for me alone, I’ve had published several anthologies, a short story or two, a collection of my own work as well as winning two script-writing awards and that’s just me – many (if not all) of the writers have gone from strength to strength.

  Get behind these writers, get behind small presses like Western Legends – there is so much out there to discover.

  Read.

  And if you are so inclined: WRITE.

  See you next time around.

  Dean M Drinkel

  Cannes, France May 2014

  A IS FOR ACHLUOPHOBIA

  The Promise

  Sam Stone

  “I’ve come to take you home.”

  Tom looked up from his bowl of porridge to find his cousin Patty standing by the table. For a moment he felt confused. He was in a drug-induced haze; the days had passed in the hospital in a blur of bewilderment.

  Patty was a few years older than Tom. They had been close growing up, but he hadn’t seen her since Stacie’s funeral. He had to force his mind to remember that this was some months before. He didn’t even know who had contacted her.

  “Come on,” said Patty kindly. “I’ll help you dress.”

  They walked slowly to Tom’s room. Tom was walking like an old man and knew it had to be the drugs. His mouth felt as though it was filled with fur and his fingers and toes were suffering from a chemical numbness. It was as if his limbs belonged to someone else: somehow he managed to control them, but only just.

  When they went inside his room, Patty burst into sudden tears.

  “Jesus, Tom. What have they done to you? How did this happen? Why didn’t you call me?”

  She hugged him awkwardly.

  “I’m taking you back to my place until you’re better. They reckon the meds will help stabilise you.”

  “I’m…n…not sure what happened,” he said. “Jus’ remember the doctor bringing me in for tests…” The more he spoke the more his cracked voice began to work again. He couldn’t remember the last time he had even tried to speak.

  Patty helped him dress and by the time Tom had his tee-shirt, jeans, shoes and socks back on the fugue was lifting. She left him for a few moments while she went to sort out ‘the paperwork’, and Tom looked around the small one-bedded room and wondered again how he had come to be here, and when.

  When Patty returned, Tom went with her willingly. He needed to be outside; felt as though he had truly forgotten what fresh air was like.

  “What…was…how…long?” he asked as they left the ward and walked towards the hospital exit.

  “Not surprised you lost time,” Patty said. “I believe you’ve been there for about a month.”

  She linked his arm. “It was by sheer luck I found out. I called round to the cottage, saw the pile of post left in the porch, knew something was wrong and so I went to see the farmer next door. He told me the doctor had admitted you to hospital. It didn’t take long to find out where you were then.”

  “I can’t remember anything,” Tom said.

  “I came a few days ago. You were so drugged you couldn’t even stand. I had to get my lawyer on it to get you out of here. That doctor, the bitch, had you committed. We forced her to release your records – she said you were a danger to yourself and not fit to live alone. It’s how we won. I told them I’d look after you. Since then they’ve been weaning you off the drugs.”

  “I’m not a danger…” Tom groaned. “How ridiculous…”

  Patty paused and turned him to face her. “I know that Tom. I can’t believe that hack country doctor could do something like this to you. With everything you’ve been through.”

  Patty’s eyes watered up again.

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  Tom shook his head. He couldn’t explain, he was even having difficulty remembering why the doctor had taken him to the hospital in the first place.

  “We’ll call back at the cottage,” Patty said as they climbed into the car. “Collect some things for you; bring that mail across to sort through too.”

  ***

  As they drove up the gravel path to his cottage Tom began to recall the events before the hospital. Some strange terror that had taken over his life. A fear of something…but his confused brain couldn’t remember what.

  He wandered through the cottage looking at the old photographs on the walls, the chair with a dog-eared magazine still placed on it, the favourite ornaments on the mantelpiece. So many memories and they all came flooding back.

  When they had bought this house and the surrounding land, it had felt like a dream come true. Then Stacie had become sick, cancer was diagnosed and her early death had quickly followed. Tom had found himself alone, surrounded by everything that reminded him of his wife. It had been so sudden that he didn’t have time to adjust.

  After the funeral he had returned home; grave soil still staining his fingers. Darkness seemed to have descended far earlier than it should have. As he approached the cottage he found himself stumbling around like a sightless man who had lost his cane. Then, when he reached the door he struggled to fit the front door key in the lock without success. It was as though he had been struck blind. The first echoes of panic began to rise in his chest. He couldn’t see at all in the dark!

  When he finally managed to get inside and scrabbled for the main light-switch he was feeling sick and something akin to total panic made him feel as though he was on the brink of collapse. The light sent the anxiety scurrying away.

  In the kitchen, he found the box the hospice had given him. It was full of Stacie’s possessions. He couldn’t face sorting through them and so he picked the box up, carried it upstairs and placed it on the desk in Stacie’s study. Then he turned off the light and closed the door. After that he couldn’t bring himself to go into that room again.

  After that the night blindness had gotten worse. He couldn’t bear to be in a dark room. In the night when he opened his bedroom door and stared out onto the black landing an unreasonable panic would overwhelm him.

  “Clearly stress,” Doctor Stevens had said when he called in at the surgery a few weeks later. She was a female doctor and always seemed sympathetic.

  By then Tom couldn’t bear to have the lights off at all at night. The blin
dness was so complete he was convinced he would fall and hurt himself.

  “Not surprising really,” the doctor had added. “But don’t worry: it will pass. You just have to sensitise your vision again. Return to sleeping in the dark. All will soon improve.”

  Turning off the bedside lamp once he was in bed he had tried to do what the doctor suggested, but the dark-blindness made him feel as though he were in that box with his wife, buried deep in the ground. He felt suffocated, and grabbed for the lamp, plunging the room back into light to which his eyes adjusted immediately.

  After that, the dark became something to fear: something that would make him vulnerable. It couldn’t be tolerated, no matter how ridiculous it seemed.

  As the months went on the panic became worse. Tom had found that he couldn’t even risk going out at night. Driving in the dark was impossible and he didn’t want to find himself caught outside in an unlit area.

  Once, the bulb in his bedside lamp blew sometime during the night. Tom jolted awake. He found himself in pitch darkness. Fear pinned him to the bed even though his rational mind knew that all he had to do was stumble towards the door and turn on the main light. In the dark he thought he heard something. A vague, imperceptible breathing.

  Icy sweat burst out on his forehead. The smell of soil and death had filled his nostrils. Blood pumped loudly in his ears, as his heart beat sped up, his breathing became ragged and he felt utter terror threatening to consume his mind.

  I’m losing it! He had thought at the time. But no amount of rationalisation could shake away the fear. Finally, sliding back up on his pillows, he had forced himself to sit. He had the feeling that something was up above him, pressing down like some monstrous torture chamber whose spike-covered ceiling was slowly sinking.