Things We Fear

Summer has just begun, and fear is in season.

School’s out, and the faculty at Fairington Elementary School are free for the summer. Emily Young can’t deny her attraction to Aaron Jackson, the Ed Tech from her classroom, but she’s afraid of being hurt again. Meanwhile, Aaron is determined not to let his phobia of drowning prevent him from enjoying the sun and the sand of Maine’s best beach town.

But they’re about to learn
real
fear. Fairington is home to a monster. Phys Ed teacher Matt Holmes has more to offer the ladies than a perfect smile. He’s a killer and he’s got his sights set on Emily. Who at Fairington will conquer their fears? And who will fall to a psychopath’s hellbent rage?

We Fear

Glenn Rolfe

Dedication

This one’s for anyone who visits Old Orchard Beach when the summer sun grows our population.

Chapter One

In her last three years tending bar, Kasey Campbell had encountered enough sleazy come-ons to fill a raunchy stand-up comic’s routine five times over.

“Hey, girl, you look like heaven spilled into them jeans.”

“You ever come three times in one night? Do you wanna?”

“Damn, I’d like to get those legs wrapped around my head.”

Yeah, not the most suave batch around, but she gave them credit for their directness. The weird ones were always inevitably drawn to her. The guys who offered her rides home or tried to pay like she was a prostitute. And once in a while, there was the alpha who didn’t like the word
no
. That’s what Eric was for.

Eric Winston had been an All-American basketball center at Boston College before being drafted by the Boston Celtics. He was the next big thing, or at least he was supposed to have been. An ugly knee injury sustained during preseason of his rookie year derailed that dream. He’d relayed his glory years to Kasey enough times that she had them committed to memory, whether she cared to or not. Now, he was the door guy for Patrick’s.

On nights when she ran into an AD (her and Eric’s code name for an Alpha Dog), a couple of head nods toward Eric’s post by the door would get the big guy’s attention. She’d yell out, “AD,” and let Eric do what Eric did best—bounce drunken morons and aggressive assholes out onto the street.

Tonight had been running along smoothly until the cute guy with the too-perfect smile at the end of the bar showed his true colors. Cyndi Lauper he wasn’t. He introduced himself as her “Next Best Night”. Not quite original, but slightly less repulsive than the come-three-times guy. She learned early on that when they refused to share their name, there was trouble ahead.

Next Best Night continued to eye fuck her and hound her for her number for about an hour before his big AD reveal. Wesley Cooper, one of the locals who flirted with her in a more appropriate manner, walked toward her and started up their weekly routine of playful banter. Next Best Night became visually annoyed. Actually, annoyed wasn’t quite the right way to put it—outrageously pissed off and jealous was more like it.

“You sure I can’t convince you to be my date to the Runtz show at the armory next weekend?” Wesley said.

Kasey placed a fresh bottle of Bud in his hand and brushed his shaggy brown bangs out of his reddened face. “You know my father doesn’t let me date cool guys.”

“Dang, Kasey, your daddy doesn’t have to know a thing.”

“Well, if you can convince Mr. Ryan to give me the night off, I’ll consider it.”

Wesley took her hand, kissed her flesh above her knuckles and said, “I will confer with Mr. Patrick Ryan. Thanks for the brew. And maybe I’ll see you next Saturday night.”

“Maybe’s my middle name,” Kasey said. She blushed. Wesley was cute, sweet, maybe even genuine, but he was barely twenty-one. She’d be thirty at the end of summer.

She was about to head out back for a quick snack when Next Best Night clamped one of his mitts around her wrist.

“Hey, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Kasey said.

“What’s the baby face got that I don’t? Huh?”

Kasey struggled to get her arm back from the creep. “Let go.”

“Fuckin’ cradle-robbin’ whore.”

“AD!”

Eric was there in a heartbeat.

“All right, man, night’s over.”

Best Night Ever refused to release her until Eric grabbed his arm and twisted it halfway to China.

“All right, all right! I’m fuckin’ leavin’.”

“Too late, dog.” Eric practically lifted the guy’s feet from the floor. Kasey watched as Norman Bates Jr. got escorted out the door. She rubbed her wrist and said a silent prayer to God for Eric.

By the end of the night, she’d completely forgotten about the asshole with the perfect smile.

* * * * *

Matt Holmes, aka Next Best Night, waited for the dim-room-attractive bartender to make her exit. She’d been able to withstand his charm all night. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have wasted time on her. Her nose was too pointy, her eyes too close together, but it was a slow night and any pussy was better than jerking off.

Matt stepped out of his new SUV and into a summer rain that drizzled from the heavy storm cover above. The air, thick and humid, moved. Palpable. The light rain made its thickness almost comfortable, moist. It made him think of what Little Miss Too Good had worked so hard to keep from him. She would share her soft, precious secret with him, even if he had to take it.

His iPhone read 1:30 a.m. Matt hunched down, doing his best to blend in with the fresh blacktop, and scurried across the empty street. He leaned back in the shadow of the rusted old Ford pickup permanently parked at the side of Macpherson’s Pizza by the Slice. Matt had overheard a conversation about the truck being the pizzeria’s first delivery truck back in the early seventies. Now, it sat retired in the small alley between Macpherson’s and the abandoned building beside it. It would provide the perfect cover for Matt as he waited.

Over the next fifteen minutes, he watched the last wobbly patrons stumble out and away from Patrick’s Place
three doors down. Kasey and the gorilla who had nearly broken his arm escorting him out were the last two to leave the shithole dive bar. The burly bouncer with the bushy black beard and leather trench coat came out first. To Matt’s chagrin, he held the door open for the bartender.

Shit. That big black bastard will clobber me if he gets the chance.

Matt leaned back farther, his back to the brick wall of Macpherson’s, and watched through the rain-covered front window of the truck next to him as the two conversed. She hugged the man. They parted ways. The big goon climbed into a black Jeep. He pulled away from the curb. Matt ducked low as the Jeep’s headlights swept past his hiding place. The bouncer slowed.

“Night, Kasey.”

“Good night, Eric,” she replied.

Matt wiped his hands on the thighs of his jeans, reached around to his back pocket, and produced a pair of black leather gloves. He pulled them on. His heartbeat thumped in anticipation. There were only two vehicles on his end of the block—the dead pickup that concealed him in the alley, and the gray Honda Accord at the corner. She would have to walk right past him.

Anger roiled up through his body. Adrenaline burned through his veins and begged for release.

Hold on, hold on,
he commanded himself. Her flats slapped the wet sidewalk as she approached and passed his shadow. Her perfume—sweet and only slightly dampened by the rain—traced its way to his nostrils. He inhaled the subtle scent and closed his eyes. When he opened them, dark intent settled over him. His urges took hold.

He sprang. Rather than try and snatch her and drag her straight to his SUV, he threw a fist right into the back of her head. She toppled like a rag doll and met the concrete with a wet smack. Matt scanned the street. Coast clear, he lifted her in his arms and rushed her across the street and into the backseat of his vehicle.

He closed the door, climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the engine over. The SUV purred to life. The bartender wasn’t worth his bed. Instead, he headed toward the closed-down paper mill that stood vacant at the river’s edge. It wasn’t often he had to force a woman to heed to his desires, but it did happen. Usually, the less attractive ones were easy. This one thought she was too good for him.
Calling that big bastard to haul me away.
She’d see who was in charge.

He drove through the rain, raced from the streetlights and turned down the bumpy road that led to the old mill.

The building came into sight. His tires crunched against the loose-gravel driveway that curled around the haunted shell of the Erskine Paper Mill. He parked close to the waving trees at the old lot’s back edge. The rain outside pounded the leaves overhead.

He climbed over the center console and joined the unconscious woman in the spacious backseat. Most single people who drove SUVs did so for the cache, the big-dick factor. For Matt, while that was part of it, he also loved having a space to take someone in the heat of the moment.

He had his windpants down and her skirt up before she began to stir. As he forced himself between her legs, with his hand clamped over her mouth, he witnessed the tears, by the light of the dashboard, roll down her bright-red cheeks. Her shamed look of helplessness delighted him.

“Best night ever,” he whispered in her ear.

* * * * *

When he finished, with his hands still tight in black leather gloves, he slammed his fist into the bartender’s face until her eyes rolled into her skull. The shovel and box of black Hefty bags waited in his trunk. The woman’s ghost would join the handful of others he’d buried out here.

He shoveled on the last heap of dirt and grabbed some loose brush from nearby to cover the freshly dug earth. Satisfied that no one would notice anything peculiar about this spot should they stumble upon it, he wiped the sweat from his brow, grabbed his shovel, and headed back to his ride. After tossing the spade in the back and double checking the ground outside the vehicle for any sign of his dirty deed, Matt climbed behind the wheel and stared at his green eyes in the rearview mirror. He wondered if his lust for overpowering women had just unseated the joy of getting his way. He thought of his mother—the nights at her side, the days in her special care. He shook the start of memories unwanted from his mind before they could get rolling, and put the truck in Drive.

He lived forty-five minutes from the mill. The adrenaline surge was over, exhaustion closed in hard. He rubbed his tired eyes, took a deep breath, slapped himself twice and exhaled with a growl. The LED clock read 3:37. He had gym classes to run in a couple of hours.

Chapter Two

“Help! Somebody help me…”

Aaron swam out from beneath his covers and spilled onto the bedroom floor.
That damn dream again. Goddammit.
Ever since he was fifteen, Aaron Jackson had been afraid of drowning—that’s what Dr. Lewis said it was, at least. According to the doctor, Aaron gave his fear of drowning a face, a face that swam up from his sleep to reach him nearly every night. A face so real…

He sat up and leaned against the side of his bed. He felt the slimy touch of the thing from his dream, on his calf. He saw the long, wavy, dark hair, the black eyes and the upturned nose… He tried to shake the impression from his head. He couldn’t breathe. His vision blurred. He grabbed for his cordless phone, ready to dial Dr. Lewis. Aaron clutched the phone to his sweat-soaked chest and tried to focus on his breathing like his therapist had taught him. He’d been seeing Dr. Lewis since what the good doc referred to as “the trigger incident”, which was nearly twelve years ago now.

The nightmares began after his accident at the swimming spot they called the Ropes. In a matter of weeks, following his fall into the river, the middle-of-the-night panic attacks became routine. Eventually they grew into the situational anxieties he currently worked his life around. He couldn’t fly in planes—going over large bodies of water was a definite no. Locally, even going over the Maine/New Hampshire Bridge was enough to initiate the sweats, the clammy skin and the wave of nausea that could cripple him behind the wheel. He hadn’t set foot in open water since that day down by the bank of the Kennebec River.

Gradually, his heart slowed and his breathing returned to normal. He placed the cordless on the floor next to his bare leg and ran his hands through his short brown hair. Even as a teenager, his mother would sit with him after his attacks until he calmed down. She would be by his side until he drifted back off to sleep. He used a pain medication with a sleeping aid back then, now a couple of cold beers did the trick.

He lifted his sweaty rump off the floor, threw the half-tangled bedsheet back on the bed and walked out to the kitchen. The cloudy night filled the small room with shadows. He opened the fridge, stood in the light that spilled out, and freed two Pabst Tall Boys from their plastic handcuff. He closed the fridge, turned and placed one can on the tiny brown table, and sat down in the dark. He had to work early in the morning, but his body had adjusted to his middle-of-the-night awakenings long ago. When he finished the first beer, he moved to the second.

He carried the beer with him down the hall and hit the light switch in the bathroom. He chugged the remainder, put the can on the counter and stared at his face. A little Visine and a cup of strong coffee would take care of him in the morning. He took a piss, hit the lights and climbed back into bed.

* * * * *

Golden rays blazed through the blinds and found their way to her bed. Warmth crawled like heated fingers over bare legs that poked out through tangled sheets. Emily Young turned to her side and caressed the pillow beneath her head. She always felt there was nothing quite like the sun’s warm touch to wake you up, even at four thirty in the morning.

Her moment of early morning grace was interrupted by the blare of man’s wickedest creation. She flopped over toward the nightstand and smacked the top of the bleating alarm clock. She slid her legs from the mattress that begged her not to go, and planted her delicate feet upon the hardwood floor.

“One more day,” she said aloud. Today was the last day of school. Summer vacation beckoned. Even teachers appreciated this unofficial holiday.

Emily reached up and swiped the sleep nuggets from her eyes. Her gaze drifted across the room to her little mahogany desk next to the door and landed on the stack of paper neatly piled next to the printer.
Summer of the Goddess.
It was her first attempt at a novel, a story told of a witch who falls in love with a devout Catholic, only to lose him to tragedy. She’d written it senior year in college. Two nights ago, she’d printed it out. Whether she did it to motivate or taunt herself, she wasn’t quite sure yet.

Emily stood and walked toward the door. She stopped and stared down at the title page of her manuscript. She knew the story was decent and the writing was pretty good…but she had another book in her that was demanding attention. She didn’t know what it was, or what genre or adventure, or even who would lead the way, but it called to her.

She made a promise to get started tonight. She picked up the hefty manuscript and carried it out to the kitchen. She pressed her foot on the lever at the bottom of the red trash can by the refrigerator and dropped the novel in among the refuse.

She grabbed a K-Cup, her favorite flavor, Honey Mocha, and set it in the machine her mother had sent for her birthday last month, then tapped to life the iTunes player sitting next to the coffee machine. She hit Shuffle and moved across the room to the windows. She swayed to the music; a haunted heartbeat pulsed behind a softly strummed guitar and the rough, but pleasant, voice of Brian Fallon.

She drifted from the kitchen and peeked out the window by the front door. Her car sat in the driveway and the sun gleamed off the hood. Her gaze swept the quiet street; it seemed her neighbors were still asleep. The white SUV parked in the ice cream shop diagonal from her apartment was pointed directly at her. She wasn’t sure why she thought of it that way, pointed, like the driver was watching her house, and her house alone, but it felt that way to her. Her nerves ruffled. She couldn’t make out the driver, but someone was in there. The faceless silhouette stared out in her direction.

Emily dropped the blind, closed her housecoat up tight, unlocked the door and stepped out on the front stoop. The SUV reversed, turned away from her street and bolted out along the main road, just missing a silver pickup as it did. Emily stepped back inside and locked the door.

* * * * *

Aaron cranked some Guns N’ Roses on his way in to work. Despite his dread of the open sea, he believed in the “face your fears” mantra. The coast was where he made his home come the middle of June. Old Orchard Beach, Maine. Packed to the gills with out-of-shape Canadians, bikers, musicians and lughead teens from the central and southern part of the state, plus way too many young girls without an ounce of shame, OOB became quite the mecca for mayhem when the warmth of the sun finally found its way to Maine. And that was what Aaron loved about it—never a dull moment. For two and a half months, he had all the free entertainment he could ever ask for. He rented a little bungalow that sat a hop, skip and a jump from the hot sand. No TV, no computer—just the sun, the sand and his summertime people.

Being the last day of the school year, his summer of fun was an end-of-the-day bell ring away. He was finishing up his fourth and what would probably be his final year at Fairington Elementary School. Despite his degree and his time in the district, Aaron couldn’t crack the major faculty. Unless you had
years
of service under your belt, or, as much as he hated to even think it, you were a woman, you weren’t going to get a regular teaching gig. Men got the temp positions: Ed Tech, substitute. He’d been at FES four years and lost the two open slots for fourth grade to two women fresh out of college with the same degree as him. It was a crappy line that the school refused to even acknowledge, but Aaron knew silence was his best friend in the matter. If he challenged the status quo, he wouldn’t end up anywhere but out on the street looking for a new job.

This year had been his easiest. One of the new women to take up his spot was Emily Young. Ms. Young was twenty-three, petite and gorgeous. She had deep-brown eyes, perfect skin, and long, dark hair that she usually wore up in a ponytail. She came up to his chin. Her skirts had driven him to the edge of sexual insanity throughout the course of the year. At least with summer upon them, he would be free of her and the frustration.

He let his gaze drift to the window and got lost in the sunshine. His old algebra teacher, Mr. Laughlin, used to warn the class to focus for the first three quarters of the school year so that they could stare out at the birds and the bees when spring hit.

“Mr. Jackson,” Ms. Young said.

She pulled him back from his summer haze.

“Yes?” he said.

“Can you come up here and help Calvin with this…issue?” Ms. Young said. She was standing near the door with Calvin Kendo. The boy faced the door.

Aaron would love to have Ms. Young take the open slot in his love life; however, as with the teaching positions at Fairington, he knew when to keep his mouth shut. Faculty relationships were strictly against the rules. Not that he thought she would go with him anyway, but there was no need to put their day-to-day, in-class relationship at risk. He’d never be able to show his face in there if he made a move and she shot him down. Something about undressing the teacher in your mind while surrounded by ten-year-olds was definitely fucked up, but goddamn if she wasn’t the sexiest woman he’d ever met.

Yes,
he sighed. Just three hours until he was free from dress shirts and ties, aggravating, snickering kids (they weren’t all bad, but the ones who were ruined it for the rest, in his mind), and his role of pretending to be a good soldier patiently waiting in line for a permanent job. Also, freedom from Ms. Emily Young. Aaron’s breaths were coming easier already.

He got up to help Calvin Kendo with his
issue
. That problem turned out to be an erection. Ms. Young’s reddened face turned from the two boys as she went about the day’s curriculum.

Aaron opened the classroom door and ushered Calvin out into the empty hallway.

“Hey, Calvin, that’s a regular guy problem you got there. It happens. Are you feeling okay?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to go get a drink of water? Sometimes walking and moving around helps bring things back to normal.”

“Okay.”

They started for the water fountain, with the boy covering the front of his pants with his Phineas and Ferb folder. “Mr. Jackson?”

“Yeah, Calvin?”

“Does this ever happen to you?”

“It sure does.”

“I mean in class.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Sometimes.”

“Is that why you go out for water too?”

“Sometimes, Calvin.”

The boy made it down the hall, cartoon-character folder firmly in place, and slurped from the water fountain outside Mrs. Bell’s third-grade class.

“Better? Or do we need to walk around some more?”

“I think it’s gone.”

Yep. Three hours until freedom.