Flash Fiction: "Just Fear"
"Who's there? Just come out!"

Brenda paced by the parlor window, rubbed her hand on her forehead, stifled a fit of sobs. She had dimmed every light in the house in the hopes of creating the illusion of an empty home, without having to commit to the potential terrors of a more complete darkness. It was one of those terrible nights in which unexplainable fear would lace her every thought. These nights, she could be doing something as innocuous as chopping a pepper or painting her nails, when the thunder of a large truck would scare her out of the potential a full night's sleep.

Her husband was home upstairs in bed. That should have been a comfort, but he scared her as much as anything else. He wasn't a frightening man. Harold McCarthy was calm, often calming, and as caring as the best of people. She listened to a set of his muffled snores through the ceiling--it was terrifying. Everything was terrifying. She almost wished Harold was an evil man; then she could interpret his night's breath as an indication of her safety. Her tiptoeing would then feel useful, and she would have something to protect herself from--a real monster. But the evil wasn't Harold, he was incapable of malice. The evil was everything around her and her caution for an unjustified idea. Fear, she thought, just fear.

That should do it, right?, she thought to herself. You tell yourself that fear is fear is fear is fear, and oh, God--it's supposed to go away! It's nothing, and I know it's nothing! There's nothing here! It's supposed to go away!  Go! Away!

This happened often. What Brenda didn't know was: tonight's fear would save her life.