Category: Trembling With Fear

Chapter Three

I had hoped never to return to the university in my lifetime. As I approach in the dead of night, memories of guards and their strong arms wrap themselves around me like handcuffs. Sometimes, I wish those experiments never ended. That way, the accident wouldn’t have happened. She’d still be here. 

I follow the familiar route to the side entrance, locked by a fob scanner. A quick stop at home had allowed me to pick up the copy I made ten years ago when I managed to steal one from the head doctor. The punishment for my theft was twelve hours of searing pain, but those appear to have paid off. I scan the old fob, and with a flash of green, I’m in. 

The stairwell to the fourth-floor lab remains painfully similar to my day. Purple flowers speckle the off-white paint, leading up towards my agony. I focus on my feet, one step at a time, as I forge my path to the grand laboratory. The stairs open to a large plaque that’s new to me. The glass is clear with fine navy letters naming the researchers on the floor.

Dr. Ivory White

Dr. Desmond Li

Dr. Richard Heart

Dr. Brie Tyler

Pictures are displayed next to their titles, each smiling in a frustratingly professional manner. I recognize all but Dr. Tyler, who must have been hired after my time. I resist the urge to spit on the plaque and continue down the hall to the lab and offices. I peek into each dark room, my badge ready in the event of any caretakers or night dwellers. For all I know, the doctors have another subject they’re torturing once the moon rises. As I creep down the hall, a poster catches my eye—a research project by none other than Lara Henderson, dated a few years back. A bold title sits above the cluster of neuronal diagrams and charts: 

Fear: Poison or Prosperity? 

I scan the text for anything helpful in solving the author’s murder—any illicit references or backhanded comments towards faculty or research organizations. There’s nothing of the sort. It just appears to be a fine project about whether fear is useful in developing the human mind. I can certainly attest to its usefulness in solving murder cases, though I suspect that’s not what Lara had in mind. 

All that remains is the large oak door at the end of the passage—a door that’s plagued my nightmares for the past fifteen years. I draw my revolver, the metal cool against my sweaty palm. My breath comes in short rasps as I edge toward the lab entrance. My legs tremble and beg me to turn back or to call Rachel and insist she join me—anything to avoid entering that room alone. But I drain all anxiety from my brain with an image of Lara’s sightless eyes. It’s my responsibility to do this for her. I push open the door. 

The main lab is just as I remember it—normal. Standard benches poke from the walls, with shelves bending under stacks of pipette tips, beakers, and solutions labelled in black felt marker. The pungent stench of ethanol lingers as if someone recently disinfected the entire workspace. This is where the students do their work and, most likely, where Lara spends her days. But the door into the back is where I’m most familiar. 

The hidden laboratory is a freakish display of machines pulled straight from a horror movie. Long hospital beds and chairs with restraints sit beside large devices with nodes sticking out like strands of hair, slithering along the dark floor. A desk is situated near the back, where I picture the doctors sitting and observing my strapped body—listening to my screams of terror. There’s a wall of cubbies to my right, empty now, but that used to hold the dead bodies that they would force upon me. Corpse after corpse, they would flash at me, forcing me to relive hundreds of final moments—thousands of emotions evoked by every method of death imaginable. The despair re-enters my mind, as if it never left, weighing so hard on my soul that I stumble into a rolling bed. I take a deep breath and wipe the tears from my eyes. Now is no time to cry. 

I wade through the equipment to the main desk, scattered with notes. I refuse to sit where they’ve sat and choose to stand over the workspace as I inspect the scrawls. They don’t make much sense—just observations and ideas about fear and its roots. But there is one note that proves useful—a password. I enter it into the desk computer to discover folders of notes and videos. The first I see is labelled “Alan River.”

My finger hovers over the mousepad. Afternoon coffee creeps up my throat, stinging my tongue with acid and vomit. I click the first video. 

“Please! No more. I don’t want to do this. I want Liz. Please. I want Liz!”

My blood congeals at the sounds of my fourteen-year-old voice wailing. I close my eyes and exit the file before I can see anything else. Then I vomit into the trash can. Blood rushes to my head. My eyes pop from their sockets as tears and saliva drain down my chin. 

“Get ahold of yourself, Alan,” I mutter. “Find Lara.”

It takes all my strength to look back at the screen. I work some computing magic to locate the most recent open tab, or rather video. This one is labelled “Henderson.” 

I watch through squinted eyes as Lara screams at the top of her lungs. She’s strapped to the bed, her eyes closed with nodes protruding from her hair. A woman stands above her, inserting something into her victim’s arm. It’s the needle of a syringe. I can’t see her face when the doctor turns, but I’d know three of the four with my eyes closed. It isn’t any of them, which means it must be Dr. Tyler. 

I shut down the computer and scour the notes one last time. They’re all gibberish. I curse and swipe them from the table, blood pounding in my ears. Then, I spot one on the floor. It’s simple, only two sentences. But the few words still scare me worse than anything I’ve seen so far. 

It all comes back to River. He is the final piece. 

I scramble to dial Rachel’s number. Each ring hits me with a train of terror as my heart beats like a racehorse. She doesn’t answer. I call again, and this time someone picks up. 

“Rachel!” I stammer. “This is so messed up, you will never believe…” But I’m interrupted by an unfamiliar hiss that does not belong to my friend. 

“Hello, Alan. Solved the case already?”

I freeze as my ears buzz. “Who is this?” I demand. 

“I think you know. I need you, Alan. Stop poking around my lab. I think it’s time we had a little chat in person. Sending you the details. Come alone, or she dies.”

The line cuts to static. I’ve never heard that voice before, but I can guess who it belongs to. The same person I just saw in the video—the one at the bottom of the plaque, and the name of the Supervisor on Lara Henderson’s poster. Dr. Brie Tyler.

***

My sister Liz taught me more than anyone about the consequences of being afraid. Dr. Tyler has my only friend, and I’m frozen with fear, just like I was that day all those years ago—the day of the accident. The difference is that I refuse to remain paralyzed today. I swore an oath to Liz, and it’s about time I kept it. 

Tyler summons me to a warehouse thirty minutes out of town. I inform the department, but I have a head start, meaning that if Tyler bests me before they arrive, Rachel and I might both be done for. Perhaps it’s for the best, as her instructions were to come alone, but if I can’t beat her, we’re screwed.

The warehouse in question is the most stereotypical hideout I’ve ever seen. Graffiti decorates the exterior with painted murals depicting blood, bodies, and murder. A rather gruesome scene of a woman screaming sends a shiver down my back despite the warm summer breeze. I replace the paint with chalk drawings in my mind, imagining Liz colouring all over the grotesque designs. The thought gives me strength as I plow into danger.

The inside is dark and damp, with boxes stacked in sky-high piles, creating a cardboard maze. Mould clings to the corners and ceiling, spreading like leaking oil. I wind through the labyrinth, gun in hand, ready to shoot at every turn. The stench of rot, blood, and decay infiltrates my nostrils to join the aroma of fear. A small light peeks from the final turn. I raise my gun, but the force comes from behind. A figure emerges from the shadows. I see the whites of her wide eyes before everything goes dark.

Chapter Two

As the emotional necromancer of the police department, everyone expects me to have power over fear—to reach deep into my soul and extinguish any sign of anxiety that comes with the job. My relationship with fear has taken years to establish, and by no means am I void of the pestering bug. Years of scouring neurobiological research to understand the workings of the human mind, coupled with my dives into the hearts of dead victims has granted me important perspective. Whatever fear I feel is no match to the terror of someone seconds from death. 

When I flashback to the lab—the experiments—I remind myself that it’s nothing compared to the dead. My pain doesn’t come close to comparing to those I read. So, when we arrive at Conrad Henderson’s home, I shove my anxiety from my mind and focus on Lara.

It takes three knocks for Conrad to open the door. The bags under his bloodshot eyes and the slight tremble of his hand might seem like grief to some, but I know better. The signs of regret are all too familiar.
“Hello, Mr. Henderson,” says Rachel. “I’m Detective Hillcrest, and this is Detective River. We’re here to talk to you about your sister.”

Conrad doesn’t ask for ID. He just nods and allows us into his dank living room. The stench of beer and sadness fills the space. Mysterious stains laden his small couch, which is atop a faded rug and most certainly infested by pests. I avoid his offer to sit, leaning against his kitchen counter instead. Rachel follows suit. 

“What do you wanna know?” he grunts. 

“Is it correct that you reported Lara missing yesterday at around three?” asks Rachel, taking out her notepad. 

“Yeah.” He rubs his nose and looks longingly at an open bottle on his coffee table. 

“You can have a drink after we’re gone,” I say. 

Conrad wrinkles his brow. “What else?”

“You reported her missing yesterday, yet claimed she’d be gone for two days prior. Can you explain that?”

Conrad shifts uneasily, his eyes on me. I hadn’t noticed my balled fists. 

“I didn’t know until two days ago,” he says. “The university called and said she’d missed work two days in a row. Asked if I knew where she was. Assumed she was just home sick or something.”

“Did you try to contact her?” I ask. 

“Obviously,” he drawls. “When she didn’t answer for twenty-four hours, I called you guys. I don’t see the problem. She doesn’t live here, so how the hell am I supposed to know what happened?”

“What did she do at the university?” asks Rachel. “Was she a student?”

Conrad shakes his head. “Lab assistant. Worked under a bunch of people. It made fine money but wasn’t as posh as she made it out to be.” There’s a hint of bitterness in his voice that boils my blood.

“How can you talk about her like that?” I demand. “She’s dead, and you’re going on about how she flaunted a successful career?”

Conrad glares at me, tears forming in his rugged eyes. 

“How dare you,” he spits. “Do you know how she treated me? Like a waste of space. Ever since our parents died, she never once tried to comfort me. Instead, she just shoved it down my throat how pathetic I was—how great her job was and how I’d never amount to anything like her.” His voice cracks, and he collapses onto the couch. “I loved her so much,” he mutters. “Despite everything.”

My mind is blank as I stare at the weeping man. I don’t need my ability to sense his heartbreak, grief, and overwhelming regret. My own heart sags with the weight of his tears, and my anger begins to sizzle away. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say. “If it helps, I think she would have liked to apologize. I’m sure she loved you.”

Conrad looks up from his hands, cheeks dowsed. 

“How do you know?” he asks. 

I couldn’t help but reassure him, but now I have to lie. My affinity for the dead isn’t a matter of public knowledge. 

“I have a sister,” I say. “Just a guess.”

But his eyes narrow at my vague explanation. As I watch his gears turn, I wish I could take back my sentiment. 

“You’re Detective River,” he says. “Like Alan River? Did you feel my sister’s final moments?”

My heart stops. His words freeze me to the floor.

“How did you know that?” I ask.

“Lara talked about you sometimes. Said your case was fascinating—your ability to sense dead emotions or something.”

I grip the counter until my knuckles turn white. Waves of fear slam into me, clogging my lungs with thick saliva. Rachel grabs my arm.

“Alan? What is it?”

“We need to leave,” I mutter. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Henderson. We’re going to solve this case. For Lara.”

We leave Conrad bewildered in his rancid living room and storm back into the fresh air. 

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Rachel asks.

I pace up and down the sidewalk. My mind whirls like a Ferris wheel, with too many thoughts sliding out of reach. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. Lara Henderson experienced the worst fear of her life before it was taken from her. If she endured that, I could overcome this wave of anxiety. 

“Lara knew who I was. Knew about my ability. That’s classified information.”

“Are you saying she had connections to the police department?” asks Rachel. “Wouldn’t we know about that?”

“The department aren’t the only ones who know.” I stop pacing and round on my partner. “Lara was a lab assistant working for the university. As a teenager, they used to run experiments—classified, of course—on my abilities.”

Rachel’s eyes widen. Her next words aren’t what I expect.

“You were experimented on?” she whispers. 

In my shock, I forgot my secret from Rachel—one of many in my questionable past. I swore never to put that weight on her shoulders. At least my other secret is still safe.

“Yes,” I say. “Do you know what this means? It means that she worked for the people who studied me.”

From Rachel’s stiff shoulders and worn face, it’s obvious she wants to question me about my childhood. I shoot her a sharp look, and she concedes.

“What does that imply?” she asks. “How does that help us?”

“It means that Lara could have known other things, too. Perhaps things that a lab assistant isn’t supposed to know.”

“You’re saying someone had her killed?”

I run my fingers through my tangled hair. I witnessed the signing of the NDAs, and the analyses ran in the dead of night to avoid lingering eyes. They were some of the worst months of my life—all to study the grand magician with his unholy powers. I remember the disgust in their eyes—the fascination but also the disapproval that anyone like me could exist. But the most terrifying memories were their faces. Even though I couldn’t see into their souls, it was clear how far they would go to push the boundaries of discovery—how far they’d go to protect their secrets. The worst memory begins to surface, but I shove it out of sight with the force of my trained mind.

“There’s only one way to find out,” I say. “We have to go to the university. We must find out what they’re working on—what she could have seen.”

Rachel folds her arms and stares at the setting sun. Darkness begins to engulf us as the orange glow fades into the horizon. 

“It’s late,” she says. “I have dinner with my family tonight.”

“Please, Rachel. Just call Wilson.”

I don’t notice the plea in my voice until Rachel grits her teeth. The fine lines of her forehead etch deeper into her skin as if my request ages her twenty years. A pang of guilt sinks into my stomach.

“I promise I’ll explain everything once this is done,” I say. “Please, Rachel.”

She approaches me in the darkness, her face shadowed by the evening. She squeezes my arm, and my heart leaps.

“Fine. But you owe me an explanation,” she says and steps away to call the commissioner.

I collapse onto the cold curb and bury my face in my hands. Conrad’s grief grinds through my body like tiny razor blades. I imagine his sister yelling at him—insisting that he’s a piece of garbage. I shiver in the warmth of the evening. I’m glad that Rachel can’t touch me and sense my emotions. 

I picture my sister’s face—her dimpled smile with eyes brighter than Jupiter in the night sky. She runs around the street in front of me, sliding her chalk along the concrete like we used to do every day. A fresh wave of guilt arrives, but it’s dull and lived-in—nothing new. I will solve this case for Lara and Conrad, even if it means confronting the monsters of my childhood. They’re not allowed to hurt anyone else. Never again.

***

Commissioner Wilson won’t let us investigate the university without a warrant. Though it’s standard procedure, it still makes me slam my toe against the curb. 

“Did you tell him what we learned?” I ask. 

“Yes,” Rachel insists. “He said to hang tight.”

The moon has taken the night, casting a looming shadow across the quiet street. Conrad’s drapes are closed, but I swear I see them rustle every few minutes. 

“I don’t know if time is on our side,” I say. “You don’t know these people like I do.”

“Alan, what did they…?” Rachel catches herself. “Look, I don’t know what to tell you. We can’t just break down the front door. You know the rules.”

Rachel’s calm demeanour scratches me with clawed nails. I want to shake her—to scream that this is the only way. Ever since Conrad spoke my name with such familiarity, my terror has been off the rocker. 

“I’m going to go see my family,” she says. “You should come. Then, if Wilson calls, we can go straight to the university.”

I shake my head. “You go. I need some time.”

She nods and moves as if to hug me. She halts, seems to think better of it, and waves. 

“I’ll call you as soon as I hear anything,” she says. “Don’t drive yourself crazy, Alan. Please.”

I watch her drive into the night, squinting at the beam of her headlights. She may be able to go home now, but I can’t. Warrant or not, I need to get into that university.

Chapter One

Her eyes are wide and petrified as if frozen by a haunting spirit. Rachel chalks it up as a muscular release in her eyelids triggered by the end of rigor mortis. It’s a probable conclusion, yet I can’t help but feel that our victim is trying to tell me something. 

“Strange,” says Rachel, joining me next to the corpse. “No signs of trauma. No stab wounds, no gunshots. What do you make of it?”

I run my gloved hand over the pale cheek. “Do I have clearance?”

Rachel gives a hollow chuckle. “I don’t know, man. RCMP took the case, so this isn’t our scene. Want me to ask?”

“I can do it.” I manage a smile. “Just give me a second with her.”
The girl is no more than thirty. The long curtains of her blonde hair spread over the sidewalk like golden waves, shimmering in the morning sun. Her body seems untouched, like she simply fell asleep and would wake at any moment. But she won’t, and that thought roots itself in my heart like a six-inch dagger. I’ve never seen this woman before, but the thought that those beautiful eyes will never see the sky again makes me feel hollow.

Part of me doesn’t want clearance. Every time I perform the ritual, it chips at my soul with a blunt pickaxe. One day, it’ll be too much. But until then, I have a duty. Someone killed this girl, and no matter how much it hurts me, it’s my responsibility to discover who.

“Detective River.”

I look up when the man arrives at my side. He’s an important-looking officer with an ironed black suit and tie to match—a spectacle compared to my wrinkled dress shirt. 

“Yes, sir. I’m with the Vancouver Police Department.” I rise from my knee and feel my bicep bounce as the man shakes my hand.

“I’m Commissioner Wilson, RCMP,” he says. “Gathering data?”

“Yes,” I say. “I was going to ask…”

“Your clearance?” Wilson raises his eyebrow. “I’ve heard some scary stuff about you, River. Is it true?”

Scary—a simple word that nearly makes me laugh. Of course, it’s scary to me most of all. I don’t dare inquire about the rumours, but I imagine how distasteful they must be based on the expression of my superior.

“It’s true,” I say.

“Then, by all means.” He gestures to the girl. “I’d like to see this.”

My knee cracks when I kneel on the coarse sidewalk. My morning bagel wriggles in my stomach like a tangle of centipedes. The first time I officially performed the ritual, I vomited on the deceased victim—a grotesque mistake I haven’t repeated. I take a deep breath, my hand shaking with anticipation. Sweat clings to my palm as I peel the latex glove from my fingers. Then, the words I’ve uttered so many times flow from my mouth:

“Grant me permission to see—to share in your pain. Allow me into your soul so I might catch the one who did this to you.”

I place my bare hand on her forehead, her skin warmed by the morning sun. But the warmth lasts less than a second as a jolt shoots through my veins like a heroin injection. I stumble back, and my eyes snap open. White flaws in my vision circle the girl, like the centrepiece of a watercolour painting. Tears drip down my chin, and my breath picks up. This feeling is unlike any ritual I’ve performed before. 

“What is it?” Wilson demands.

I take a heavy breath and shake my head.

I’m gifted or cursed, depending on who you ask. I can feel the final moments of a person’s life—sadness, denial, fear—all emotions that provide insight into who committed the murder. Once, I solved a cold case simply by touching the victim—a young man murdered by his uncle. The feeling of betrayal narrowed down a small list of three suspects. 

The most common emotion I feel is denial—a mix of fear and sadness in a way that seems fictional. But what I feel after touching this girl isn’t even close to that kind of fear. It’s sheer terror, like someone experiencing the worst moments of their life all in one second. 

“Well?” Wilson prompts when I don’t answer.

“I don’t know,” I mutter.

“I thought you were supposed to be a magician, River,” he says. When I remain silent, he pats my shoulder. “Let me know if it makes sense in time. The victim’s brother is quite distressed. He could use some good news.”

I freeze, a chill crawling up my spine. 

“River?”

“Yes, sir,” I say. “Sorry.”

“Good. Thank you for your work. It pays to have a man who speaks to the dead. I’m sure my unit would kill for that ability sometimes.”

He chuckles and strides away.

I stopped correcting people long ago on the specifics of my abilities. It gets frustrating to repeat, “I don’t actually speak to them,” and, “It’s more of an emotional connection,” over and over again. No one could understand the weight that comes with my responsibility—how it feels to be overwhelmed by the emotions one feels before their life ends. Even those who studied me in the lab didn’t understand. No, it’s easier to play the part of the wondrous magician. 

“You okay?” 

I hadn’t heard Rachel return. Theories swarm my mind—synapses connecting words with emotions. One in particular prickles my skin—brother—to go along with another horrible yet familiar feeling that surfaced during the ritual. 

“I’m fine,” I say.

Rachel helps me to my feet.  “Did you get anything from the victim?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s hard to tell.”

She claps me on the shoulder, nearly sending me face-first into the body.

“Think about it, man. I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” she says. “Coffee?”

“Sure, lead the way.”

***

Coffee with Rachel always lifts my spirits. She is the only one I talk to besides my cat. Being alone with this gift is enough to drive anyone crazy. The familiar hum of the café and distant ruckus of downtown Vancouver always provide a comforting backdrop to our meetings.

Rachel sits across from me, her thin fingers intertwined around the white mug as steam fogs her youthful face. She tells me about how her kids refuse to go to summer camp and how her husband’s car was scratched by a reckless teenager. I love listening to her stories. They’re a gateway into her world that seems so peaceful. I know she’s happy despite her complaining. She had a rough upbringing and, like so many of our trade, let it harden her. That being said, she is still the kindest person that I know.

“Sorry, I’ve been ranting about me.” She places her mug on the table. “What’s new with you? How’s your sister?”

I avoid her eyes and stare out the window at the busy street. 

“Nothing new,” I say. “She’s good.”

“Getting up to anything fun tonight?” 

“Nope.”

Rachel laughs. “Careful. If you give any more detail, I might just learn something about you.” She sips her coffee. “Ah, you got it simple, Alan. Sometimes, I wish I had a little apartment with my brother. Just the two of us with no drama, like when we were younger.”

She playfully punches me on the shoulder when I don’t answer, sending drips of coffee down the side of my mug.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, using her napkin to clean my cup. “Is it the vision?”

A magician never reveals his secrets. Rachel is my only friend, but even she wouldn’t understand. I would never burden her with my curse.

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. So, what do we know about this girl?”

Rachel seems to want to push for more information, but eventually, her shoulders sag, and she gives in.

“Her name is Lara Henderson. She was missing for three days before a biker found her last night. Forensics will confirm the time of death, but the estimate is around twelve to twenty-four hours ago.” 

“So, she can’t have been killed on the sidewalk,” I say. “She was dumped there.”

“Seems so.” Rachel sighs and rubs her brow. “We don’t know how she died, who killed her, or even where it happened. All we know is that she’s dead.”

“Who reported her missing? Her brother?”

Rachel nods. “Conrad Henderson. Reported her missing yesterday but claims she’d been gone for two days already.”

“He waited two days to report?” My coffee sends bubbles of acid up my throat.

She shrugged. “I dunno, man. We could go talk to him if you want?”

“Might be our best shot.”

A brother who failed to notice his sister was in trouble for two whole days—I’ve never wanted to speak to anyone more.