The Fear Collector

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I thought it was a breakthrough.

The new treatment wasn’t my idea. I heard about it at a conference. They called it “Fear Externalization Therapy.” The idea seemed simple—give fear a physical form. Patients could confront it outside themselves.

It started small.

Sarah brought in a porcelain doll. “It stares at me in my dreams,” she said. We unpacked its meaning during sessions. At the end, she asked if I could keep it. “I don’t want it near me,” she whispered. I agreed.

Then Martin came. He brought a rusted lighter. It looked harmless, but it wasn’t. His buddy had carried it the day he died. Martin left it with me after his therapy ended.

I kept the items in a locked cabinet. At first, it seemed fine. I even felt proud, like I was helping them leave their fears behind.

But things changed.

The cabinet wouldn’t stay closed. Some mornings, I found it slightly open. Objects moved, though no one touched them. The doll’s head tilted differently. The lighter felt warm, like it had been used.

I tried to ignore it. Stress, I told myself. Lack of sleep, maybe. But the more items I stored, the stranger it got.

One night, I woke to a crash.

The noise came from my office. My chest tightened as I opened the door. The cabinet stood open, its contents scattered. The doll lay in the center, its painted eyes staring at me.

I felt exposed.

The next day, a new patient came. Elliot brought a cracked mirror. He claimed it didn’t just reflect.

“It watches me,” he said. His voice shook.

After the session, I tried placing the mirror in the cabinet. My hand froze. For a moment, I thought I saw something shift in the reflection. I shoved it in and locked the door.

The nightmares started.

The objects came alive in my dreams. The doll whispered. The lighter sparked. The mirror pulled me into its darkness. When I woke, I couldn’t tell if I was free or still trapped.

My patients noticed.

“You look tired,” one said. “Are you okay?” another asked. How could I tell them? Their fears weren’t just objects anymore. They had become alive.

Then the cabinet emptied.

I panicked. I searched everywhere—my office, my home. The objects were gone. Relief washed over me. Maybe it was over. Maybe I had imagined everything.

But I saw them.

The doll sat on my counter. The lighter flickered beside it. The cracked mirror hung on my wall, its surface rippling.

The objects hadn’t left.

They had followed me.

Now, I can feel them. They’re inside me, feeding on my fears. The burdens I took weren’t gone. They had just found a new home.

I don’t know how long I have before they take over completely.

Or before they move on to someone else.

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