Of Nightmares and Spirits by Fiona Estelle Hamilton (best motivational books of all time .TXT) 📕

It was a vampire, or rather appeared to be a vampire, as I noticed its pale skin, protruding fangs, and pointed ears. Once I saw that horrific image, I began to scream. I do not know why it frightened me so badly, it just did. That was enough to wake me from the nightmare. When I woke up, my heart was pounding and there seemed to be tears coursing down my face. Why was I crying? I didn’t remember crying in my dream. Perhaps it was the fear from seeing something horrific in my dream. I noticed my door was now ajar. Had my mother seen that it was locked and unlocked it? I checked my clock. It was only two thirty in the morning. Unless my mother had gotten up to use the bathroom, I saw no reason for her to be awake this early. I climbed back into my bed and pulled the blankets over my head.

My sleep now came fitfully. I could never really be sure just when I was asleep and when I was awake. I knew I had to be sleeping at some points, but I never stayed asleep. I would have odd dreams that I knew couldn’t possibly be real. As the hours wore on, these dreams went from odd to disturbing. I had another nightmare, one that I couldn’t remember all that well. One event I do remember from this dream was a man’s face. He appeared to have a brownish, reddish hue to his skin. He was looking at me and grinning. The grin was not at all friendly. It looked…malicious. Evil. He looked as though he wanted to hurt me. I quickly told myself that this was just another dream and that I needed to wake up. I did. I felt fearful again but, I reminded myself that there was nothing to fear. I turned on my side. When I did, I was greeted by a brownish, reddish, face grinning at me, his eyes staring into my own.

The Beast’s death

“The sun has fallen and it lies in blood. The moon is weaving bandages of gold.”

--Gian Carlo Menotti

It is my last hour with her. The last time I will ever see her and speak to her is on the way to her impending death. What are we going to do when she is gone? How I will cope? I stroke her fur and try to tell myself that it’s going to be alright, but I know that it won’t be. She’s so tired. All she wants to do is sleep, but she cannot. I imagine the pain in her back leg is horrible. I was told that if we were to wait any longer, the bone could shatter. The last thing I want is for her to be in pain. My emotions are in a mad frenzy. Depression is setting in. I still have a little time with her, but not much. I look into her eyes and she looks into mine. She knows my heart is heavy with grief. Grief I will carry for the rest of my days. I think she is trying to reassure both my mother and myself that we will be alright. But how? I am losing my best friend. At this point, I feel a sense of hopelessness. Why did it have to be today? The sun is lowering from its highest point. It will begin to set soon. Her time is quickly ending.

“With silver needles and with silver thread, the stars stitch a shroud for the dying sun.”

--Gian Carlo Menotti

As we arrive at our destination, my sense of dread and sadness increases as the three of us walk through the door. The Beast, my mother, and lastly, myself. My sister is trying to hold herself together as she embraces my mother, and then me. I am emotionless at this point; I now do not know what to feel. My mother looks at me sadly and strokes my hair, trying to be of some comfort. I pull away from the gesture, not wanting comfort. I just want my Beast to be alright. I don’t want her to have to die. At the same time, I must not think of myself. I must think of what is best for her. We cannot risk the bone in her leg shattering. We cannot have her suffer.

The vet leads us into a small room. She has spread a blanket out onto the floor for The Beast to make her comfortable. My sister enters a moment or two later, carrying two fast food bags containing one or two bacon cheeseburgers. This was The Beast’s favorite snack. The Beast curls up on the blanket and looks at my sister expectantly. Her tail gives one or two slow, excited wags. After The Beast eats the burgers, the vet gives us time to say our goodbyes. My mother will take the longest. She was so attached to The Beast. I do not know what to do or say for my goodbye. What can be said? I could say “I love you” a thousand times and it would never be enough to express the love, grief, and deep sadness that have been buried in my heart.

Instead, I just hug her. Usually, she will pull away with a grumble or two but she seems strangely alright with this. After about a minute though, she does, in fact, pull out of my embrace. I stroke her head and tell her I love her dearly. My mother’s eyes have filled with fresh tears. She is smiling sadly as she says, “Some things never change.” I nod but do not say anything.

Another minute passes as I look my Beast in her eyes. She knows I love her and I know she loves me. Finally I find my voice. “Should I…take the collar and leash now?” My mother nods. I unclip the collar from around The Beast’s neck and gather the items in my arms. The vet is returning with a small, black case. I know all too well what is inside. I kiss The Beast’s head and tell her for the last time that I love her. I then exit the room and never return.

“The spools unravel and the needles break. The sun is buried and the stars weep…”

--Gian Carlo Menotti

I go into the upstairs room where other pets are kept while they recover from illness or surgery. I am clutching The Beast’s collar all the while. I speak to some of the cats in kennels, but they are of little company. I cannot stop thinking of what is happening in that small room. The Beast must be dead now. It has been five minutes. She must be dead. The vet must have finished her business by now. A sudden horror sweeps over me, as I realize my beast is dead. My companion of sixteen years is dead. What am I going to do? How am I going to cope without her? She was always there for me. Now she has left.

Now fear has taken horror’s place. Just what is going to happen now that she is gone? She cannot be dead. She cannot be. I know this just has to be a nightmare. I’ll wake up soon, won’t I? No. Impossible. I hear footsteps and see my sister walk towards me. She hugs me. “I’m sorry,” my sister sobs, “She’s gone.” I feel numb. My mother has stayed in the small room, trying to come to terms with The Beast’s death. I almost want to go see this for myself, to make sure she’s truly dead. I decide against it though. I don’t think I would be able to take that. I don’t want to stay here any longer. I want to go home. I wish this day would end sooner. It doesn’t.

“O black wave, O black wave take me down with you! I will share with you my golden hair, and my bridal crown, and my bridal crown…”

--Gian Carlo Menotti

For a while, my mind goes blank. I do not know what to feel, once again. I do not wish to eat from a fast food restaurant but I do anyway, for The Beast’s sake. When my mother and I return home, I tell her I want to cut my hair. It is tradition with our beliefs that we may cut our hair in mourning if we so choose to do so. My mother does not but I do. It is much shorter when she is done cutting it; however, she will not allow it to be cut too short.

I sleep that night but, I really shouldn’t be able to. I have had too much on my mind. I have come close to crying myself to sleep many times in the course of one year. All that I have left are memories. Pictures and a molded footprint are not enough. I want my Beast back, but I cannot have her. Perhaps God needed her more than we did.

In memory of Kia Marie “La Bête”

1998-2014

Gone but never forgotten

Gone but never far from our hearts

*All quotes above do not belong to the author. All quotes above are from an aria, The Black Swan from Gian Carlo Menotti’s opera, The Medium.

Coulrophobia

Well, well, look who’s back. I knew you’d be back in time for tonight’s little horror tale. As you know, I have been very busy looking for graves to rob. In fact, the man’s grave I am robbing now is actually the focus of our story. Poor, poor, Mr. Richards, he had a severe fear of clowns. This fear would eventually be the death of him. I hope you don’t have a fear of clowns or as it’s known as: Coulrophobia.

Mr. Aaron Richards was not one for nonsense. He was a practical man who was always focused on his work. Rarely did he ever socialize with his co-workers or go out for a few drinks. “Too much work to be done,” Aaron would say. His co-workers grew tired of this routine and decided to do something about it. They all decided they would bring Aaron to the circus. Perhaps this would get him to unwind a bit. What they did not realize however, was that Aaron suffered from an extreme case of coulrophobia, or a fear of clowns. Aaron promptly refused when his co-workers tried to convince him to come with them.

Although he never elaborated on why, only one of his co-workers knew the reason. Mary explained that Aaron’s fear of clowns stemmed from a bad experience with one. Apparently, Aaron had witnessed the kidnapping of a friend. The kidnapper was dressed as a clown, and it certainly did not look child friendly. From that point on, Aaron had developed a deep fear of clowns, vowing to never again to go to a carnival or circus.

“Perhaps going to the circus would help you get rid of your fear?” A co-worker suggested.

Aaron was hesitant. Just seeing a clown could cause him to start shaking, but if one came towards him, it could trigger a major anxiety attack. On the other hand, maybe this could cure his fear. Reluctantly, Aaron agreed to come with them.

Oh, Mr. Richards has no idea what awaits him! This was a very bad decision on his part, as you’ll soon see…

When the group arrived at their destination, the circus tent loomed over Aaron imposing on him. The inside seemed so small, it didn't look like it possibly could fit as many people as it could. Something about the atmosphere just felt “off”. The lights from outside cast shadows on the tent. To Aaron, the shadows formed faces, and he could see claws forming. The wind caused the tent flaps on the entrance to move in an odd way, almost as if the tent was beckoning