She had not prepared herself for what she was to see in her new line of work. After leaving a promising career in the field of medicine in order to take up a position as a medical doctor and special agent for the federal bureau of investigation, she was supposed to use science to debunk the paranormal.
Before her change of heart she had worked night and day, consumed by her studies in medicine. Her parents were proud, as any family would be, to have a doctor as a daughter.
Now she worked night and day to do the exact opposite of what she had been assigned. To prove to the world the existence of the paranormal and of extra-terrestrial life. What she had seen over her nine years of work had drastically tilted her perception of the world. What once seemed so simple now seemed complex and meaningful. Trust came as a rare luxury, to be shared only with her partner and what remained of her family.
The loss of her father and sister had snapped her out of the cosy ignorance she had been drifting in. Realising now that there were those in the world that were prepared to kill to obscure the truth.
She had always been a marshal of cold facts, understanding the world through the lens of science. Refusing to believe that the equations and biology that she going to could sometimes fail to explain the things she had seen. Forces now to accept that there was unexplained phenomenon that has to be left unexplained, she relied on the reassurance of her partner. The man who would date to believe in little green men, even when there were unfathomable odds stacked against him.
Discovering he was right had been the hardest lesson she had ever had to learn. Uncovering evidence and even scientific proof of alien existence has caused her to question her own faith. Growing up in a Catholic family had solidified her belief in God. Her partner had always found her strange for her scepticism of the paranormal but her beliefs in her religion, for which, she supposes, there is no real scientific proof. He never judged her of course, not even once. He was always open to get opinion, even if she was wrong. She thinks about this often and berates herself for passing judgement on him when he has been so understanding, so accepting.
Throughout the years of working together her friendship with her partner has grown. She is closer with him than she is with her own mother. If she was to explain this relationship to others she would say that he relied on her, he needs her, she wonders how lonely his life would be without her. He doesn't have other friends, the closest thing being a threesome of brainwave that share his beliefs and have gained his precious trust. However, whilst all of this is true, she means on him more than she would admit. She draws strength from him. He is always there when she is struggling to cope, when she loses her way on this confusing and somewhat outrageous quest of theirs.
She doesn't want him to worry, she doesn't want him to feel like she needs protection. She is strong and independent. The first time she let her guard down, the first time she let him in, was during their second year together. They were investigating a man. No, not a man. Donnie Pfaster was a manifestation of evil. There was nothing supernatural about him. He was extraordinary only in his ordinariness. Who would have known that the boy next door, the indistinguishable younger brother of four older sisters, would grow up to become the devil in a button down shirt.
The case was disturbing from the start. Her partner had told her he had seen agents with twenty years field experience break at this sort of case. That it was ok to take a step back and sit this one out. On reflection, perhaps she should have listened. As they stood there, peering into the recently defiled grave, the stench of death hung in the air, worsened by the thoughts of a man who was capable of resurfacing a young girl's body in order to take her hair and fingernails for his own sick purposes. Her partner had given his permission for her to leave, to refuse this case, but in a futile display of stubbornness, she assured him she was fine. That was a lie. Continuing with this case affected her in such a way that she feared sleeping, feared even closing her eyes. Playing off her facade of nonchalance was tearing her apart.
Her mind conjured pictures in the darkness, showing her her own demise at Pfaster's hands. She cursed herself for thinking this way, for being frightened of something that wouldn't happen. Her partner had been correct in his behavioural predictions, that Donnie Pfaster would become relentless in his search for his vile treasure and would turn to murder to achieve his desires. Two victims down and a pattern was emerging, Pfaster was choosing them by their hair and nails, charming them, inviting them to his home and asking if their hair had been chemically treated before they lost their lives to his repulsive fetish. She was enraged at the injustice of it.
Her final mistake was returning to the case after finally taking her partner's advice and heading to the bureau to handle the forensic evidence rather than the suspect. I'm one last stand of supposed strength she returned, only to have been noticed by Pfaster previously. That which she had feared and thought only possible in her nightmares came true. Donnie Pfaster run her off the road in her rental car, leaving her partner to panic and blame himself for her capture. He knew she had yours to live. She had no idea where she was. Her wrists and ankles were tied. Her mouth as gagged. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, the image of what appeared to be a closet soaking into her vision. Her heart hammered in her chest. She wanted to cry, she wanted to scream. She hated him for doing this to her, she hated herself for letting this happen. How could she have been so stupid?
The thud of footfalls shattered her thoughts as Pfaster approached the door. The light from the hallway illuminated her face, setting her hair alight, the red strands shimmering, her blue eyes wide, afraid, shining with tears. A blade glinted in his hand. He slowly creeped towards her as she tried to sink into the wall, trapped in the corner of the small space. He stroked her hand and she screamed at him to get away. He lifted the ridged kitchen knife to get face, she closed her eyes and turned away, internally praying for her life. I'm one swift movement, he cut the bonds at her ankles, telling her not to be afraid. She whimpered as he dragged her to the bathroom, asking if her hair was normal or dry. She saw an opening when he turned to study the product labels. Pushing him into the bath she turned and ran, hearing him splash into the bath behind her, quickly recovering and giving chase. Hiding in an upstairs wardrobe, she found a can of bug spray and clung to it. If she got the timing right, this toxic spray could save her life. He had heard her close the door and was closing in. It was now or never. As he opened the door, she lunged, spraying his face and running again. He let out a cry of pain but it hadn't worked. He turned and caught her. They wrestled at the top of the stairs before topping over and falling. Caught between his body and the stairs she pounds off each step until they landed. She rolled away and saw it. Her gun. I'm the hall table. She reached for it. Seeing what she was doing, he knocked it away and tackled her.
She would have died that might had her partner had not found the house that had been Pfaster's mother's, the car that had been identified by the ivory none paint left on her rental car. She didn't pretend to be strong after that. Her partner had known the case was affecting her, yet she had denied his comfort and advice. Now she hung limply in his arms, shivering, years streaming down her face. She felt empty. Like nothing would ever feel right again.
Her partner would not let her fall, he held her up as she recovered from her brush with the devil. That's how they supported each other, the strange and abnormal circumstances they find themselves in have required then to wholly trust one another.
The conquest of fear lies in the moment of its acceptance, in understanding what scares us most is that which is most familiar, most commonplace. It's been said that the fear of the unknown is an irrational response to the excess of imagination, but our fear of the everyday – of the lurking stranger and the sound of footfalls on the stairs – the fear of violent death and the primitive impulse to survive are as frightening as any X File, as real as the acceptance that it could happen to you.