The Fear Collector Ethan Campbell The Fear ColleCTor Ethan Campbell An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C Ovi ebooks are available in Ovi/Ovi eBookshelves pages and they are for free. If somebody tries to sell you an Ovi book please contact us immediately. For details, contact: ovimagazine@yahoo.com No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the writer or the above publisher of this book The Fear Collector The Fear Collector Ethan Campbell Ethan Campbell An Ovi eBooks Publication 2025 Ovi eBookPublications - All material is copyright of the Ovi eBooks Publications & the writer C The Fear Collector T he night was one of those rare, soupy storms that Medford, Wisconsin, was known for. Not the kind that broke trees and flooded streets, but the kind that settled like a weight on everything, thick and damp, wrapping the world in a cold, wet blanket. The streetlights flickered weakly through the sheets of rain, casting long, trembling shadows that danced in the windows of the old houses. It was around ten o’clock when I first saw the mov- ing van. I was sitting in the kitchen, the hum of the refriger- ator the only sound in the otherwise silent house. My wife, Debra, had gone to bed hours ago, and the quiet was almost too much to bear. The rain had started at dusk, light at first, then growing in intensity until it felt like the sky itself was about to crack open. I watched the rain slant against the window, the water making strange patterns on the glass. That’s when I Ethan Campbell saw it: a slow-moving van pulling up to the house across the street. Now, that house had been vacant for years, long before Debra and I moved to this neighborhood. I could remember the gossip when the last tenants left, the old McCullen couple, a couple of hard-nosed, si- lent people who vanished without a trace. Since then, the house had stood empty, the windows dark like dead eyes, the yard overgrown with weeds. Nobody had lived there in nearly a decade. The van, old and rusty, was out of place in the rain- soaked gloom. Its headlights cut through the storm, illuminating the house for a brief second, then go- ing dark again as the driver turned off the engine. I squinted, trying to make out who was inside, but I couldn’t see past the streaked windshield. I moved to the front door, my hand resting on the handle for a moment, feeling the old wood creak under my grip. It was something I did often, check- ing on the neighborhood at odd hours, half-curi- ous, half-paranoid about things that felt out of place. Medford wasn’t much to speak of, just a small town on the edge of nowhere, but there was always some- thing strange simmering beneath the surface. The Fear Collector The storm pushed against the walls of the house like something trying to get in, and I could feel it in the air, the thick, damp tension of an incoming change. I stepped out onto the porch and felt the cold slant of rain against my face, the air so heavy it seemed to press down on my chest. That’s when I saw him. The old man. The one who had stepped out of the moving van. He was tall ...too tall for someone of his apparent age. He wore a long coat, the fabric dark against the night, and a wide-brimmed hat that shadowed his face. He didn’t seem to mind the rain, didn’t both- er to adjust his posture under its weight. Instead, he stood perfectly still, as if rooted to the ground, his gaze turned toward my house. He didn’t blink. He didn’t move. His presence was like a stone dropped into a still pond, sending ripples through the very air around him. I felt a chill shoot down my spine, a twinge of some- thing ...fear, maybe. Or dread. I leaned against the doorframe, not sure what I was expecting. But I wasn’t ready for what happened next. Ethan Campbell He smiled. It was a slow, jagged smile, like he had all the time in the world to wait before he unleashed it. It was not the smile of a friendly neighbor. No, this was some- thing more... predatory. Something that gnawed at the edges of my nerves, making my stomach churn. And then, as quickly as he’d appeared, he turned and walked up the old porch steps. The sound of his boots, heavy and deliberate, echoed like a funeral march. I swallowed hard. I wasn’t sure why I felt so un- easy, after all, this was just an old man. But there was something about him. Something unsettling in the way he carried himself, like he was far too old to be moving with such grace. Too old to stand there in the rain and stare at my house for as long as he had. The moment passed. I don’t know why I waited so long to move, but eventually, I closed the door quiet- ly behind me and returned to the kitchen. I tried to shake it off, to tell myself it was nothing. But I knew. Somewhere deep down, I knew things were about to change. The neighborhood started feeling different, and The Fear Collector I’m not talking about the weather. There was some- thing in the air, something that clung to everything. It started small, just little shifts here and there, a qui- et murmur during the weekly poker game at Dave’s house, a few odd glances exchanged when people met on the sidewalk. But it grew, slowly at first, until it became impossible to ignore. The laughter of children had stopped, or at least it had become rare, like they’d lost their appetite for joy. The birds that used to sing at dawn were nowhere to be heard, and the trees that lined the streets stood tall and unmoving, their branches heavy and silent. I saw Grinlow outside more frequently now. He was always walking slowly, almost as if he were drift- ing, gliding along the sidewalks with a grace that no one his age should have. He wasn’t just passing by, though. He was studying the houses, the people, his eyes following them with a sense of ownership, like he knew something they didn’t. He seemed to be ev- erywhere. The others noticed it too. Mrs. Tilley from next door started talking about him. She said she saw him staring out of her window late at night, though she swore she hadn’t let him in. Doug Mitchell, the mail- man, stopped his route at my house last week, his Ethan Campbell face pale and sweaty. He didn’t say much, just that he’d had “a bad feeling” about the Grinlow house. I thought it was all just the usual small-town para- noia, gossip, fear of the unknown, but there was something else, something I couldn’t put my finger on. Then came the first real sign of trouble. It was late on a Wednesday, around two a.m. I had just gotten up to use the bathroom when I noticed a flicker of light through the curtains. The streetlight outside was dim, but I could make out a faint glow coming from Grinlow’s house. I couldn’t figure out what it was—no lights were on, no car in the drive- way. It was a pale, sickly light that pulsed, almost like the house itself was breathing. And then I saw it. He was standing in the yard, just like before, his face hidden beneath the brim of his hat. But this time, there was something different. This time, his smile was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating look. He was staring directly at my window, his eyes glow- ing faintly red. I froze. The air inside the house seemed to tighten around The Fear Collector me. My heart hammered in my chest, and for the first time since moving here, I felt the undeniable weight of fear. It wasn’t a passing thing, a momentary feeling that could be shrugged off. This was something deeper. Something that lingered, gnawed at the edges of my sanity. And for the first time, I realized just how much the town had changed. How much I had changed. The old man wasn’t just watching me. He was watching all of us. And somehow, as I watched him standing there, I knew that whatever he had planned, it was only just beginning. Ethan Campbell I. It was the kind of evening that sneaks up on you, the kind where the wind picks up after sunset, rus- tling the trees like an old, disapproving grandmother. Carter Logan stood by his window, staring out at the growing shadows of Medford, Wisconsin. He wasn’t sure why he did it. Maybe it was the way the dark seemed to shift and deepen, swallowing up the hous- es in the neighborhood. Maybe it was the silence, the way everything felt just a little too still, like the calm before a storm. It was the kind of place where things were sup- posed to stay the same. A small town nestled in the quiet of a vast Midwestern landscape, where every- body knew everybody else, and life carried on with little fuss. People here didn’t expect drama. But lately, that quiet had begun to wear thin, like a film of dust on an old television screen. The Fear Collector The news had spread slowly at first. People started whispering about the oddities in the neighborhood, as people tend to do in places like this. Pets disap- pearing. Strange sounds at night. And those break- ins—break-ins where nothing was stolen, not even a speck of dust disturbed. It was like someone was test- ing the waters, seeing how far they could push before anyone noticed. Carter had only been back in town for six months, after dropping out of college and taking up a job at a local diner. He wasn’t exactly proud of it, but it paid the bills. And when you’re 23, living in a town where the only thing that changes is the way the seasons cling to the trees, you learn to take whatever comes. Still, even he couldn’t ignore the strange feeling set- tling over the place like a fog. It was Mrs. Tilley who first brought it up to him, in her usual, matter-of-fact way. She was his neighbor, the little old lady who lived in the faded green house a few doors down. She’d been there longer than any- one could remember, watching the world change while she stayed the same. One afternoon, Carter was outside cleaning the front steps when he saw her standing at the edge of her yard, staring across the street at the house where Ethan Campbell Mr. Grinlow had recently moved in. He’d never met the man. Everyone said he was strange—quiet, with a look about him that made people uneasy. And the house... the house had been vacant for years, a crum- bling relic of a time gone by. The lawn had been over- grown, the paint chipped, the windows dark. It had always been like that—until now. “Have you noticed anything odd about that house?” Mrs. Tilley asked him, her voice thin and sharp like dry leaves scraping together. She wasn’t looking at him as she spoke. Her gaze was fixed across the street, and there was something in her eyes, something that made the hairs on the back of Carter’s neck prickle. “Odd? I don’t know,” Carter muttered, wiping his hands on his jeans. “I guess it’s a little... run down?” Mrs. Tilley didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she reached down and patted the dirt around a small flower bed with a kind of nervous determination. “I’ve been here a long time, Carter,” she said, her voice suddenly quiet, almost too quiet. “And I know when something isn’t right. I can feel it. Mr. Grinlow, he... he’s not like the others.” “What do you mean?” Carter asked, unsure if she was just rambling or if there was something deeper to it. The Fear Collector Mrs. Tilley’s eyes flicked to him, narrowing slight- ly. “He’s always watching. Always. Sometimes I catch him out in the yard, standing still like he’s listening. Other times, I hear him...” she stopped abruptly, a shudder passing through her. “I hear him walking through my backyard late at night. And his eyes... Carter, his eyes glow in the dark.” Carter couldn’t help but laugh, though it felt hol- low. “Glow? You mean...” “I’m not making it up!” she snapped, her voice ris- ing with surprising force. “I know what I saw. He’s not like the others. There’s something wrong with him. Something wrong with that house.” It was clear she wasn’t going to say anything more, so Carter let it drop. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that something about Grinlow was off, even though he had no concrete proof to go on. A few days later, Carter’s unease grew. He was work- ing the late shift at the diner, a greasy spoon tucked on the edge of town, when he saw him again, Mr. Grin- low, sitting alone at one of the corner booths. The diner wasn’t busy, but the few patrons inside eyed the old man like he was something foreign, something that didn’t belong in this small town. Ethan Campbell Grinlow’s back was to Carter, but there was some- thing unnerving about the way he sat there. His pos- ture was rigid, almost predatory, like a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Carter hesitated for a moment, then walked over. “Can I get you something, sir?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady. Grinlow turned slowly, as if the motion took lon- ger than it should have. His eyes, cold and distant, locked onto Carter’s with a strange intensity. There was a moment, just a moment, where Carter thought he saw something flicker behind Grinlow’s gaze— something that wasn’t human. “Just coffee,” Grinlow replied, his voice low and smooth. Too smooth. It had an almost melodic qual- ity to it, like honey dripping off a knife. Carter nodded and walked away, but not before Grinlow spoke again. “You know, it’s a shame, Car- ter. All that potential... slipping through your fingers like sand.” Carter froze. He’d never told Grinlow his name. The man hadn’t even introduced himself. Yet here he was, speaking to Carter like they were old friends. The Fear Collector “I... I don’t know what you mean,” Carter stam- mered, more nervous now than he cared to admit. Grinlow’s smile was slow, deliberate, like he knew something Carter didn’t. “It’s just a shame. You could have done so much more... but I suppose you’ll never know, will you?” Carter felt his skin prickling, the words sinking deep into his gut like poisoned darts. He wanted to walk away, but something held him there, frozen in place, as if Grinlow’s presence alone was enough to trap him in the moment. Then, as if satisfied with the unease he’d planted, Grinlow turned his attention back to the coffee, his fingers tapping against the edge of the cup in a rhyth- mic, almost hypnotic way. Carter’s legs finally obeyed him, and he hurried back to the counter. His heart was racing, and he had to remind himself to breathe. What was it about that man? And why did it feel like the entire room had grown colder the moment he’d spoken? The next few days were worse. Mrs. Tilley’s para- noia seemed to have escalated overnight. She hadn’t been seen outside much, and when she did venture Ethan Campbell out, her eyes were wide and frantic, like a hunted an- imal. Carter tried to talk to her, but she was always in a hurry, always looking over her shoulder. Then came the night of her panic attack. It was a Saturday, and Carter had just gotten home from his shift when he saw her sitting on her porch, her hands trembling as she clutched her cardigan tightly around her shoulders. She looked up when she saw him. “Something’s happened,” she gasped, her voice strained and breathless. “I heard him. I heard his voice in my house. I was alone, and I heard him, Car- ter. He was whispering, right there in the kitchen. I know I wasn’t imagining it.” Carter felt a cold wave of dread wash over him. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to help her. But it wasn’t just her anymore. He was starting to feel it too. The unease, the growing sense that something was terribly wrong. And then, late that night, he looked across the street and saw it, the house on Grinlow’s property, which had once been decaying, overrun with vines and rot, was now... different. It was brighter. Cleaner. The windows no longer looked like empty eyes but gleamed in the pale light of the streetlamp. The Fear Collector Carter didn’t know what was happening, but it felt like the town was changing, warping, becoming something darker. And all of it seemed to be connect- ed to the man across the street, the man who never seemed to age, the man whose eyes glowed when the night grew deep. Ethan Campbell II. The town of Medford, Wisconsin, wasn’t the sort of place where anything out of the ordinary ever hap- pened. It was a town that measured the years in slow, predictable rhythms—spring brought the bloom- ing of tulips in front yards, summer meant baseball games at the little league park, and winter turned the roads into slick, frozen paths for snowplows to chase away the ghosts of the season. People lived here their whole lives, and they never wondered about anything outside of their small-town bubble. But that was be- fore Mr. Grinlow moved into the old house across from Carter Logan’s place. It started with whispers. At first, it was just small things, a teacher at the local high school, Mrs. Randolph, breaking down in front of her class, clutching her chest like her heart had been ripped out. She screamed, her voice raw