Paranoia

Frank Amaya

PARANOIA

Copyright © 2025 by Frank Amaya

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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

Preface

1. THE SKELETAL FINGERS

2. THE NOISES

3. JOURNAL

4. SPIDER

5. THE CUTS

6. THE NEXT DAY

7. AWAKE

8. FEAR

9. THE WALKER

10. THE PASSENGER

11. THE GAS STATION THAT SHOULD NOT EXIST

12. THE ROAD THAT SHOULDN’T EXIST

13. LOST

14. TOM MY JOURNAL

15. MY DOCTOR

16. IT BEGINS AGAIN

Preface

Some places are loud, even in silence.

A cabin in the woods, for instance. You might think a place like that is peaceful—just you, the trees, the wind knocking lazy fingers against the roof. No honking cars, no city chatter, no screens flashing at you from every direction. Just quiet.

But that’s the trick, isn’t it? The quiet isn’t empty. It’s waiting.

Charlie Morries needed a break. A little fresh air. A little stillness. Just him, his thoughts, and nothing else. That’s what he told himself, anyway.

But when a man like Charlie—a man whose mind is already crowded with voices that aren’t his own—steps into a place where the only sound is the one in his head, things start leaking through.

The creak of a floorboard when no one’s walking.

The feeling that something is standing just out of sight, watching.

The whisper of a voice he stopped listening to years ago.

Charlie came here alone.

So why does it feel like something is here with him?

Frank W. Amaya

Author

1

THE SKELETAL FINGERS

The typewriter’s keys clacked like skeletal fingers on a coffin lid as I began my first entry. The cabin creaked and groaned around me, a living thing digesting its new occupant. Outside, the wind whispered secrets through the pines, carrying voices that were almost discernible in its susurration, hinting at the isolation’s effect on my frayed senses.

Day One of what Doc Harriman calls my recuperative isolation. A fancy term for being marooned in this godforsaken woodland shack with nothing but my demons for company. The good doctor, with his polished loafers and neatly trimmed beard, had given me that patronizing smile as he handed me the journal. Write it all down, Charlie, he’d said. Every thought, every fear. It’s the only way to excise the poison.

Poison—yeah, that’s one way to put it. The poison of delusion that seeps into your brain, twisting reality like a fun house mirror. The poison of chemicals—street and prescription—that I’ve pumped into my veins over the years, trying to drown out the cacophony in my head.

Now, here I sit, stone-cold sober for the first time in… Christ, I can’t even remember. The silence is deafening. No city noise, no TV static, no bottles clinking. Just the incessant whisper of the wind and the maddening tick-tock of that infernal wall clock.

Why am I here? What cosmic joke landed a basket case like me in this backwoods purgatory? Doc says it’s to regain control. But as I stare at the cabin’s dark corners, watching shadows twist and writhe, I have to wonder: what if isolation doesn’t silence the voices?

—What if it just makes them louder?

I decided to relocate after realizing the cabin was more akin to a horror movie setting than a place of healing. I now stand on the weathered deck of this beachfront fortress, my fingers white-knuckled around a tumbler of iced tea—no whiskey, not anymore, though every cell in my body screams for it. The sun dips towards the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and angry oranges. It’s beautiful, in a way that makes my chest ache.

Civilization, such as it is, lies thirty miles down a winding coastal road. A small town with a name I can’t quite remember—something quaint and New England-y, no doubt. I’ve got enough supplies to last a while: canned goods, bottled water, more notebooks than any sane person could fill. But it’s the isolation that’s the real commodity here. The chance to hear my own thoughts without the constant static of the outside world.

As night falls, I retreat inside. The house is all gleaming hardwood and picture windows, nothing like the dingy apartment I left behind. It feels alien. Too clean. Too perfect. I half expect to find Norman Bates lurking in one of the artfully decorated guest rooms.

—But no. It’s just me. Me and the ghosts I brought with me.

I settle into an overstuffed armchair, notebook balanced on my knee. The pen hovers over the blank page. Where to begin? How do you start to untangle a lifetime of broken synapses and chemical imbalances?

—Outside, the waves crash against the shore. Relentless. Eternal.

—I take a deep breath and begin to write.

The ink spills across the page as I grapple with the words, trying to articulate the tumult inside me. The setting sun now only a memory, the room dims, save for the pale glow of the moonlight that filters through the expansive windows. The ocean’s roar is a constant companion, a reminder that while isolated, I am not entirely cut off from the world—just its distractions.

My thoughts turn to Dr. Harriman’s last words before I left, the way his voice had held a mix of caution and encouragement. Isolation can be your crucible, Charlie. It can forge you anew, if you let it. But as the shadows in the corners grow longer and seem to dance with a life of their own, I can’t help but question if what I’m being forged into is something less than human.

The silence is no longer just an absence of sound; it’s a presence, thick and suffocating, filled with the whispers of my own doubts. Every creak and moan of the house sets my nerves on edge, each sound a potential herald of unseen horrors waiting in the dark.

I write about the day’s events, the mundane details of survival—checking the locks on the doors and windows, inventorying my supplies, setting up contingencies should the need to escape arise. Yet, these actions feel hollow, like I’m going through the motions of living rather than actually living.

A gust of wind bangs a shutter against the window, and I jump, my heart racing. It’s just the wind, I remind myself, just the wind. Yet, the part of my brain that revels in terror whispers that perhaps it’s not just the wind. Maybe it’s something more sinister, mocking my attempts at rational thought.

I force myself to return to the journal, my handwriting shaky. I recount the reasons for my self-imposed exile, the myriad failures that led me here. The journal is supposed to be a tool, a way to externalize the internal chaos. Dr. Harriman believes in the power of words to heal, to cleanse. I want to believe him, but doubt is a constant companion, as tangible as the pen in my hand.

As I write, I explore the dual nature of my retreat—sanctuary or prison, salvation or damnation. The ambiguity of my situation mirrors the tumultuous sea outside, waves crashing in relentless succession, unpredictable and powerful.

Then, a sudden calm. The wind dies down as if catching its breath, and the house settles into an eerie stillness. My eyes are drawn to the window where the moon casts its silver light across the churning water. There’s beauty in it, stark and harsh, like the beauty of a deserted wasteland.

I decide to end tonight’s entry with a resolve to find something in this isolation more substantial than fear. Perhaps tomorrow, I will walk along the beach, let the cold water lap at my feet and remind myself of the world’s realities, harsh and beautiful alike.

But as I close the journal, the silence seems to deepen, as if the house itself is holding its breath. And in that silence, I hear it—a soft, almost imperceptible whisper. Not the wind this time, but something else. Something that’s maybe been waiting for me to notice it all along.

Chilled, I stand and move toward the window, peering out into the night. The moonlit beach is empty, the waves gentle now, almost tender in their approach. But the feeling of being watched, of not being alone, lingers, clinging to me like the salty sea air.

What secrets does the ocean hold? What has it seen, what does it know? And more importantly, what does it whisper in the dead of night, when all the world seems to hold its breath?

I shiver, not from the cold, but from the realization that whatever answers lie out there, beyond the reach of the moon’s glow, might just be waiting for me to find them.

With a last look at the unsettling calm of the ocean, I turn back inside, the echo of the unseen whisper urging me to sleep, to dream, and perhaps, to understand. The clock ticks on, relentless as the ocean, marking the passage of another day in isolation, another step closer to whatever end awaits me here, in this haunted solitude.

As the night deepens, I try to coax sleep to come, but it’s elusive, chased away by the relentless tide of thoughts that refuse to be penned down entirely. Lying in bed, the ghostly moon casts shadows that flicker across the room, animating the inanimate in a spectral dance. The wind resumes its melancholic symphony outside, bending the ancient pines that seem to guard this isolated stretch of coast like ancient sentinels.

Exhausted yet unable to surrender to sleep, I rise and pace the length of the house. The hardwood floors are cold underfoot, the chill seeping into my bones. Each step is echoed by a creak or groan from the house, as if it responds to my restlessness.

Driven by a restless impulse, I pull on a jacket and step outside onto the deck. The air is sharp, laced with the brine of the sea. I lean against the railing, gazing out over the ocean, a vast expanse under the night sky. The moonlight paints everything in a monochrome palette, deep blues and silvers