Necrophobia: The Bartender 1941

Prologue

I never believed in the dead.

Despite how intrigued I was with genres such as horror and thrillers, there was little to no interest in the deceased. There was an unnameable disgust toward death, regardless of my love for a rare ounce of psychological arousal. As a young boy, life introduced me to Urbach-Wiethe and, since then, has eroded my ability to fear. In short, I couldn't worry or discern fear even if I desired to; I won't be able to experience something crucial, like feeling warmth for the first time. Still, I engrossed myself in fear-inducing experiences–cinema, literature, haunted house walkthroughs, or roller coasters–you name it.

However, I haven't had the slightest idea why. Conceivably, the meddling of the undead toyed with my mind. The unintended enjoyment of necromancy felt vulgar. Personal tastes aside, I would say that the dead should stay dead. Funerals were distraught, freak accidents turned cruel, and post-apocalyptic undead remained offensive. The work of disdain concealed itself beneath false satisfaction as I got older and more experienced with society.

Nevertheless, I still clung to my favorite genres and found compassion in tales of grotesque fables. Behind the ghouls and cryptids stood genuine happiness in suspense and monstrosities. But that's what I assumed would hold out the longest.

At the time, I was old enough to move out of my parents' house with their permission. Eighteen or so, I had devoted every penny and dime to this moment, and now, it is finally happening. Every bit of hope for a new start will transform into a new life ahead of me. When faced with this opportunity, I wasn't scared.

My parents, however, considered it too precarious and prayed for my security. Others believed it was a gift–a miracle even. Fear is an obstacle; it gets in the way of life.

Then what's the point of living if you can't experience that vital emotion, like that day?