surgeon In The Barbershop

Suspense Stories | Dec 7, 2012 | 14 min read
1 Votes, average: 5 out of 5
Suspense Stories

surgeon In The Barbershop

Mason Baird
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Social anxiety does not exclude an intellectual imaginary friend. It includes it into the mind of the creator, bringing in a company of a novice holder, and that holder has the ability of overcoming two differences of approaches in life; normal and the friend that fulfills the fantasies of the creator's imagination. It talks to them and tells them to do what it wants. What the holder wants and what the friend needs. It may be good or bad, or even reasonable for the holder to deal with. But, when the friend tells the holder to do that, the holder accepts without hesitation, because the holder is that friend. That holder and that friend make one. A complete item of one life source. ~ Infamous McMason

The sky is blue, the grass is green.
This mind is you, and this is me.

"I awoke to the inner sound of my blood flowing through my veins. It kept getting painful every single time the red hand on that clock went tick tock, and then that's when I could hear her… her voice. She morphed into a dark cloud of air and evaporated into my body and used me like a rag doll. I was a human puppet and she controlled my directed movement. She could tell or make me do anything her dead heart desired. I don't know how she did it."

They sat in the small room as Dr. Fawlin - a fifty-two year old therapist from Kirtport, New Jersey- reminisced about the happenings that sojourned throughout the remembrance of Chandler Sullivan's mind. An incognito past created by a misbelieved source - a man of an unreal, adherence, who has a mind incapable of a confrontation because the perspective of Chandler is equivalent to it's own. The personality of the two connect and have a related apparition. Dr. Fawlin questioned Chandler to find the resolution between the equal source. He asked Chandler about a happening. Chandler spoke and Dr. Fawlin listened for the source. A source of an unknown existence.

"One night, me and my sweet daughter Autumn were watching television - eating popcorn, talking and what not. Then it hit me. Just like that I couldn't believe what that night had in mind. I was helping Autumn set up her little tea party full of stuffed animal guests, and that's when I could feel her. As Autumn brushed the hair of her cabbage patch kid, The kitchen light exactly to the right, from us being in the living room turned on. Me and my daughter had the same expression glued onto our faces. We looked like we saw a ghost. So, me trying to be brave, I get up from the couch and right when I did that, the lamp on the corner table a few feet beside me lifted up in a high levitation. It went up to the ceiling. I couldn't move - I was in a deep motionless silence. Then all of a sudden, the lamp dropped to the floor and the scattered remains of its pieces started moving across the floor, as almost if it was skating on ice. The pieces combined to a group and aimed their direction into the kitchen. I followed it into the kitchen and blankly stared at the lamp pieces hovering above a couple feet from the kitchen floor. Autumn came up from behind me and took my hand and held it. She then whispered: "It's mommy. She came to visit. Do you see her, daddy? She's right there." Autumn pointed to the refrigerator to the far left of the kitchen. When I looked, that's when I knew I was in a living nightmare. The whole body of the fridge was covered in a temporarily tattoo of my wife, Helen Wallace's ghost figure posed an image of herself on her hands and knees. She was taking gulps of fresh air, which gave us a message that she was calling out for help. She told me in a low dark voice that she can't bypass her way through the real world to seek help. I figured she was lying because a stream of ectoplasm gushed out of the fridge door's surface and it revealed Helen attempting to cut through the imprisonment of the hellish landscape of the darkness. Her voice turned to demon and it repetitively used the word 'kill' and said: "that‘s you." The kitchen light busted out and the whole room filled with blackness. It was scarier than anything I‘ve ever experienced. Then, I saw her again. Only this time, she was in the mirror beside me, as I looked at my reflection. Those are the only times Helen came back to me."
"What do you think Helen meant when she said "that's you?" Dr. Fawlin asked as he wrote down statistics of Chandler's condition during the occurring session. Chandler starred at the ceiling fan as he rested on the therapy couch with his hands on his lap. He was tired from having a long day as being a cardiothoracic surgeon. All the blood and internal organs still seem to phase him. "I don't know. I could mean anything really, but it must mean something, because I'm here, talking to you about this."
"True. Do you have any clue why she would say "Kill" though? From my reference, she was suggesting that you kill somehow, if she was saying "kill" and "that's you."
"It's only been twice that I've seen my wife after she died and those were the only words she said to me, so I don't know what she meant. I don't know what's happening to my life anymore- my daughter won't talk to me and she is afraid of me now. Everything just doesn't seem right anymore." Chandler began to cry.
"Chandler, ay ay, it's okay. Everything will be okay. I'm here to help you, and the only help you received since these past three sessions was just crying. You need to cooperate with me more, because I believe this can be gone. These memories and happenings could cease, Chandler, but I need your help for me to help you. Do you understand?"
"Yes. I will try to cooperate more. What do you want to know more about?" Chandler asked, as he slightly sobbed.
"Tell me more about your personal life. Tell me about what you dream or think about throughout the day." Dr. Fawlin watched Chandler in anticipation as he looked up and down from his current work of Chandler's treatment.

"During a dream I had a couple nights ago - this man, I don't know what his name was, but I had a feeling that he knew me. I remember what he always wore though. It was a white 1940's barber suit - equipped with surgical gloves and a procedure mask. When I first saw him, my whole body was still, and that's when I saw him come in from a large black door. At the time, he had a creamy black tuxedo on, and his breath had the recent smell of alcohol. Possibly the taste of champagne from having a News Years Eve party downstairs in the Kirtport barbershop. The year was 1947, and the moods for people in Kirtport during the time were joyful. The guy took off his tuxedo while he whistled and hummed a melody of the song he was listening to on record: I don't want to set the world on fire, by the Ink Spots. I don't think he could see me. I was hidden from any engagement. The man then walked over to something covered in red velvet curtains around its perimeter . He pulled the curtains to the side and I saw the revealing of a woman impaled on an extended length hook going through her upper back and the drips of blood dropped off her toes and heels, which landed in the bathtub of burgundy water. It looked like the woman was a paint brush that was dipped in a bucket of scarlet paint. Her whole body was nothing but a bright red- even her hair was drenched in blood - and her eyes were drowned in red tears. I watched as the man took a scalpel and ran it from the top of her spine to the bottom of her anus. He set aside the scalpel and grabbed a hold of the slit skin and pulled it apart, from side to side. He pulled the skin to the ventral of her body, and up to the torso - having a muscle skeleton as her body image. Shears did their work as they trimmed the peeled skin from the body. The skin dropped into the bathtub and it soaked in her own blood. The man stood beside her as he felt her legs up and down - the touching of her muscle satisfied him - almost to the threshold of taking his tongue across her legs and between her red meat breasts. He wanted to. I could see him moving his tongue out of his mouth at her, as if he was teasing her. I could feel fear running through my body as I tried to escape. I tried to run, but the pace of my movement was in slow motion. That's when he saw me. He slowly turned his head over to where I was. I couldn't move from then on. He walked over to me in a quiet and slow pace, like if he was tiptoeing. I couldn't see his face - the dark covered it like a mask of destructive distress. I closed my eyes and prayed to God for him to not harm me. A warm chilling was felt across my skin and it pierced through into my emotions and made its way up to my mind. The man was inside me - I couldn't do anything about it, but open my eyes - and once my eyes were open - I could see a light. The light lured me throughout my mind and I experienced flashes of memories in front of me that faded away the second I tried to touch them, and once I came to the end of the light - darkness appeared and I couldn't find the light back to my mind. It made me stay where I was at. It wanted me to stay. Then I awoke."

Dr. Fawlin questioned himself on the sanity of Chandler Sullivan that very night at home. He wondered if the stories Chandler were telling were real. "Could he really be insane?" Dr. Fawlin thought to himself. "Or could it just be some practical joke?" Dr. Fawlin wanted to find out the source of the problem. And that very night he had a dream.

In a world of unparallel forces, which connect with equivalent risks in situations that are real in the life of the dreamer, are nonnegotiable to omit to anyone in the world you live in, because they know nothing about the truth. The truth, which is the source of the solving of the final problem that is intervened and told like a story. It is only found in the mind of the operating holder. The mind splits into two, to a conscience that tells what is right from wrong. One side is the malevolent, who thrives off the limelight of witnessing the holder become what it wants, and the other side is the one that wants the holder to choose it's own path in life and by doing it in an acceptable way to prosper and gain happiness. But the malevolent side is more bearing to corrupt the mind of the holder, because it's the easy way out in life. And the holder wants that.

"Help me, I'm dying. May you help me, mister?" Dr. Fawlin was in a nightmare created by his personal references from the helping of the treatment of Chandler. He was starring with his own two eyes, a man who was gasping for another breath of air to survive. The man was down a dark hallway and the flickering of the ceiling lights were the only possible way for Dr. Fawlin to see the man. Dr. Fawlin saw the man was crawling from the end of the hallway to reach him, and every time the lights flickered back on, the man was closer than expected.
"Run, while you still can. There is still hope for you to escape. Please do what I say, and run." The man said with barely no breath, as he crawled closer to Dr. Fawlin. He didn't understand what the man was talking about, or why he was here. This was more than a nightmare.

From the perspective of standing in front of a crawling, dying man - Dr. Fawlin could see something else. Something in the distance at the end of the hallway. It looked like a figure of a full grown man. It was, and it was someone who Dr. Fawlin knew and was scared of. As the crawling man became near, the lights flickered back on and from what Dr. Fawlin witnessed - he could see a trail of blood left behind the crawling man. The man was cut in half from hip to hip, showing his internal organs and intestines that slid and smeared across the floor, along with his spinal cord, which and scraped on the blood trail, and left a line of blood when the man raised his hand for help at Dr. Fawlin. His spinal cord was like a ballpoint pen that drew the blood on the floor as if it was a sheet of white paper. Dr. Fawlin immediately became frightened by the crawling man laying by his feet, that he almost forgot about the man from down the hallway. He was gone and nowhere to be found. Nowhere, but right in front of him. The man stood there starring blankly into Dr. Fawlin's eyes. He couldn't cast an image of the man's face. Dr. Fawlin closed his eyes and screamed for what was going on - his life, the situation, and most importantly- himself. He was a depressed alcoholic, and spent his nights at home after work binge drinking cans of beer and doing shots after shots of whiskey. He hated his life and just wanted to die. And now he has to help a man build his life back up. He can't do it to himself even if he tried.

In a white room with bright, blinding lights, awaited a teenage boy sitting in a barber chair restrained with metal stakes pinned on each palm of his hands and both of his shinbones. He screamed continuously and vociferously throughout the soundproof room, crying out to his mother and begging for her to forgive him for his vicious duties in life. His name was Patrick Wallace - a cigarette smoking fiend at the age of eighteen, and a recent murderer to the killing of sixteen year old Hailey Reeves. Hailey's body was found in an alley behind a dumpster - well her torso and her ligaments were all in place when found, but her head and neck were crushed like the dropping of a watermelon from a skyscraper, but in this case, it was a crime scene involving a cinderblock to be used as a lethal weapon to slam on the head and neck of a sixteen year old girl just because she refused to steal a carton of cigarettes from her aunt's tobacco shop. Now he is facing his own deserved punishment.

The man came in the bright room wearing a barber's suit, - the one Chandler depicted from his dream - black spectacles with dark tint, and a scalpel in hand. Patrick watched the man walking up to him as he screamed to let him out. The man smiled as he took the scalpel and drew an arch from eyebrow to eyebrow - slitting some of the eyelid - on Patrick. An upside down "U" that was slit into the skin of his forehead. To each side of the barber chair stood planted robotic machinery with installed arms holding syringes filled with liquid epinephrine. The four arms moved into the sides of the neck and above the hipbones on Patrick. The needle delivered an adrenaline rush throughout his blood vessels and increased his heart rate. His survival against death was now at a greater capacity, as he could fight it off using his own adrenaline hormones adapted from the pain and the synthetic drug from in the syringes. Patrick's sternum was now permanently concaved like if he had the pectus excavatum condition. His sternum was now internally the use for anatomy. The man made a hole through the cartilage of Patrick's sternum - in similar works of the procedure commonly and usually done to cattle, which is cannulation. Intubation did its work by the man inserting a tube into Patrick's trachea and the opening of his sternum ran the tube down into his gastrointestinal tract, feeding him a liquid diet of citric acid pouring through the beginning of the tube and ending into his near corrosive stomach. The man kneeled down beside Patrick and watched as he remained alive from all the pain impacted in him. Patrick's heart was visible to the man's eyes, and from the look of it, he was developing tachycardia - where his heartbeat was rapid and beating over four hundred times a minute. The man took a finger and touched the heart. It was moving his finger up and down in a constant speed, as he slid his finger around the surface of the heart. The only word to come out of the mouth of the man, and the last word Patrick Wallace heard before dying, was "amazing".

"How did your wife, Helen die, Chandler?" Dr. Fawlin asked during the fourth session of the treatment. Dr. Fawlin didn't tell Chandler the dream he had the previous night because he thought it would make Chandler think that he believed him, when really he did.
"She was killed by a drunk man in a head on collision, coming home from work late one night.
"And what about Autumn? Chandler looked at Dr. Fawlin confused. He wondered what he was talking about. His baby daughter Autumn lived with him. At least that's what he thought.
"My daughter Autumn is not dead. I saw her this morning when I dropped her off at school."
It says here in your registration that you don't have any children. You said she past away at birth in here." Dr. Fawlin said, while flipping through Chandler's contact information and life history.
"Doctor, I don't know what you are talking about. I do have a daughter. She is six years old. I cannot be making this up now.
"Chandler, you never had a daughter and your wife was never killed by a drunk in a car accident. Your wife was killed the same day your daughter died. She was killed by you, Chandler. You killed her. I'm sorry. Chandler began to cry, and behind his tears formed a rage of anger. He jumped up from the therapist couch and grabbed Dr. Fawlin by the throat, and started to choke him.
"You are a liar! I did not kill my wife and Autumn is still alive, you fucking liar!"
The door in the room opened and all changed. Everything that all happen became something entirely new. A woman came in to the sighting of Chandler choking himself inside his own sanitarium. She was a nurse and Chandler was in a mental institute, fighting with himself - Dr. Fawlin - and was coming close to killing himself. A doctor came in: "Chandler, what in God's name are you doing?!"
"There you are! I didn't kill her! I swear I didn't, Dr. Fawlin!"
"Chandler." The doctor said. "I'm Dr. Howard, your therapist."
"No! You're Dr. Fawlin don't lie to me!" Dr. Howard nodded his head at the nurse. The nurse walked over to Chandler and injected him with a sedation.
"Chandler, Your name is Chandler Fawlin and mine is Francis Howard. You see that nurse right there?" Chandler began to pass out from the sedative and saw only disfigured, blurry images of real people.
"Her name is Autumn Moore. She was about to take you to your next session with me, Chandler. Do you remember?" Chandler passed out before he could say anything. His life became a whole lie after the death of his baby at birth. His mind told him to kill his wife, because he was his mind. Him and his mind make one life source. He was Chandler Fawlin and Dr. Fawlin. Sullivan was just a surname to block out the truth. As Dr. Howard and Autumn escorted him to the therapy room for the next session, the split personality and mindset of being a surgeon came to him as a cover up. The metaphorical phrase - surgeon in the barbershop - came to him as the surgeon being his imaginary existence, entering the mind of someone else. His cell door closed and behind that door held a cracked mirror on the wall, and later that very night when Chandler came back, he could see them. The reflected image of his wife Helen, his daughter Autumn, and his therapist Dr. Fawlin, which was himself - himself in another personality - in the crack side of the mirror, looking at him. Chandler Fawlin - an insane man who murdered his wife after the death of his child at birth, and used another persona to vanish it away from his mindset - smiled at them.

Source: http://creepypasta.wikia.com/wiki/Surgeon_In_The_Barbershop

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Alvalynn Mar 1, 2021

This is an amazing story I think there should be a book like this

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