Dead Saltshakers

From the time I could remember, I've always had this fear of fallen saltshakers. Yes, I said saltshakers - that have fallen. I ask myself why I could not be afraid of something else, like heights, or spiders, something normal. But, no. I have a fear of fallen saltshakers. I am unsure as to whether it is the downed saltshaker itself or the sight of the salt on the table that causes me such grief, but the whole thing chills me to the bone. Oh, but it's much more than that: it's a phobia. You see, I can't stand it. Just the sight of a dead saltshaker brings my hands to my face and a scream to jump out of my mouth. And don't think for a second that it has never happened before. 1

There was thing one time long ago. It was a restaurant in Manhattan, a very nice one for a matter of fact. I walked in, I screamed, and I ran out, face in my hands, screaming at the top of my lungs. The memory still manages to put icy hands squeezing down my spine. I remember the saltshaker lying Rigor mortis on the far table in the back right of the room. I can only imagine the thoughts going through the minds of the other dinner-goers when they saw a man run out of the restaurant screaming bloody murder. Some ran, and some covered their heads with the nearest object available in their immediate reach. The whole experience was a nightmare: A real living nightmare.