David Brinkley appeared again last night. His impish smirk visible in the blue tint of moonlight projecting through my window. He sat at the edge of my bed. I was dumb with fear.

“You know, I’m sorry.” He said, looking at me directly.

I nodded, confused.

“Fear sells, at least it did, I imagine it still does, especially the good old solid cold war fears I got to peddle.” Mr. Brinkley said.

He laughed and slapped my covered legs for emphasis. He turned and faced the window, the moonlight lighting his slicked back silver hair.

“Remember that time you were watching the 4:30 movie, I think it was one of those Planet of the Monkeys movies or some nonsense, I broke in and told you how the Chinese had crossed the Vietnamese Border…ha..you almost shit your pants…you always were a little Sinophobe.”

His hands moved up to rub his temples.

“Hell, now you have avian flu, MRSA, Al-Queda, super influenza, biological terrorism, loose nukes…e-coli…too much salt…ahh…it’s always something.”

He stood and went to the window.

“Anyway, I’m sorry if I frightened you… calling it my job doesn’t make it right.”

He glanced at my nightstand.

“You should be scared, however, of those goddamn cigarettes.”

He paused, awaiting a reaction.

“Maybe I ought to send Peter to see you.” He laughed his abrupt laugh and then vanished.

A small orb of white light flickered where he had stood and then that was gone too.

My heart pounding, I fumbled to find my lighter.