Somnambulism
By Joe Sudar
“I’m going to record this conversation. Is that alright
with you?”
“Yes,” said Berger, “actually I’m glad you offered. I
need a record of what’s happening to me before it gets serious. When they find
me crushed in a cement mixer there will at least be an explanation for the
police.”
Skinner nodded but said nothing. A good psychologist
knows not to support or dismiss a client’s delusions. His job is to provide
objective analysis of any potential psychological disorders. He clicked play
and record on his pocket tape recorder and set it on the table between them.
Its reels whirred in anticipation.
“Every night for the past two weeks I’ve had the same
dream,” Berger began, his textured hands woven together on his lap, “and every
night it has become more and more vivid. The first thing I feel is panic.
Something horrible has happened, or maybe is happening, I don’t really know.”
Skinner nodded again, scribbling a single word onto his
notepad:
Panicked
“I never see or hear a single thing. It’s not just
darkness, it’s like there’s nothing there at all; it’s just empty around me. I
never go anywhere or do anything, I only ever remember that terrible feeling.
It’s horrible, like having a knotted rope pulled through you. Every pull makes
me panic more and more, and I feel this urge to do something to stop it but I
have no idea what.
Motivation for
action
“That’s not the half of it either: I’m sleepwalking.
That’s not much I know, I’m sure you’ve had a hundred clients with little kids
walking around at night but you haven’t heard anything like this.
“The first time it happened was last Sunday night. It was
also the first time I had the dream. The terror felt as new and horrible as an
open wound. I woke in clothes drenched all the way through with my own sweat.
Instead of waking in my bed, however, I was ten feet outside the door to my
apartment, which I’d left wide open. It was two or three in the morning and no
one saw me, but I’d left my home for God knows where.”
Physiological reaction
Somnambulism
Leaving home in night
“Monday night it happened again. I came out of the dream
just like before but this time I wasn’t in my apartment hall, I was in the
foyer, ground floor. Tuesday night came, I dreamt again and I walked to the street
corner outside.
Progressive
increase in distance from home
“After that I called my physician and he recommended you.
He said you were an expert on dream cases, that you studied it for your thesis
or whatever you guys do for your degree. I figured you could tell me what my
dream means and why I was sleepwalking.”
“Unfortunately the process is not as simple as that,”
said Skinner, flipping to a fresh page in his notebook, “with continued
interview and analysis we will certainly be able to decipher any meaning in
this dream, but as it is…”
“I wasn’t finished,” interrupted Berger, “there’s more.
It’s Friday, I called on Wednesday. I had the dream again on Wednesday and
Thursday night. Two nights ago, after I called and made an appointment with
your secretary and found out I had two more nights to survive I decided to try
a solution of my own: I duct-taped my hand to the bedpost. It didn’t do squat.
I woke up with bruises from the constriction and a fragment of it still
attached to my skin. I’d made it twice as far, two streets past the corner
where I’d woken up the night before.”
Same route every
night?
“Last night was the worst. I made it five blocks away and
woke up three blocks away from the highway.”
Skinner nodded, penning the detail on his pad. He knew
that Berger meant the city’s central thoroughfare, which ran from the northern
suburbs down through the commercial area all the way to the industrial
properties at the limits. Traffic was clearly audible at all times in the
clinic. The builders had done their best to soundproof the building, but the
rush of vehicles moving day and night at seventy miles per hour was tough to
beat.
The psychologist looked up to see his client staring at
him like a prosecutor extracting a confession. Skinner let his pencil hover
above the page, waiting for his client to go on. The reels of the tape recorder
gulped hungrily at the silence.
“Don’t you see?” asked Berger, his jaw quivering. “Don’t
you get what’s happening?”
“What do you think is happening?” Skinner responded in
monotone.
“I’m being put in extreme danger. I don’t know why I’m
going to that stupid freeway but I know I don’t want to be there in my sleep.
It’s a dangerous road to drive on, If I make it there in my sleep I’ll be
splattered like that!” Berger snapped his fingers for emphasis
“You mentioned that you were still several blocks away,
there’s no indication that you’ll make it all the way to the highway…” Skinner
began.
“You haven’t felt how terrifying this dream is. I feel
like I’m watching myself be torn apart but I can’t do a damned thing about it.
I want to stop it and I try but I’m completely helpless. Can you even imagine
feeling like that and then waking up outside your home, exposed in the middle
of the night, halfway to rushing traffic? It’s enough for me to do anything to
feel safe again, I’ll even be committed.”
Skinner shook his head. “At this point in time that is
out of the question, at least as far as my ability is concerned. The criteria
for commitment involves demonstration of a hazard to yourself or others. At
this point Often times dreams like this are metaphors for other factors in your
life that cause stress. It could even be something that you are equally impotent
to change, but before we can pinpoint what it is I need to conduct more
interviews with you.
“I have no stress that even comes close to this: I own my
apartment, I have no debt, a solid savings account and retirement plan, a
lucrative job, and I’m happily single by choice. Until Sunday night I’d never
felt anything like this in my entire life. I don’t know what this is coming
from but I need it to stop, or I need some sort of security that I can’t break
past to ensure that I’m not going to hurt myself. For crying out loud, I’m
crossing the street in my sleep, how is that not a danger to myself?”
“Somnambulism isn’t totally uncommon, and more often than
not it manifests for a short period of time and then ends. If it ended tonight
I wouldn’t be surprised. My power is very limited when it comes to committing
you, and due to precedents set by malpractice lawsuits I need to be extremely
careful when considering it. If you’re so worried however, it hasn’t been
unheard of for someone to commit themselves.”
“I’ve already thought about it, I need it to be on the
states dollar. My medical insurance won’t cover it.”
“Then I’m sorry Mr. Berger but for now there is nothing
else I can do for your case. As it is right now I need more evidence and more
testimony from you. I’ll pencil you in for my very first appointment, 8am next
Monday, and we’ll see if your condition persists through the weekend.”
Berger opened his mouth then clamped it shut, his
shoulders slumped in resignation. He nodded, turning towards the door and
reaching for his jacket as he left. At the office’s threshold he stopped and
turned around to face Skinner.
“It’s not going to stop.” he said. As the fluorescent
lighting from outside spilled in Skinner noticed the dark circles under his
client’s eyes. “I’ll see you Monday.”
Skinner watched him go. For a moment he closed his eyes
and pictured a panic so complete and potent that it made him feel helpless as a
child. He thought of falling down a well and struggling to keep afloat. He let
himself be chased through his house by a slobbering psychopath with an axe.
When his hair was standing straight up, mounted on goose bumps he shuddered and
grabbed his things to leave with a new and healthy respect for Berger’s fear.
*
“I’m home!” called Skinner as he pushed through the door
of his house.
Four clawed paws skidded along hardwood as Siggy came to
greet his master. The black lab spun in circles before pausing, his head still
and expecting a pat while his tail wagged so hard that it shook his rear.
“I’m in the TV room Bobby!” called Jennifer. Skinner hung
up his coat and kicked off his loafers before heading through the hall to the
living room. Siggy trotted close behind, his tongue lolling from side to side.
“How was work?” asked Jen, pulling her legs in to make
room on the couch.
“Only one case that really stood out, I suppose. A client
is experiencing recurring nightmares that almost exhibit the extremity of night
terrors. He’s sleepwalking as well, on what seems to be a fixed course.”
“That’s crazy! Any idea what you’re going to do with
him?” Jen flipped through the channels as she talked, passing two animated cats
throwing hammers at each other and a news bulletin on a missing fifteen year
old girl with a dyed red mohawk before settling on a drama where two police
officers were hard at work raiding a meth house.
“I haven’t decided yet. I’m still thinking of how to
approach this without getting him too worked up. You should see his face he
talks about the dream: like the victim in a horror movie.”
“Well, what does Freud have to say on the matter?” teased
Jennifer, knowing her husband’s opinion on the famous Austrian’s method of
dream analysis.
“Freud would say the man is trapped in a vagina, which is
probably his mother’s. And he’s probably heading to his mother’s house when he
sleepwalks, either to kill her or rape her. There’s only one Sigmund who’s
opinion I need today.” Almost on cue Siggy leapt onto the couch and buried his
face into Skinner’s lap. In minutes he was snoring.
“I’m not totally sure what to make of the case so far.
I’ve read the man’s file and he’s never exhibited any past psychological
trauma. Any of the conditions he fits the criteria for require at least one
other symptom that he’s lacking. I’m beginning to think that this is less of a disorder and more of a manifestation of his
unconscious, but I need to find whatever is causing this stress before I can
make a detailed diagnosis.
“All I
need to treat this man,” mused Skinner, “is a concrete way of making him face
the object of his fear, like the systematic desensitization of phobia patients.
Unfortunately that isn’t very easy to do with dreams.”
“Well you’ll have to find a way to do that. You’re the
doctor, he needs your help.” Jennifer closed her eyes and laid her head onto
Skinner’s shoulder.
Skinner watched the cop drama without paying attention to
it. His wife was right, he needed to find a way, some creative or innovative
way to make his patient look at his dreams without the fear. He had all weekend
to figure out how to perform this miracle.
*
“Siggy, come on boy, time to go outside.”
The black rocket hurtled down the hall before skidding to
a stop at Skinner’s feet and planting himself in a seated position. It was
Saturday afternoon, time for Sigmund’s weekly jaunt to the park. His tail swept
the ground so furiously in anticipation that Skinner nearly expected lacquer
flakes to be picked up from the floor.
After putting on his blazer, Skinner reached up on the
shelf above the coat rack, probing around until he found a retractable leash
and choke collar. Siggy’s ears cocked forward and his mouth snapped shut while
his tail kicked into fourth gear. With a smile the dog owner trailed the leash
back and forth in front of his pet, watching two shining brown marbles follow
it like a surveillance camera.
“Yes Siggy,” Skinner said in a cartoonish Austrian
accent, “I believe ve are making much progress, yes? Ven I snap my fingers, you
vill speak.” At the popping sound Siggy jumped and barked. “And ven I lay my
hand flat, you vill lay flat upon the ground.” Siggy pressed his belly into the
ground as firmly at his owner’s behest.
“You see,” Skinner laughed, “how even ze great Sigmund
himself cannot help but to obey whilst under the power of hypnosis…”
He trailed off as a switch inside his head connected and
sparked with life. He slid the shining chain collar over his dog’s head and led
him through the door, thumbing through numbers on his cell phone as he walked.
By the time he’d stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of his apartment he’d
found the temporary number marked “Berger.”
As the phone rang he thought of ways to phrase his
proposal. Berger seemed desperate enough to try anything so it shouldn’t be too
hard, but all the same it was an unusual idea. Soon enough he heard the click
of a receiver at the other end.
“What?” Skinner was momentarily taken aback at the
roughness of the voice on the other line. It was as unexpected as a dog’s growl
when you approach with a friendly hand.
“Mr. Berger, this is Dr. Skinner. I’ve had an idea on how
we might approach the treatment of your case and…”
“Shut up!” The mysterious voice barked, “I don’t know who
you are but there’s no Berger here and I’m not about to listen to any trash
from doctor anyone. Wake me up for crap like this again and I’ll come find
you.”
The other end clicked in termination, leaving a very
confused doctor wondering at how his luck had tossed him such a violent wrong
number. Regardless he still had an appointment with his patient in two days.
Deciding that his idea could wait to be discussed in person, he returned his
attention to the gung ho Labrador that was pulling his wrist apart.
*
“If it’s alright with you, Mr. Berger, I’d like to try
something a little different during our session today.”
“Anything, Doctor,” groaned Berger, “I’ll play by your
rules if they work.”
“Perfect. First of all let’s talk about this weekend.
Were there any new developments in either the dream or your somnambulism?”
Berger laid back onto the office couch. Putting a box of
tissue between his hands would have been the classic image of therapist and
client. His massive shoulders quaked like a kid describing a nightmare to his
parents.
“It hasn’t stopped. Every night I dream just like I did
last week and I wake up away from home. I haven’t gotten any farther than I did
before though. I wake up just a few
blocks from the freeway like before, right when the sun is coming up. I’m
pretty sure that I walk all night to get that far but I’m not sure.”
“I see. Mr. Berger do you have a history of drug use?”
Berger sat up, his face as contorted as the mask of
drama. “You think I’m on drugs? What’s
wrong with you? I’m trying to open up to you about something that’s real and
terrifying for me but you’re treating me like a criminal. I don’t want drug
prescriptions from you, I’m not trying to get committed because Jack Nicholson showed
me it was a sweet deal, I’m scared for my God damn life!”
Skinner raised his hand, “You’re misinterpreting my
intentions, Mr. Berger. First of all, it is standard procedure within the
psychological health community to explore the possibility of drug abuse first
before we consider the possibility of a disorder. My question was not a
personal attack against you, I ask everyone who exhibits symptoms like yours
the same question.”
“Symptoms of what?”
“Honestly I can’t tell yet. You’re missing a few key
symptoms for some of the more well known psychological disorders, but that
probably means that this will be easier to solve than we originally though. I
would say that your case isn’t any more peculiar than some others that I have
dealt with, but we are still early in our meetings so I can’t say much about
your prognosis yet.”
“Then you aren’t going to commit me?”
“Please Mr. Berger, let me finish. As I’ve said before, commitment
is a very serious procedure and is only done when the patient is believed to be
a danger to themselves or others. So far from your description, the
sleepwalking has kept you to routes that are free from hazards, and while I am
sure it is stressful and may be inhibiting your rest, we don’t commit people
for sleeplessness. If we did then the wards would be full of insomniacs.
“The primary thing that makes your situation unique is
the presence of this recurring dream. What you may have is a manifestation of
an unconsciously known danger. I intend to discover whether or not this is the
case today.
“The reason why I asked you whether or not you have had a
history of drug use, Mr. Berger, is because I would like to hypnotize you, and
there could be an adverse reaction if you have a history of hallucinogen usage.
Hypnosis was a common practice before Sigmund Freud developed his theories on
unconscious motivation and psychoanalytic method. In fact he continued to use
hypnosis as a viable treatment option for some time, believing that it was a
way to explore the significance of phenomena such as dreams, which he called
the “royal road to the unconscious” without inhibition. I don’t often agree
with Freudian ideals, but since we’re treading in his territory right now I
don’t see why we shouldn’t follow the path he’s already lain.”
Berger nodded slowly, his hand brushing at week old
stubble. “Alright, if you believe that this is the way to go I’ll follow your
lead.”
“I’m glad you’ve agreed, I think we can make some serious
progress with this method. To begin with please lay down flat on the couch.”
Berger complied, smiling wryly. “No pocket watch to wave
in my face, doc?”
“I’m afraid I left it back in the eighteen hundreds. The
second thing I would like you to do is relax yourself completely.”
Berger’s chest rose and fell as each of his limbs grew
slowly limp.
“Beginning at your toes, I would like to imagine that you
are being submerged in a bathtub of warm water. It creeps up your skin, the
warmth of it flooding into your muscles, releasing every bit of tension from
the last week’s exertions. You are standing knee deep now, and it keeps rising.
As it passes up your thighs and reaches your hips you begin to feel as though
you have no legs at all.”
Berger’s lips opened a millimeter at a time as his jaw
gradually grew slack beneath his tight shut eyes.
“The warmth continues up you, inch by inch, making you
grow more and more comfortable and relaxed with every passing moment. Soon you
can no longer feel your arms past the elbow, and everything below your ribcage
has disappeared in the same way. Vertebrae by vertebrae, your spine releases
the burden of supporting your body, and you are enveloped more and more into
the soothing bath. Your arms have left, and your neck is vanishing just the
same. As the water rises above your head you find yourself able to breathe
freely, conscious only of the thoughts deep in the back of your mind.”
The figure on the couch lay so still that he might easily
have been a cadaver at the morgue.
“If I were to clap my hands, you would return to full
consciousness, and this relaxation would leave you in an instant. Before then
though, I would like to hear more about this dream that has been bothering you,
is that alright?”
Berger’s head moved up and down in a single nod.
“When I could backwards from ten, I would like you to
tell me about what is inspiring the panic in your dream.
“Ten, nine, eight,”
Berger lay completely still..
“Seven, six, five,”
The room was as silent as a soundproofed studio.
“Four, three, two,”
Skinner drew a final breath.
“One.”
Like a whip in mid crack Berger rose from the couch,
sprinting past the shocked psychologist and out the door.
Skinner dropped his notepad and burst through the door
after his patient. Mary, his secretary sat frozen with the phone halfway to her
ear. The doctor screamed at her to call the hospital and send a crew as he
erupted from the clinic and after Berger.
Berger was already a few hundred feet away down the
professional mall parking lot. Skinner girded himself for a sprint and fired
every cylinder at once. Hundreds of miles on the treadmill came up and fueled
his legs as they pumped after the sleepwalker. Ahead, Berger rounded a corner
past the far building and disappeared. Skinner furiously clapped his hands but
his patient was too far away to hear.
Dr. Skinner rounded the corner in time to see his patient
charging headlong towards the freeway like a startled rodent. The psychologist
summoned every scrap of strength and speed in his body, letting it all out in a
thunderous eruption like the hoof beats of wild horses. The gap between them
closed foot by foot as the sounds of long haul trucks and SUVs filled his ears.
The tails of Berger’s shirt fluttered just out of his reach.
Skinner
jumped, tackling his patient to the ground moments before he stepped in front
of a semi-truck with two cars.
Berger twisted like a Greco-Roman wrestler, pinning his
doctor as he tried to get to his feet and back along his course. Skinner
threaded their legs together in a pretzel like jumble, freeing his hands long
enough to bring them together in an ear-splitting clap.
The two of them collapsed onto the ground, gasping.
Berger sat up, looking around in confusion as the sound of ambulance sirens
sounded far off in the distance.
“Well Mr. Berger,” Skinner said between gulps of air,
“You’ve convinced me. Let’s go begin the paperwork to have you committed.”
*
Skinner’s cell phone rang in the night, as cursed a sound
as the proverbial alarm clock. Wiping sleep from his eyes he answered quickly,
hoping that his wife hadn’t been disturbed. She hated that he slept with the
phone on, but he considered caring for his patients to be paramount to a psychologist’s
obligations, even if that meant giving up some sleep every now and then.
“Dr. Skinner,” he groaned into the receiver.
“I’m sorry to wake you doctor,” it was a man’s voice,
“This is the night orderly at Northern Hills Sanitarium, we got a patient
missing. Book says he’s one of yours: Berger, Douglas.
“Berger?” It had been three days since his commitment,
and Skinner had checked in on him every day to see if there was a change in his
condition. So far none had manifested, he sleepwalked every night, pacing
around the perimeter of his quarters and reported the same dream as before. “What
did the security cameras see?”
“Nothing, he had a key in his room somehow, we’re still
working on where he got it from. You can bet some heads are gonna roll from
that one. For once I’m glad to be on this shift, I never went near the guy so
I’m in the clear.”
“Sir,” said Skinner as he put on his coat and loafers,
“we have a missing patient, your job is practically a non issue in comparison.
That may sound callous but we are dealing with a man who has exhibited
dangerous sleepwalking habits, so you’ll forgive me if I’m a little stressed
out. I’m on my way to the hospital.”
“Yes doctor,” the line closed.
Siggy materialized in the pitch black hallway, his tail
swishing hopefully as he saw his owner preparing for a trip outside. Skinner
gave him a quick rub behind the ears before exiting the hallway.
His phone vibrated as he pulled out of the parking
garage. He propped the wheel in place with his knee and answered the
un-recognized number.
“Dr. Skinner.”
Doctor, it’s Berger.”
Skinner nearly dropped the phone in surprise. “Berger?
Where are you? You realize that you’re committing a crime by exiting a hospital
after you were committed?”
“You’re going to hypnotize me again, after that I’ll
return to the hospital with you. The dream has changed and something is very
wrong.”
“And if I tell that to the authorities at the hospital
you’re going to remain there for a very long time. Tell me where you are and
come with me now before you ruin your life.”
“Come with me so that we can save someone.”
Skinner was glad that his patient couldn’t see rolling
eyes through the phone. He’d dealt with delusional patients before, he just
needed to play along for a while. “Very well Berger, where can I meet you?”
“I’ll direct you along the route, you’ll find out where I
am when you get here.”
Skinner was also glad that frustrated grimaces couldn’t
be seen through a phone line. “Alright, where should I head?”
*
The psychologist and his patient stood by a phone booth
at the edge of the city’s industrial district. Skinner performed the hypnotic
sequence just as he had before in his office, though he had to concentrate
twice as hard this time. He hadn’t been able to call the police yet. He only
needed a minute to make the call, but he needed to complete the process before
he could.
“five, four,”
Skinner glanced over the steel and concrete jungle before
them. The economy had shut down the entire blocks throughout the site.
Smokestacks and towers created a jagged horizon like the skyline of Victorian
London. Lights and steam rose up here and there, but the majority of the metal
city was dead and black. The only light came from streetlamps casting golden
circles down the paths.
“three, two,”
Berger had taken to the suggestion of hypnosis as readily
as the first time. He sat slumped on the hood of Skinner’s car, subtly poised
for the final count.
“one.”
Berger took off like a greyhound after a rabbit with
Skinner keeping pace a few feet behind him. The sleepwalker was moving twice as
fast as before and his doctor could barely keep up the speed. He needed to wait
for them to stop before he could complete make the phone call.
Beyond
barbed wire fences to their left and right rose towering structures. Darkened
foundries stood past storage silos with pipes stretching out like networks to still
and dead warehouses.
Berger faded in and out of streetlights, darting straight
ahead like a hound clinging to a scent trail. Skinner’s feet seemed to grow
heavier with every step. Soon spittle clung to the edges of his lips and
needles of exertion pierced his lungs. By the fifteenth lamp post he began
wondering how long he could keep the pace. At the twenty fifth he had to
imagine lead weights in his hands to keep from raising them and clapping for a
breather.
Berger turned on a dime, cruising into a commercial
property without breaking his pace. Skinner paused momentarily to look at the
sign. It was a storage yard frequented by several companies in the area, but it
had been sold two weeks ago. A glance inside at the titan stacks of metal
storage containers showed that the new owners hadn’t made much progress towards
emptying the premises.
Stopping had been a mistake. As Skinner started again he
felt the buildup of lactic acid with every step. Berger moved ahead just as
furiously as before. His faithful psychologist put on a burst of speed to catch
up. Moonlight alone had to do, there were no lights here. Berger raced left and
right down the labyrinth of steel containers.
An open warehouse loomed ahead of them, its doorway a
gaping black gullet into which Berger raced. Skinner paused at the entrance,
feeling around for a light switch. The power was disconnected, but he found a
metal box with a flashlight which flickered to life, casting shadows amongst
the equipment ahead of him.
Tools and machinery filled the warehouse. In his shaky
hands the flashlight made them all seem to shudder in the blackness. For a few
minutes Skinner was reduced to childhood, telling himself that there was no
such thing as monsters. The flashlight caught in the reflective headlights of a
group of forklifts, making the glitter like cat eyes in the blackness. Coiled
groups of extension cords became pythons, waiting to strike at anyone venturing
close enough. In the end he forced himself to stare down at the wet footprints
leading him through the gauntlet.
Berger was standing so silently and so still that Skinner
nearly ran into him. The burly industry worker stared like a sentinel at a lone
storage container in the warehouse corner. Skinner crept behind him, shining
his light up and down the shed. There were no markings and there was no lock on
the door. Tucking the flashlight into his armpit, he clapped his hands.
Berger blinked and looked around in confusion before
locking his eyes onto the storage shed. “Where are we?” he asked.
“You’ve led us to this container, does it mean anything
to you?”
Berger looked up and down the container, settling on the
unlocked handles. “Let’s find out,” he said, approaching it with his arms
outstretched. Before Skinner could protest the doors were open, revealing the
contents.
Steel walls came together in a long hallway, stained and
puddle but completely empty until the back wall, where the emaciated corpse of
a young girl sat hunched and cold.
Skinner stared. In a moment’s time he remembered back to
when he was sitting on the couch with his wife, flipping through channels past
a news broadcast about a girl just that age gone missing recently. She had
disappeared just over a week ago. Berger’s symptoms had also started just over
a week ago.
The psychologist turned to his client, but he may as well
have been looking at a different man. The slouch was replaced with rigid
posture, the flabby muscles with tension and tone. The bones in his face
sharpened and the skin grew taught. His brow furrowed over rapidly darkening
eyes like onyx faceted in a skull. Cracked and chapped lips curled back like a
predator revealing its fangs.
“Well doctor anyone, looks like I don’t have to find
you.” The voice was like a dog’s growl when you approach with a friendly hand.
The final symptom was a catalyst, piecing together all
the clues of Berger’s condition like a building implosion played in reverse.
Skinner silently gave his diagnosis: schizophrenia with multiple personalities,
coupled with antisocial tendencies.
Berger’s other persona reached out before Skinner could
move, pinning his arms and lifting him easily off the ground. With a twist he
threw the psychologist, leaving him in a crumpled heap on the metal floor.
Skinner struggled to his feat as the doors groaned shut.
His mind worked like lightning to piece together the situation he was in:
Berger’s other personality had abducted the girl, leaving the unconscious
trauma that resulted in frightening dreams. For some reason the guilt
manifested through the desire to return to the scene of the crime. Once they
arrived, the darker side took over again, with a new victim ready to be abused.
The impenetrable metal doors slammed shut. Outside, the
latches screeched into place.
Skinner flipped open his cell phone and dialed 911 before
realizing that the metal tomb was blocking any reception.
The first thing he felt was panic.
Holy shit. How do you feel about adapting it for the screen? It could be a great short film.
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