Wide Awake Against the Dark

As mental institutions go, the Highgate Psychiatric Clinic is one of the nicer ones. The hallways are clean and brightly lit, the walls painted a soothing beige. The air is warm and dry, smelling ever so faintly of antiseptic cleaner. Only the thick rubber coating every protruding corner and the heavy metal doors with their wired-glass windows give a hint of what the place is.

That and the noise, a low-level murmur of constant sound that seems to be equal parts rhythmic pounding, muted screams, and sobbing.

Thankfully, I don’t spend much time in places like this anymore. I’ve moved on to pursuits that better fit my talents. The only reason I’m here is because of a rare confluence of events and opportunity I find promising.

As I stride down that artfully deceptive hallway, I flip open the folder in my hand, scanning the pertinent details. Beth Carter—the patient’s given name, uncorroborated by any identification—is a thirty-something woman with a history of hospitalization for psychiatric observation. Apparently, she’s been involuntarily committed, analyzed, diagnosed, and released with minimal treatment several times. Probably because she doesn’t have any health insurance. What makes her interesting is the sheer number of psychiatrists like me who’ve seen her, all without being able to make any progress.

That, and she’s suspected of at least one murder.

Ahead of me looms the door to the patient interview room, and next to it the door to the patient interview observation room. Between the two doors stands an orderly, seemingly at ease in his white uniform, hands clasped before his waist.

He stands straighter as I approach. “The patient is ready for you, Dr. Eaton,” he says.

I nod, then open the door to the observation room. Inside, the lights are off, leaving the space steeped in gloom, lit only by the glow from a few screens. One of them shows footage from the next room, an image of a figure sitting behind a small table. I look from the screen to the window of one-way glass, and get my first real look at my patient.

She’s something of a surprise. I’ve seen her mug shots, but those give so little information beyond a poorly focused picture. Now I see that Beth Carter is a small woman with light brown hair and eyes, her face clean and markedly lacking in signs of poor care. No heavy lines or damaged capillaries, none of that pinching around the mouth that indicates poor dental hygiene, usually a good determinant for substance abuse or chronic self-neglect. She’s not wearing makeup, and she’s not what I’d call a stunner, but she certainly doesn’t look like most of the patients I’ve seen in my time.

I shoot a glance at the technician managing the equipment; he gives me a thumbs up, again without my needing to speak.

I duck back out of the room, and with only the slightest hesitation, enter the interview chamber.

The door shuts behind me with a soft click, and I face the room’s occupant with a smile. “Hello, Ms. Carter. I’m Doctor Albert Eaton. I’m a clinical psychiatrist, here to interview you. May I sit?”

She nods, gesturing to the chair on the opposite side of the table from her, the only other seat in the room. Her hands aren’t cuffed; she isn’t restrained in any way. I find it hard to conduct a proper evaluation if the patient feels they’ve already been judged. “Please, Dr. Eaton. And call me Beth, if you would. It’s ever so much simpler for conversation.”

I cross to the table and slip into the chair. Her accent is hard to place. I’ve been all over the country, and have a good ear and a good memory. It’s Southern, but without the Texas twang. It puts me in mind of a hostess at a grand hotel, maybe in a city like Baton Rouge. No, New Orleans. That’s it.

I place her folder on the table, unopened. “Very well, Beth. Now, do you understand where you are, and why you’re here?”

She nods, a single slow dip of her chin. “I’m in a mental hospital, for psychiatric evaluation.”

“And do you understand why you’re being evaluated?”

One eyebrow arches slightly. “They say I’ve killed a man.”

“That’s right. I have to ask: did you kill a man?”

Her shoulders lift in a shrug. “Had I done so, I could hardly be expected to damn myself, could I?”

Well, she’s clearly in possession of some rationality. “Let’s say, hypothetically, that you had killed a man. Why would you do so?”

She shows no surprise, no sign of discomfort at the question. “I suppose it would be because he had done something to warrant death,” she says. “Or that I had certain knowledge that he would one day do such a thing.”

It’s certainly not an admission of guilt, but it’s still a revealing answer. Not her words, but that look of sadness that crosses her face, there and gone so swiftly that most people wouldn’t notice it at all.

I decide to back off that for now. My eyes go the folder, and I open it. “We have a remarkable amount of information on you, Beth, while at the same time knowing very little about you. Your place of birth, your age, your relatives: there’s none of that in your file.” I look up to meet her calm gaze. “Can you tell me why?”

“Because it’s hardly relevant, Dr. Eaton,” she replies. “Details such as where you were born or how long ago matter little to what and who we are. No, it is what we do with our lives that truly defines them.” Her gaze sharpens, boring into mine. “For instance, Dr. Eaton, I know a great deal about what you do. About your work with experimental drugs of a suspect nature, developed in cooperation with certain government agencies that see their potential for, shall we say, military and intelligence gathering applications.”

I blink. How could she possibly…. Again I look at the file, as if something there will explain her inexplicable knowledge.

Then I clear my throat, shift in my seat. “That’s a very interesting speculation, Beth. Farfetched, but interesting. And not really relevant to what I’m doing here and now.”

“Is it not?” she asks, cocking her head to one side, as if to see me from a different angle. “But I thought that was your true motive in volunteering to evaluate me. To see if I would prove a good candidate for a test subject. That is part of what you do, isn’t it? Take on these so-called pro bono assignments in the hope they’ll turn up a few more incurable psychotics who won’t be missed should things go awry?”

For a minute, I just stare at her, my jaw slack. I almost glance at the window beside me, mindful of the camera recording every second of this. That’s something I’ll have to take care of later. For now, however…

I smile indulgently at Beth Carter. “So you believe you can read my mind, is that what you’re doing with these… imaginative speculations?”

She shakes her head. “Not minds, Dr. Eaton. Dreams.”

I blink again. “Excuse me?”

“Dreams, Dr. Eaton.” That look of sadness comes and goes again, flitting across her face like a cloud before the moon. “I can see dreams. I can see what people dream, and what those dreams will do to them. I can see your dreams, Dr. Eaton. Dreams of fame and fortune.” She smiles, and that is sad, too. “Should those dreams come true, you will get the fortune, but by that time, you’ll have determined that you don’t want anyone to know how you got it.”

Now I sit back, unnerved. This interview has taken a very strange turn. I’m starting to suspect that Beth is a lot crazier than her file suggests.

“So you can see dreams, and that tells you the future? What people are going to do?”

“Precisely,” she says.

“You do understand that there’s a difference between what we dream in sleep, and what you might call our ambitions, right?”

“No, there isn’t,” she replies. “Our simple dreams both influence and are influenced by what we want. Our goals and desires. While most dreams show little difference between the two distinctions, some are more… dangerous. They pose a grave threat should they be allowed to come true. They are dark dreams, Dr. Eaton. So very dark.” She takes a breath. “And there must be someone to watch for them. To stop them from coming true. To remain wide awake against the dark, so to speak.”

“Grave harm,” I repeat. “How?”

She’s silent for a moment, her gaze going to the table’s scuffed, battered surface. “Well, for example, let us speak of the man I’m suspected of murdering. He was a man preparing for his entry into politics. A man of ambition and strong will, but, shall we say, poor scruples. His dreams were simply for power, with little concern for how he obtained it. Had his dreams come true, he would have done very bad things.”

I purse my lips. “That’s very interesting. But I’m not sure I’m convinced that you can actually see a person’s dreams, or predict their future from them. You’ve got to admit, it sounds….”

“Insane?” Another little smile twists her lips. “I quite agree. But it is hardly the craziest thing about me.”

“Oh?”

“No, Dr. Eaton. What’s truly crazy is how I stop the people who need to be stopped.”

“And how do you do that?” I ask, flipping the folder closed and pushing my chair back. I’ve heard enough; this woman is nuts. Clearly unfit to stand trial, and a perfect candidate. I’ll have her committed before the end of the day, and transferred to one of my testing facilities by tomorrow. She can rant and rave about dreams all she wants, until I pump her full of my proprietary formula, at which point she’ll most likely lose the ability for independent cognitive function. It’s still a work in progress after all.

“Simple, really,” she says, opening her hands in way that suggests she’s revealing something. “I control their dreams.”

I freeze in the act of standing. “What?”

“I don’t just see dreams, Dr. Eaton. I can control them. The unconscious mind is a terribly vulnerable thing. Susceptible to all manner of suggestions, while still being so very dominant over what the body perceives.” She smiles again, and this time it’s more frightening than anything else. “Why, a truly bad dream can even kill a man.”

My answering smile is cold. “I doubt very much that you’re able to do that, Beth. You’re clearly unwell. But, lucky for you, I can help with that. I’ll make sure you receive the best treatment possible.”

“That’s ever so comforting. But if you’ll indulge me for just a moment, I have a question of my own.”

“And what’s that?”

“Would you know, Dr. Eaton, whether you were asleep or awake? Whether you were dreaming or not?”

“Of course I would,” I say, with a scoffing snort.

“Truly?” There’s something in her eyes, something mischievous. “May I conduct an experiment?”

I chew on my lip, wondering if this is worth my time. Then I sit back down. At the very least, it’ll look good for the camera, like I did everything I could to help her. “All right. Show me what you can do.”

Beth nods, smiles… and I’m suddenly in the dark, a place without even the faintest light. It’s cold, so terribly cold, that it takes my breath away in a gasp of shock. Then a sound penetrates the darkness, a howling scream, a shriek redolent of unspeakable pain. In seconds it’s so loud I clap my hands over my ears to preserve my hearing and my sanity.

I open my mouth, to cry out or beg the noise to stop…

I’m back in the interview room, my hands covering my ears, my mouth open, a shout of fear on my lips.

“Have I convinced you?” Beth says, watching me with chilling calm.

My mind immediately denies what happened, what I think happened. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t have been real.

Flames spring up around me, instantly blotting out my sight of the room, roaring and crackling, so unmercifully hot that I can feel the moisture being sucked out of my skin, just before my hair and clothes catch fire and I’m writhing in burning agony and I throw myself backwards, screaming in pain…

And then I’m toppling out of my chair to the floor with a shriek, bathed in sweat and swatting at flames that aren’t there anymore.

I look up from my unburnt clothes and skin to meet Beth’s gaze.

“Well, Dr. Eaton?” she asks.

Before I can make a sound, the door bursts open, the orderly charging in. “Dr. Eaton, what’s wrong?” His gaze goes from me, lying on the floor, to Beth, sitting there calmly. “Are you okay?”

I take a few deep, ragged breaths. “I’m fine,” I manage. “I’m fine. Just… fell out of my chair.” I climb to my feet, limbs trembling.

It couldn’t have been real. There’s some other explanation. Stress or something, making me hallucinate. Yes, that must be it. Someone’s slipped me something, a psychoactive or something.

Now I’m getting angry. This is some kind of conspiracy. A setup. Probably for blackmail or extortion. We’ll see about that.

I rush through the door without a word and burst into the observation room. The tech jumps in surprise, looking alarmed when he sees my face.

“Dr. Eaton—” he starts, but I cut him off.

“Show me the footage from the last thirty seconds of the interview,” I bark. “Now.”

His fingers fly over the controls. The monitor shows the requested time slot, and I watch myself speaking to Beth, then lurching back in my chair, hands covering my ears. A second later, I flop out of my chair, squirming and writhing as I hit the floor. I can feel my face flushing at the humiliation, but more interesting is the fact that Beth didn’t do a thing. She just sat there through the whole thing; she didn’t even blink.

She’s in on it, I’m sure. Maybe even the one in charge of this debacle.

“Copy the entire interview and give me the disk,” I order. The tech complies, with a speed born of fear, and hands me a small data stick. “Now delete the file from the hard drive.”

“Delete the file?” he says, then swallows. “But… that’s court property…”

“And I’ll see that they get what they need,” I say. “Now, do I have to repeat myself?”

“No, Dr. Eaton.” A few keys click, and the man sighs. “It’s done. You have the only recording.”

“Good.” I step out of the observation room, satisfied. I’m not worried about him saying anything; he knows I could destroy his life with a single phone call.

My equilibrium fully restored, I return to the interview room.

Beth is still sitting there, exactly as she was when I left. She looks up at me. “Is there something more you require, Dr. Eaton?”

“No. I’ve got what I came for.” I glower down at her. “You’re good, Mr. Carter. One of the best, I’m sure. But this is over. Whatever you want, you won’t get it. Have a nice life, Ms. Carter. What’s left of it.”

She stares at me, silent for a moment. Then she sighs. “Don’t concern yourself with me, Dr. Eaton. I’ll be around, doing what I do. After all, someone must stay wide awake against the dark.”

I spare her one last look, not sure whether I feel disgust or pity, knowing what’s in store for her. I turn and stride away, back down those nice hallways and out into the cool evening air.

Night has fallen, and I walk across the dark, empty lot to my car. Climbing in, I start the engine, and drive away from the clinic, eager to be anywhere else.

I’m still unsettled, furious that anyone would try something like that on me and think to get away with it. And her flimsy charade about seeing dreams and manipulating them…. None of it made sense.

Would I know if I was dreaming or not? What a stupid question. Of course I would. I bite my cheek. Then I take a hand off the wheel and pinch myself, hard. It hurts. There, the age-old test proves it.

Doesn’t it? Or would it still hurt in a dream?

“That’s a good question.” The voice comes from behind me. “But it’s not the one that matters most right now.”

My gaze darts to the rearview mirror. Beth Carter is sitting in the back seat, just as she sat in the interview room, calm and composed, meeting my astonished gaze evenly. My mouth does dry, and a cold prickle runs down my spine.

“What you should be asking yourself, Dr. Eaton, is exactly who’s in control of this dream.”

I can’t take my eyes away from hers, can’t look away, even as my car veers out of its lane, crosses the rumble strip, and plows into the railing. I feel a terrible, wrenching lurch, a massive impact, and see a bright flash of white light.

Then I realize I’m lying in my bed, in my home. Horrible pain courses through my chest as my heart pounds. Through the excruciating agony, I see Beth’s face, leaning close to mine.

“Sweet dreams, Dr. Eaton,” she whispers, just before the pain suddenly stops, and everything goes dark and silent.