r/NoSleep - The Harold Wallace Interviews - Session 11

 

The sessions continue with Harold Wallace. I’ve started referring my other patients out to my colleagues. I have to focus completely on Harold’s case. There are many moving parts, many players.

 

I no longer trust my transcriptionist. From now on, I will be writing these updates in a narrative format from my notes. I think this will aid in your understanding, but it also removes another party who is privy to these details. Her eye wandered during the transcription process. I caught her staring at me more than once, her hands moving on the keyboard, but her eyes always focused on me. I almost felt them inside me, her eyes. I had to let her go.

 

A van was parked across the street when I got home today. It hasn’t left that spot since I’ve gotten home. That was five hours ago. It’s just a plain white van. There’s no company logo or anything. I thought about looking at the license plate, but decided not to leave the house. Not yet.

 

*They* may be watching.

 

Session 11

 

I welcomed Harold into my office as usual. He’s now my only patient. We’re working closely together to find out more information about the night terrors he  was previously experiencing, and now, several, even numerous, episodes of missing time he’s experienced throughout his life.

 

We’ve been identifying places where the missing time has occurred. Today is the first day we tried to retrieve such an episode.

 

“Go ahead and lay down Harry, and we’ll get started,” I said. Harold said nothing, but sank onto the couch we use for hypnotic sessions and laid back.

 

I walked him through the hypnotic process, though by now it was old hat for both of us. Hypnosis is quite simple. You help someone relax and then lead them into a somewhat altered state in which you bring the subconscious to the front and let it lead the way. As I’d said in a previous session with Harold, we compartmentalize things that we don’t want to think about. Do it enough, and you forget.

 

But compartmentalizing only works on the conscious mind. You cannot hide from what lies beneath the waking surface.

 

We entered the “blank space,” the quiet where we started our sessions.

 

“Harold, we’re going back to that time when you were young, when you first experienced missing time. You remembered playing a game on your PlayStation.”

 

“I remember,” he said.

 

“Tell me again. What happened?”

 

“I was Jill in Resident Evil. I was walking around a table. And then I woke up.”

 

“You fell asleep at some point?” I said. Harold grimaced, his lips pulling away from his teeth.

 

“Yes.”

 

“I don’t think that’s true. Did something else happen, Harold?”

 

“No. No, I fell asleep.”

 

“Playing a game?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Harold, search deep. Think hard. What really happened?”

 

Harold grimaced again, his face rigid. His hands were drawn up into claws and he dug them into his pants. He yelled out, and his back arched.

 

“They’re here! They’re going to take me again! Help me. Help me!”

 

He writhed on the couch and clawed at his chest. His feet kicked and he looked as if he was struggling for his life.

 

“It’s okay Harold, this is just a memory. Let it come. Don’t fight. No one can hurt you right now.”

 

“They’re here! They’re here. They’re here.”

 

He repeated this over and over, going from a shriek to a quiet whispering voice.

 

“What do you see, Harold?”

 

His voice sounded mechanical and low.

 

“They’re here. First comes the light into the room.”

 

“What light?”

 

“It’s blue. Blue light.”

 

“Okay, and then what?”

 

“They’re in the room. First it was empty but now they are here.”

 

“What do they look like Harold?”

 

He moaned.

 

“They’re short. Short as me. Smooth skin. What are you doing? Why are you touching me?”

 

“They’re short. What about their faces?”

 

“They’re weird. Blank. Eyes are big and black, kinda round, kinda square. A rounded square.”

 

“Do you see a nose or mouth?”

 

“They’re kind combined. Like a short trunk.”

 

“What are they wearing?”

 

“I….I don’t see any clothes. Just smooth skin.”

 

“What color is their skin?”

 

“I can’t tell because of the blue...hey, what are you doing? Stop it!”

 

“You can’t feel pain Harold, it’s just a memory. What do you see?”

 

“One of them has come up and has a thing next to my head.”

 

“Can you see the thing?”
 

“Yes. Ow. Owwwww. I don’t like it. It feels like my head is vibrating.”

 

“What are they holding next to you?”

 

“It’s metal. Shiny. Silver? It’s like the end of a broom handle but short. At the end is a bunch of metal fuzz. Like steel wool. He’s holding it against my temple. It hurrrrrrts.”

 

“Remember it’s just a memory. You can’t feel any pain, not really. Look around the room. What else do you see?”

 

“There are two other men standing next to my bed. They’re watching the third man with his rod. It hurts less now. It feels like something warm is in my brain. There’s….there’s another man…”

 

“Where is he?”

 

“He’s in the hallway.”

 

“What’s he doing?”

 

“Daddy...daddy’s there with him. No, nooooooooooo-” Harold let out the last “no” in a low moan. It sounded more animal than person, a visceral reaction of utter terror.

 

Harold had grown still on the couch while he was talking about the man with the device. Now he shook his head back and forth and began thrashing his arms and legs.

 

“They have Daddy… They’re hurting him!”

 

“What are they doing?”

 

“NO NO NO NO NO-”

 

“Harold, listen! Listen to me! This is a memory. You’ll be okay. Tell me what you see.”

 

Harold moaned and choked back a sob.

 

“Daddy is up against the wall. His shirt is off. His mouth is open and his head is leaning back. His eyes are open but they’re all white...all white. There’s a man standing next to him. He’s got a thin thing...a little tool. It’s like a plastic rope. It’s inside Daddy’s belly button. It looks like the man is pushing it into Daddy’s stomach. It keeps going. Daddy’s shaking his head like he’s trying to say no but he’s not moving.”

 

“Do you see anything else? What are the other men doing?”

 

“They’re talking to each other. But their mouths aren’t moving. How can they talk when their mouths don’t move?”

 

“Are you hearing them talk?”

 

“Yes...but it’s kinda in my head. Like I can hear my voice in my head, too.”

 

“Are they talking to you?”

 

“They’re saying it’s okay. It’s okay. They chose me, so they’ll keep me safe.”

 

“What happens next?”

 

“It looks like...they’re arguing? The man with the rod took it away from my head, and another man is here now. He’s...different than the others. He’s telling them to ‘Do it. Do the next test.’ And another one is saying I’m not ready. The new man yells at them. It hurts! It hurts my head!”

 

“What does he look like? Does the new man look different?”

 

“Yes. He looks like a regular person. He’s wearing a suit. He’s telling them to take me. Please...please let me stay in my bed. You said I could stay in my bed if I was good.”

 

“What happens? Stay focused, you can do this.”

 

“I’m flying. Flying through the air behind them. The men are arguing and I’m going down a hallway. I hear screaming. Who’s screaming? A man touches my forehead and it goes dark. I’m in a chair. I feel something...something… There’s a man behind me. He says he’s sorry. It won’t hurt he says, but...something...he says it won’t hurt but he’s lying. Like he can’t tell me a lie. Like I can *feel* that he’s lying. I feel...it’s on my back. It’s on my back. IT HURTS OH MOMMY IT HURRRRRTS-”

 

Once again his body arched into a painful height. I can’t imagine how powerful the contraction had to be for his body to strain as it was. His bones and tendons creaked. He began screaming at this point in the session, loud animal screams like he had a leg caught in a trap or he was being eaten alive. The screaming turned into a screech, and then a choked silence in which I couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not.

 

I ran to his side and clapped twice right next to his ear.

 

“You’re done! You’re out. You’re in the blank space and you’re safe, Harold.”

 

His body collapsed onto the couch. Harold was crying wildly, tears flowing down his face. Spittle dribbled from his lips. I reached out to touch him, to try and comfort him, but he rolled over away from me and hid his head under his arms. This action pulled up his shirt, and revealed his spine.

 

I knelt beside my patient and looked at his back, stunned.

 

There was a perfect row of round pockmarks in his back, running up his spine from just above his waistline to the back of his neck.

 

“Harold. Can you talk to me?”

 

“What do you want?” he sniffled.

 

“How long have you had these marks on your back?”

 

“What marks?” he said. I grabbed my phone and snapped a picture. I wanted to touch the marks but I didn’t dare, not in the state that Harold was in. He rolled over after he heard the shutter sound effect.

 

I held the phone up to him.

 

“I don’t see it,” he said, after a long look at the screen.

 

“You don’t see marks all up and down your spine?”

 

Something in his face twisted. Something terrified.

 

“No. It’s just a picture of my back. Please delete it, doctor.”

 

“Okay, I will,”  I said. I made a show of it, but I didn’t actually delete the photo. I knew it was important to the rest of this.

 

I stood and got a glass of water for Harold, who was now sitting on the couch with his head in his hands. I offered him the drink and he took it. I sat back in my chair.

 

“Do you remember the missing time now?”

 

He nodded.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

 

He shook his head.

 

“How are you feeling?” I said.

 

He looked up at me, his eyes wide, bloodshot, and crazed.

 

“Used up. Like a condom. Just like a condom,” he said. I knew I was going to have to unpack that statement later.

 

“Are you feeling any urge to harm yourself or others?” I asked.

 

He shook his head.

 

“Will you promise to call me if you do feel such an urge?” I asked.

 

He nodded.

 

“Take all the time you need, Harold,” I said. We waited in my office for a long time.

 

“If this is it looks like, Dr. Bishop,” he said suddenly. “Where does that leave us?”

 

“Knowing more than we used to,” I said.

 

“What use is knowing?”

 

“It gives us a place to start.”

 

“You asked earlier if I had an urge to hurt myself or others,” he said.

 

“Yes.”

 

He looked up at me, and I was surprised to see his look of intense determination.

 

“I want to kill the fuckers that took me. That hurt my family.”

 

I thought for a long moment.

 

“We have to figure out who they are,” I said. “And then we can bring them to justice.” 

Jeff Hewitt