r/NoSleep - The Harold Wallace Interviews - The Finale

This latest session is our last. I don’t know if the...patient really was who he said he was. It was Harold Wallace’s body, but his mind….I’m no longer sure. This will be my final update to Reddit. I have to go dark. They know me, now. They will find me, but it is less certain if I’m on the run.

It had been about a week since my last session with Harold. He was scheduled for the day that I had my missing time experience, but I was too shaken to meet with him. I needed time to figure out what I was going to tell him, if anything. During that lag between my missing time and our next meeting, I was terribly sick. I had a throbbing migraine for the entirety of one day, and the next it was gone. I had bloody shits. My body was sore, more sore than I’ve ever been in my life, and I dumped my motorcycle and rolled a hundred feet down the road in my youth. I had dark circles under my eyes.


I’m not sure I slept in those several days.


Harold came into my office. He was not the same man that I remembered. He was bald, for starters. Where once he’d had curly, reddish hair, now was an angry red pate. He looked feverish, indeed, shivered more than once while we exchanged small talk. He was thinner, too. His bones were more sharply defined than before.


I poured us both a stiff drink and set it in front of him. Harold didn’t take his glass.


“What happened?” I asked him. He shuddered.


“They came. They took me.”


“They shaved your head?” I asked. Harold suppressed a dry heave.


“Put me under.”


“Harold, I think -”


“Put. Me. Under,” he said. His eyes were wild, horribly bloodshot, like staring at a pair of living coals.


He was in a hypnotic state almost from the time I started to speak to him. My gut twisted, something warned me, some animal instinct, not to do it, but I did it anyway.


“You’re totally relaxed now, Harold. What happened? When did they take you?”


“Dr. Bishop,” said Harold. Instead of his dream-like, meandering voice, the voice that came out of him was clipped, high, and...chittery. Almost insect like. Dread took my heart, made it beat a terrified staccato.


“We know you now. You’ve been interfering with our test subject. No longer. You are a new subject for us.”


“Who...who is *us*?”


Harold moaned in pain.


“He cannot answer you anymore, Dr. Bishop. He learned obedience in his last visit.”


Tears were streaming down Harold’s face, and when his mouth wasn’t forming the words of that alien voice, it was open in a silent, horrific scream.


“What do you want?” I asked.


“We seek knowledge.”


“What knowledge?”


“Beyond your understanding.”


“Why are you doing this? Why us? Why him?”


Harold’s mouth worked for a moment.


“His number came up. He was chosen.”


“You...picked him at random?”


“Random is the correct word, though who can say in such a vast universe.”


I shuddered.


“Now, doctor. You will be taught obedience.”


I jumped out of my chair. Harold turned his head to look at me, his mouth opening and close like a fish, his eyes wide and blood streaming from his nose and the corners of his eyes. He stood and started to walk towards me, his mouth still open in that terrible silent scream. I ran to the door of my office but found it completely stuck. The handle wouldn’t even turn. A white light shown through the bottom.


I turned to try my single window but Harold was right behind me. He lifted his arms and placed his hands behind his head. I saw now he had angry, red scars furrowing his skin with jagged edges and regular pockmarks from where the skin had been stapled closed. He dug at the skin at the back of his head.


I heard a low humming noise from behind my office door, and now the window was lit up as well. Bright light shone all around the door, bright white light, powerful, blinding even though I wasn’t facing it.


A blast of wind threw everything in my office into disarray, paper, pens, books flying to the floor and smashing against the walls. Harold pulled his hands forward and peeled the flesh down from his face.


I screamed and screamed, my voice lost in howling wind and the humming from behind my door that turned into a high-pitched whine that pierced my skull. I fell to my knees, holding my ears, feeling my own hot blood coursing down my wrists.


Harold leaned down, a grinning, bloody skull in my face, the eyes horribly wide no longer hidden behind their lids seemed to bulge at me and the muscles and teeth showed in a rictus grin. He held his face in his hands, like he was about to put on a Halloween mask, and I saw embedded in the glistening flesh of the skull silver lines stretched around like an intricate web.


As I watched, as I screamed, the lines slithered and lifted themselves out of the flesh of his skull and lifted a small silver body with sharp little legs, some kind of implant. The door behind me opened, and I heard a terrible whining sound, then, vibration at the base of my own skull. Pain flooded my body.


Though my ear drums were certainly burst from the noise, I heard a voice. Perhaps it was in my head.


“They told me not to tell, Doctor Bishop. I didn’t follow the rules.”


The vision of Harold pulling the skin back over his bloody flesh was the last thing I saw amidst the howling wind and terrible, grinding vibration at the back of my head.


I woke up.


I am sitting my office. According to my watch, to my phone, I’ve lost a day. A whole day that I don’t remember. I’ve checked my body for marks, for anything, but there are none. I had a slight headache. My neck was sore.


I reached to feel the back of my neck and my hands were shaking terribly, but still I felt the skin. Some tacky wetness.


I looked at my hand and saw a small smear of old blood. My office smelled of burned cinnamon and antiseptic.


I don’t know what my future holds now, but I learned something, a terrible truth:


I have no control over my life. I helped Harold Wallace see who, or what, was holding him, what terrified him. When I look at security footage of my sleep it’s troubled. I toss, and turn. Sometimes I scream for hours. I don’t remember any of it. Sometimes there’s a white light, and then I am not in my own bed anymore.


They told *him* not to look, but *I* was the one who should have listened.

Jeff Hewitt