TRANSCRIPT: SOMNARIUM. S.001 – The Hard Drive

Case of Jordan Miller, first seen by Dr. Susan Renwyck on October 14th, 2002 for sleep disturbance, recurring nightmares and a growing fear of public transit.

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INTRO

…Okay. Testing. One–two.

(pause)

Right. Sorry.

My name is Alex. But it doesn’t really matter who I am.

I work in IT — mostly infrastructure. Storage, servers, migrations… the unglamorous stuff that keeps places running.

A while back I was on a healthcare datacenter decommission. Long days, lots of dust, a lot of “yep, that’s still a server” and “nope, that one’s dead.” You pull gear out of racks, check serials, wipe what you can, and the rest goes into a bin to be destroyed.

Nothing unusual. Just end-of-day tired.

And then, right near the end, I noticed a loose hard drive in the pile that didn’t seem to belong. No asset tag, no label — just the manufacturer sticker and a serial number I couldn’t find anywhere in the inventory we’d been given.

I figured it was an oversight. It happens.

But someone had put a single strip of masking tape on it… and written one word in marker:

“SOMNARIUM.”

That’s it. No date. No initials. Just that.

I don’t know why it got under my skin the way it did. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even clever. It just felt… deliberate. Like it was meant to be found by whoever was curious enough to notice it.

So I took it home.

I started with the bare minimum–just enough to see if it would spin up and show anything without the system doing anything automatic. No prompts, no “scan and fix,” no indexing–nothing that writes back to the disk.

After that, I treated it like a recovery job. Slow reads, a few passes, pulling out whatever would answer without falling apart. I kept it on the original drive the whole time. Partly because I didn’t trust it… and partly because I needed to hear it working.

Most of it was corrupted. But a few folders came back intact, and yeah… they look like early-2000s clinical paperwork. Which isn’t shocking, given where it came from.

What kept me going was what the files were about.

The name that turns up across them is Dr. Susan Renwyck. The cases revolve around sleep — dream states and recurring nightmares, from what I’ve gathered from Dr. Renwyck’s notes the same details keep showing up in different places.

And the notes… they don’t read like someone doing admin. They read like someone quietly keeping track.

So that’s what this is.

I’m going to go through what I can salvage, file by file, and read it out for you–because it almost feels like it wants to be read.

Maybe that’s just me projecting. Maybe I’m just bored. Maybe I should get a hobby that doesn’t involve dead people’s paperwork and a questionable hard drive.

I could just upload the folders. But most of what I recovered isn’t… presentable. Half-pages. Missing headers. Text that breaks mid-sentence and comes back somewhere else. You’d spend more time fighting the files than hearing what they’re saying.

If I read it out, at least you get the parts that survived–cleanly. And I can stop it from turning into a public dump of names and addresses.

I will share the case files later, once I’ve redacted what needs redacting. But for now, this is the safest way to do it.

RECOVERY LOG

So far I’ve recovered one folder off the drive that’s readable enough to work with.

It looks like a patient folder — name, dates, the kind of structure you’d expect in a clinical archive. A lot of it is still corrupted, but there’s enough here to piece together a rough timeline.

Before I read anything: these are recovered clinical files. I’m leaving names as they appear in the archive, but I’m not including addresses, phone numbers, or anything that could identify a real person.

I’m going to put this in chronological order as best I can — intake first, then the patient’s sleep log, then Dr. Renwyck’s notes.
If something is missing or cuts off, I’ll mention it.

(pause)

This file belongs to Jordan Miller — first seen by Dr. Susan Renwyck on October 14th, 2002, for sleep disturbance, recurring nightmares, and a growing fear of public transit.

PATIENT APPLICATION

Case File of Jordan Miller, October 7th, 2002

Application for Consultation

Applicant: rdan Miller
Physician: Dr. Renwyck
Date: October 7th, 2002

Dr. Renwyck,

I’m writing because your office told me you don’t take new patients without a written account, and because I honestly don’t know what else to do at this point.

I’ve never been someone who had trouble sleeping. I can usually shut my eyes and be out in ten minutes. If I’m stressed, I get a little restless, sure, but it’s never been like this. For the last few weeks I’ve been waking up multiple times a night with my heart racing, and then going through the day like I’m slightly out of sync with everything around me. It’s starting to scare me.

The reason I’m specifically asking for you is because this doesn’t feel like “regular stress.” The dreams themselves are repetitive in a way I can’t explain, and the things that happen in them are starting to leak into the day.

It started after a normal week. Nothing dramatic — just work piling up, deadlines, commuting, the usual. One day I missed my train during my morning commute. Annoying, but it happens. Then after my shift I managed to miss my train home by seconds. It felt like such an insane coincidence that I just shrugged it off as bad luck.

That night I had the classic dream: running late for a train, checking the time, trying to force your body to move faster. I didn’t think much of it. Everyone has that dream.

But the next night it was the same station again.

I don’t mean “a station,” I mean the same place — same platform, same boards, same smell of metal and stale air — except it was wrong in small ways. The ceiling was too high. The lighting didn’t feel like lighting. The signs were almost readable, but every time I was about to make out what they said, the letters rearranged themselves. Like they didn’t want to be read. Like they wanted to mislead you.

By the third or fourth night, I stopped telling myself it was random.

There’s an information booth in the dream. There’s always an information booth. When I ask which platform I should go to, I don’t get a reply. The person inside the booth doesn’t speak. They just point — with this bony hand — toward the furthest platform.

And then there’s the voice. That voice gives me shivers just thinking about it.

It isn’t like an announcement on the station’s broadcasting system. When the two-tone chime comes in, the hair on the back of my neck stands up. But the thing is, it’s too close. Like someone leaning in to whisper into my ear.

The first time I heard it clearly, it said, “You’re late,” and I felt my entire body react to it like it had called my name. I turned around expecting to see a person, but nobody in the crowd acknowledged it. Everyone pretended they didn’t hear it. Like they were trying not to bring any attention to it.

After that, the dream started behaving like it was waiting for me to do something specific.

I know how that sounds. I know this reads like I’m trying to tell a story. I’m not. I’m writing it down because I’m tired of waking up shaking and then spending the entire day trying to convince myself I’m fine.

What happened after night four is what finally made me call.

I started hearing the little two-tone chime you get before an announcement — just the chime — in places where it doesn’t make sense. Once at work. Once at home. I’d freeze and look up, and nobody else reacted. It’s been happening more often these last few days.

Then it happened while I was waiting for my train.

I heard the two-tone chime and it put me on edge immediately, but for a second I was relieved when there was no voice.

And then I heard it, close to my ear:

“Jordan, you’re late.”

It said my name. My name. Like it knew exactly who I was.

I looked around to find the source and I couldn’t. I couldn’t even tell which direction it came from. I realized I had tears running down my face and I couldn’t stop them. People could see something was wrong, but they pretended not to. One guy stared very hard at an ad on the wall like it was the most interesting thing in the world. As soon as the doors opened, everyone got on.

After that I started checking the time constantly. I know it’s not helping. I can’t stop doing it. One of my colleagues even joked, “What’s wrong, Jordan, got a train to catch?” That comment made me feel sick.

There have been a few moments where I’ve been genuinely worried about safety. I nodded off at my desk last week. And twice now I’ve gotten off early and walked the rest of the way home because I couldn’t stand the idea of being on the train when that chime happened again.

I’m not trying to make this sound like something it isn’t. I’m just exhausted, and I’m starting to doubt my own perception.

Your assistant said that while you review my request, I should start a sleep diary–as detailed as I can manage–and to include anything in my daily routine that might contribute to poor sleep. I’ll keep it and bring it if you’re able to see me.

(pause)

SLEEP DIARY

Monday, October 7th, 2002

I finally did it. I contacted Dr. Renwyck, like Hannah suggested. It felt ridiculous typing it out–like the moment I put it into words, it would become real.

Her office said Dr. Renwyck only takes a limited number of cases, so they screen new requests first. They wouldn’t book anyone without a written account, so I sent one. I tried to keep it sensible. I tried not to make it sound like I was telling a ghost story.

They asked me to start a sleep diary tonight–dates, details, and anything in my routine that could contribute to poor sleep–so I can bring it if I’m accepted. So… here we go.

Last night was the station again.

I’m still not sure how to describe what’s wrong with it. If you saw a picture, you’d probably say it’s just a train station. But being there feels like standing in a place that’s pretending to be one. The lights flicker, but not randomly — slow, like they’re breathing. The boards keep changing when I look away, like they’re purposely trying to feed you false information.

I tried to leave. I found an EXIT sign and followed it up a stairwell. Halfway up, the angle shifted under my feet in a way that made my stomach drop. I grabbed the railing to steady myself. It was wet, and the paint was chipped–flaking off under my fingers.

When I got to the top, I was back on the platform again.

I woke up with my jaw sore from clenching.

For the rest of the day I was just tired and on edge. I made coffee twice and didn’t realize until the pot overflowed and started dripping down the counter. I checked the time more than I want to admit. Hannah said I seemed nervous. I told her I was just tired, but she didn’t look convinced.

Tuesday, October 8th, 2002

Same station again.

I tried to prove it was just a stress dream by paying attention to details, but the details don’t stay put. Posters change when I look away. Advertisements blur like wet ink. Even the floor tiles feel like they don’t line up properly, like the whole place was put together from memory.

I went straight to the information booth tonight.

Of the few things that are consistent, the information booth is one of them. It’s always there, tucked between two pillars like it’s been part of the station forever. The glass is cloudy and scratched up, and there’s a little slot at the bottom like you’re meant to pass something through.

The person inside didn’t look up when I approached. I couldn’t even tell if they were breathing. Their hands were resting on the counter, pale and dried out, skin pulled tight over the knuckles. When they moved, it was slow–like it took effort.

I asked which platform I was supposed to be on.

No reply. No expression. Just that bony finger lifting and pointing down the length of the station toward the furthest platform–the one where the lights flicker more.

There was a map pinned behind them. I leaned in to get a better look. The lines kept drifting, like they were trying to avoid being followed. The stop names changed when I focused on them. For a second the word HOME sat in the corner, clear and printed like it belonged there–then I blinked, and it was gone.

I turned to look down the platform, and that’s when the two-tone chime rang out.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t echo. It felt close enough that my shoulders tensed, like someone had just cleared their throat behind me.

I waited for the voice, but nothing came.

The crowd didn’t react. They just stood there, facing forward, pretending they weren’t listening.

A train arrived without sound. No rush of air, no wheels, no brakes–just suddenly there, doors open, lights on inside like it had been waiting.

Nobody moved.

I woke up before I could decide whether to get on.

For the rest of the day I felt off, like I was half a step behind everything. At work someone asked me a question and I realized I’d been staring at their mouth instead of listening.

In the break room, I heard the two-tone chime again. I actually held my breath waiting for a voice. Nobody else reacted. Someone kept talking about weekend plans like nothing happened.

On my commute home I caught myself watching the departure board too hard, like I was expecting the letters to move. When my train finally arrived, I got on and immediately checked the time, even though I wasn’t late for anything. Hannah asked what was wrong when I got home. I told her I was just tired.

Wednesday, October 9th, 2002

I thought writing my dreams down, like the intake instructions said, would help — make it feel more like a dream on paper. It doesn’t. If anything it’s only getting worse.

Same station last night. Same boards that won’t settle. Same fake crowd that’s always there, waiting for the train. I don’t hear them at all. No talking, no footsteps. When I look at them directly it’s like they’re… not quite people. Like someone put them there to fill space.

I tried not to run. I told myself I’d walk, I’d stay calm, I’d treat it like a normal commute. That lasted maybe thirty seconds.

The chime rang out while I was reading the board. Just the chime. I waited for the voice, but it didn’t come this time. That somehow made it worse.

I don’t know why I did it, but I walked toward the far platform — the one the booth attendant keeps pointing at. The lights are dimmer down there and the air feels older. The whole end of the station feels wrong, like I’m not meant to be there. I went anyway.

Halfway along, I noticed someone moving against the flow. A man in a uniform. Not modern. A cap, polished shoes, like he belonged to a different decade. He walked calmly, like he wasn’t late for anything.

He paused, pulled out a pocket watch, checked the time, and put it away again like it mattered. The crowd opened up for him without anyone saying a word. Like they were making room out of habit.

I kept watching him until he turned and started walking straight toward me. And then he looked right at me.

[DATA CORRUPTION / UNREADABLE]

After this point the file is corrupted. I can’t recover full sentences — the only word I can still read clearly is “HOME.”

Entries for October 10th until October 12th are present but entirely unreadable.

Sunday, October 13th, 2002

The pages for the last few nights are a mess. I remember writing them. I remember sitting here, pen in hand, trying to pin it down before it slipped away. But when I look at the diary now, I can’t remember what I wrote. I’m just so tired now, I’m feeling tired all the time.

Last night was the station again. Of course it was, why would I expect anything else at this point?

I don’t remember the beginning as clearly as I should. I remember the feeling of it, though — that constant pressure in my chest like I’m already late for something important, even when nothing is happening yet.

I remember the far platform. I remember forcing myself to go there again, because avoiding it was starting to feel like the whole point. The lights were dimmer, and the air down there had that stale underground smell that gets into your clothes.

The crowd was there. Quiet. Still. They weren’t looking at the boards so much as they were waiting for them to tell them what to do.

The two-tone chime sounded once.

I didn’t turn around. I didn’t look for the voice.

I just said it. I said, “Home.”

I don’t know why I said it. It didn’t feel like a decision. It felt like answering a question I’d already been asked.

I remember a train arriving without sound. I remember doors opening. I remember that clean, bright platform again — the one that looks safe — and the way my body wanted to step off it just to end the feeling.

I didn’t.

At least, I don’t think I did.

I woke up before I could be sure.

Today I checked my watch so many times my wrist actually hurts. Hannah asked me what I’m doing and I told her I’m trying not to be late. She asked, “Late for what?” and I couldn’t answer. I got annoyed at her for asking, like she was missing something obvious.

My appointment with Dr. Renwyck is tomorrow. I hope she can help me, I just want to sleep and not have this nightmare.

I’m so tired.

Patient Record Addendum — Jordan Miller

Jordan attended an initial consultation on October 14th, 2002. He immediately apologized for being late, disregarding the fact that we started our consultation 5 minutes before the scheduled time. He presented as exhausted but coherent, and was notably preoccupied with timing and transit, even when describing unrelated parts of his day.

The written account he provided is unusually structured for an anxiety-related nightmare report. The repetition is consistent, and the patient describes the same sequence of decisions across multiple nights, with a clear increase in waking intrusions: brief auditory phenomena, compulsive time-checking, and episodes of dissociation during routine tasks.

At the time of the appointment, I could not confirm whether the “announcement voice” represented a primary psychotic symptom, a sleep-related hallucination, or a stress response complicated by sleep deprivation. My working assumption was that sleep loss was amplifying anxiety and perceptual distortion, and that immediate stabilization of sleep would reduce the intensity of the experiences.

I advised a strict sleep schedule, reduction of caffeine, and a temporary pause on driving during periods of drowsiness. I asked the patient to continue the diary for one additional week and to contact my office sooner if the waking intrusions escalated or if they felt unsafe.

A follow-up was scheduled for October 21st, 2002, which Jordan did not attend. My office attempted to reach him by phone that day and again the following morning without success. On October 22nd, I called the home number listed on intake. The call was answered by Hannah Parker, who identified herself as his partner.

Ms. Parker informed me that Jordan died on October 20th, after stepping in front of an incoming train. She stated that police were treating the death as a suicide. When I asked for context, she said he had been increasingly distressed in the days prior, and that an officer mentioned platform CCTV showed him repeatedly looking over his shoulder and scanning the platform as if he believed someone was behind him.

Jordan had agreed to continue the diary for the week following our initial consultation. Ms. Parker told me that the notebook was not recovered among his belongings after his death. As a result, I have no written account of the days immediately preceding the incident beyond what Ms. Parker was able to report secondhand.

I have no further clinical observations to add. Jordan did not describe a specific plan during our initial consultation, and he denied intent to harm himself at that time. In retrospect, the combination of sleep deprivation, escalating perceptual intrusions, and fixation on transit represented a higher risk than it appeared in the room.

File closed.

NO FURTHER MATERIAL RECOVERED.

SHOW OUTRO PLAYS