TRANSCRIPT: SOMNARIUM. S.005 – Don’t look

Case of Reginald “Reggie” Anderson. First seen by Dr. Susan Renwyck on March 26th, 2001 for recurrent sleep paralysis, worsening nightmares, and an escalating sense of a presence watching him on the night shift.

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S.005 – Don’t Look

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INTRO

All of these weird cases have been getting to me. I’ve been sleeping badly all week.

And I’ve had this… weird dream.

I’m sitting right here at my desk, working on the hard drive. On my screen there’s an empty text file. Nothing in it. Just the cursor blinking, over and over.

The filename is DONT_LOOK.txt.

And then I wake up.

It’s just… strange. Not creepy. No shadows in the corner. No monsters in the closet. Just me, staring at a blinking line like it’s trying to say something back.

Anyway… curiosity won’t let me quit. So I’m going to keep going.

This case has been a real struggle to put together. There’s so much partial data, and it’s spread out over years.

Worst part is… some of it isn’t even dated.

But I think I’ve got the narrative.

So… security guy… mid-50s… decades of rotating schedules. Life-long history of sleep paralysis episodes. Started when he was a kid and followed him for his entire life.

PATIENT APPLICATION

Patient: Reginald Anderson
Date: March 12th, 2001
Referral: coworker recommendation; previously treated by Dr. Renwyck

Dear Dr. Renwyck,

I’m writing in the hope of getting an appointment. One of my coworkers, Stan Kaplan, recommended I contact your office. He saw you after what he called “the warehouse incident,” and he told me you helped him get his footing back.

I’ve worked security most of my life, and I’m used to long nights and empty buildings. But lately I’ve been struggling to sleep after my shifts.

I’ve had sleep paralysis since I was a kid. I’m not new to it. I know the drill — wake up, can’t move, wait it out, pretend it didn’t get to me.

The problem is the feeling that comes with it. The sense that I’m not alone. Not a nightmare, not a thought — something in the room with me, close enough that I can almost hear it breathe.

And when it happens, I can’t stop my eyes from drifting to the same places. The door. The closet. The end of the bed. I tell myself not to look for anything, but the need to know is there every time.

It’s been a few years since I last had episodes. It usually flares up during long stretches of graveyard shifts, when my sleep gets chopped up and I’m running on fumes.

This time it started again after an incident on my first night at the art gallery I was assigned to.

I reported to the art gallery at 11:30 p.m., like I’d been told. The evening guard let me in, checked my credentials, and handed me a keycard — plus a backup set of keys, “just in case the card acts up.”

He showed me the security office, walked me through the CCTV. Standard setup. Nothing I hadn’t seen before.

Then he took me around the building and showed me the route I was supposed to walk every two hours. Doors, stairwells, emergency exits — the usual.

Last stop was the coffee machine. He clapped me on the shoulder, said I was all set, and left me alone with the lights and the cameras.

The first half of the night went exactly as expected — dark, empty, and nothing out of the ordinary to report.

I did my first round at two. My second at four. Same doors. Same hallways. Same silence.

When I got back from the second round, I stopped at the coffee machine for a fresh cup, then went back to the security office. Put my feet up. Settled in.

And I went back to watching the monitors.

It wasn’t long after that when I caught movement on one of the monitors.

I sat up straight, set my coffee down, and leaned in. I wasn’t imagining it. Someone was in the building.

I hit the panic button, grabbed my flashlight, and headed out.

Back of the lobby. Corridor on the left.

I turned the corner, raised my flashlight toward the far end of the hall, and called out.

“Security. Identify yourself.“

I moved slowly, sweeping the beam across the floor and up the walls, waiting for a person to step into the light.

Nothing.

Just the hum of the building… and a soft scratching sound I couldn’t place at first.

Then something bolted across the corridor — low to the ground, too fast to be a man. The flashlight caught it for half a second: a raccoon. Maybe a stray cat. Dark fur, bright eyes, gone before my brain could finish the thought.

I stood there feeling stupid, heart thumping like I’d actually been in danger.

And then — because I’d already hit it — the silent alarm did what it’s supposed to do.

A few minutes later I saw the lights outside through the lobby glass. Not one car. Two. Police, with the contracted response supervisor.

They didn’t burst in like a movie. They came in controlled and annoyed, hands near their belts. They asked for my name, my badge, why the alarm went off. I tried to explain what I’d seen on the monitor.

One of them walked the corridor with me. Found a service door that didn’t latch properly. A gap just big enough for something small to squeeze through.

The other one looked back at me like I’d wasted his entire night.

“An animal,” he said. Flat. Like a verdict.

They cleared the building, told me to reset, and left. And when the door shut behind them, the gallery felt even emptier than it had before — like it was quietly judging me for panicking in the dark on my first shift.

After that, I couldn’t stop checking. The monitors. The service door. The same corner of the hallway. Like if I watched it hard enough, I could catch it being real.

I went back to the security office and rewound the footage. Once. Twice. Three times.

By the fourth replay, I wasn’t even looking for the animal anymore.

I was trying to prove I hadn’t imagined the shape that made me hit the alarm in the first place.

When I got home after that shift, I had an episode.

I woke up to that same scratching sound I’d heard in the gallery — only this time it was coming from behind my bedroom door.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

I felt it immediately. The room wasn’t empty.

There was someone — no. Something — in there with me.

After that, it got worse — night after night.

I wake up and I can’t move. Not a finger. Not my jaw. Just my eyes.

And I hear that scratching again.

I keep my gaze fixed on the door, because it feels like something is about to push it open any second… like I’m waiting for the moment it decides to come in.

Please, Dr. Renwyck… I’ve tried all the usual tricks to break out of it — the ones you learn when you’ve been dealing with this your whole life.

But it’s getting harder to fight every night.

Sincerely,

Reginald Anderson

CONSULTATION NOTE

Patient: Reginald “Reggie” Anderson
Date: March 26th, 2001
Reason for visit: Recurrent sleep paralysis; sleep disruption and escalating sense of presence

Mr. Anderson describes a lifelong pattern of sleep paralysis that comes and goes, with long quiet stretches and then clusters of episodes when his sleep is disrupted. He works security and has spent years rotating between day and night schedules. The current flare began after his first night assignment at an art gallery, where he triggered a response after misreading movement on CCTV. Although the incident was resolved as an animal and a faulty service door, he has been unable to shake the feeling of being watched, and he reports that he has been sleeping poorly since.

Since that night he has experienced frequent episodes of waking unable to move, accompanied by intense dread and a strong sense that something else is in the room. He is not describing a typical nightmare sequence so much as a waking awareness paired with immobility. During episodes his attention repeatedly drifts to the bedroom door, the closet, and the end of the bed, and he feels worse when he tries to confirm what is there. He reports he has managed similar episodes in the past but feels this cluster is escalating.

The working impression is that this is a recurrence of sleep paralysis driven by a combination of shift-work sleep disruption, recent stress, and heightened monitoring behaviors after the gallery incident. The “presence” sensation is treated as a common feature of paralysis that grows stronger when fear and vigilance feed it, and the repeated urge to check the room is likely maintaining the cycle.

Treatment is focused on reducing the triggers and breaking the reinforcement loop. Mr. Anderson is advised to keep a consistent sleep window during night-shift stretches and avoid abrupt schedule flips when possible, to limit caffeine late in the shift, and to avoid reviewing CCTV or replaying the incident before bed. He is also advised to change sleep position and avoid sleeping flat on his back, as this can worsen episodes for some people. During an episode, the key instruction is not to engage with the experience: not to scan the room, not to “test” for movement, and not to force a look toward the perceived threat. Instead, he should fix his attention on a neutral anchor such as slow counted breathing or a small internal cue and allow the episode to pass without attempting to confirm what is present. He is asked to keep a brief diary of sleep timing, episodes, and obvious triggers, and to return for follow-up to review patterns and adjust the plan.

Finally, I recommended Mr. Anderson request a temporary transfer to a day-shift assignment if possible. Continued night work is likely worsening his sleep debt and keeping this cycle active. I also suggested a simple pre-sleep routine that gives his brain a clear “end of threat-checking” signal. If he chooses to lock his bedroom door, he should do it once as part of that routine and then leave it alone, treating it as a reminder that the room is secure and that any perceived presence during an episode is a sleep-paralysis hallucination rather than something to be verified.

SLEEP DIARY

Unfortunately the sleep diary for Reggie is severely corrupted and is missing a lot of pages. This is highly likely due to the extensive amount of pages present, as the diary goes on for nearly a year.

March 27th, 2001

First night after seeing Dr. Renwyck. I locked the bedroom door before bed like she suggested. It felt childish, like I was trying to keep out something that isn’t real, but I did it anyway.

I slept for maybe an hour before it happened. Woke up on my back, eyes open, body gone dead. The scratching started behind the door, slow and patient, like nails on wood. I stared at the handle and waited for it to turn. It didn’t.

I tried not to fight, but I could feel myself trying to “test” my fingers and jaw. I counted my breathing instead. Took a long time to come back.

I’m going to request that transfer to a daytime shift tomorrow.

March 30th, 2001

Two episodes tonight. The first was around 2:00 a.m. and the second was close to morning. Both started the same way: awake too fast, like someone flipped a switch.

The room looked sharper than it should, like the darkness had edges. The scratching came and went. The worst part was the certainty that I wasn’t alone, even though I couldn’t see anything.

I locked the door before bed and kept my hands away from it when I woke up. I could feel the urge to check if it was still locked, like that would prove something.

I’m going to install an additional padlock on my bedroom door tomorrow, and then I’m sure nothing can get in.

April 5th, 2001

No paralysis. I still woke up once, heart hammering, convinced I heard the scratch again. I lay there and listened. Nothing but the house settling and the radiator ticking.

I realized my eyes were already on the door before I even decided to look there. I stayed still and let the feeling burn out on its own. Fell back asleep eventually.

April 12th, 2001

Episode. Shorter than last week.

I woke up frozen and the scratching was faint, almost like it was in the hallway instead of right behind the door. I didn’t look at the handle. I kept my eyes on the ceiling and picked a spot to stare at.

I counted slowly like she told me. It felt like ignoring a fire alarm on purpose, like my body was screaming at me to check and I refused.

April 23rd, 2001

Follow-up with Dr. Renwyck today.

I told her I still get that pull to look, to confirm where it is, even when I know I can’t move. She said the pull is part of the loop and that giving in to it teaches my brain there’s something worth watching.

She asked about work and if I had requested a day assignment already. I told her I did and that I’d be starting the day shift on the 1st of May.

She was happy to hear I was able to get a transfer to the day shift and she’s sure that my episodes will diminish severely after making this change.

May 3rd, 2001

Started days this week. First normal bedtime in a long time. The change is immediate. I actually feel sleepy when I get into bed instead of wired.

Locked the door and went straight to sleep. No episode. I woke up once around 3:00 a.m. out of habit and waited for the dread. It didn’t come.

May 18th, 2001

One episode, first in weeks. Long day, and I nodded off on the couch after dinner. Woke up later in bed and didn’t remember moving there.

That alone put me on edge. The paralysis hit, but it was brief, maybe ten seconds. No scratching this time. The “presence” was still there, right up close, but I kept my eyes shut and focused on my breathing until I could move.

Afterwards I checked the time and sat up for a while, annoyed more than scared.

June 9th, 2001

Nothing in a while. I’m sleeping through most nights. Locking the door has become routine.

One turn and a click of the padlock and done. I don’t stand there listening. I don’t test it.

I’ve noticed I’m less jumpy during the day too. When I think about the gallery, the embarrassment is still there, but it doesn’t turn into dread anymore.

July 2nd, 2001

Appointment with Dr. Renwyck.

She asked what changed besides the schedule. I told her the biggest difference is I stopped trying to confirm something’s there. I don’t give it attention anymore. I don’t check the room. I let the feeling pass, and then I get on with my day.

She warned me not to turn the door into a ritual with extra steps. Lock it once, lights out, no checking. She also told me not to dwell on the gallery too much anymore. Close that chapter of your life, she said.

September 14th, 2001

Had a bad dream about work. Woke up sweating and for a second the old dread rushed in, like the room was full of someone else’s breath. No paralysis. I didn’t move. I kept my eyes off the door and listened until the feeling backed off.

I had already locked the door and I was sure of it, no need to check. Eventually I fell asleep again.

December 31st, 2001

I’m writing this before I go to bed. Fireworks have already started outside and the whole neighborhood sounds restless.

A few months ago I would’ve been sure a night like this would set me off. Too much noise. Too little sleep. The kind of thing that used to drag it back.

But it hasn’t. Not in a long time.

I’m staying on days. I’m keeping the routine simple. I lock the door, I turn off the light, and I let the night be just a night.

Whatever that was, whatever I brought home from that gallery, I’m leaving it in 2001.

This will be my last entry for a while. Tomorrow I’ll send Dr. Renwyck some flowers. Not to tempt fate. Just to say thank you.

ADDENDUM – PERSONAL NOTE

Patient: Reginald “Reggie” Anderson
Date: January 3rd, 2002

Received flowers from Mr. Anderson with a brief thank-you note. He reports continued stability since transition to day shift and adherence to a simplified pre-sleep routine. No further paralysis episodes reported in recent months.

While I am encouraged by his progress, I remain cautious about framing this as “cured.” His history suggests episodic reocurrence, particularly with sleep disruption. He was previously prone to reassurance behaviors (monitoring and repeated checking) and should avoid adding steps to his bedtime routine beyond a single, consistent cue.

If symptoms return, plan is to resume diary briefly and focus again on non-engagement during episodes.

SLEEP DIARY

Nearly 3 years later

Monday, December 6th, 2004

I think I messed up…

I woke up in the middle of the night, unable to move. Dread hit immediately. It’s been years since I had an episode. But this time it felt… too real.

My eyes were already open. I could hear the scratching at the door.

And when the scratching suddenly stopped… the door handle turned.

Slowly, with a loud creak, my bedroom door crept open.

I didn’t lock the door.

My heart sank, and I couldn’t look away. I stared at the empty threshold. I couldn’t see anything, just… darkness, but The Presence was there. I could feel it.

How could I forget to lock the door? I’ve been locking it every single night for over three years. I slipped up once. Just once.

Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.

I tried to do what Dr. Renwyck taught me. I focused on my fingers, on my toes, on my breathing. Anything to break free from this immobilizing curse.

And when I finally could move again, I forced myself to roll onto my side, facing away from the door. Anything to break eye contact. Anything to stop checking.

And then…

[Whispers]
“Reggie…”
[Whispers closer]
[Sub thump]
“Look at me.”

My eyes snapped back toward the open doorway.

But… there was nothing there.

I sat there — I don’t know how long — staring at the open bedroom door that now just revealed my poorly lit hallway.

I didn’t sleep anymore after that. I sat on the edge of my bed until the sun came up.

Tuesday, December 7th, 2004

Locked the door tonight. Once. Hands off. Lights out. I kept repeating it to myself like a rule.

I woke up frozen again.

The scratching started soft, then stopped like it was listening.

Then I heard the lock.

A small metallic click, like the bolt slid back on its own.

Don’t look at it. Don’t look at it.

The handle moved down.

The door opened a few inches.

And The Presence stood there.

In the doorway. Exactly where my eyes wanted to go.

Pitch black. Too tall. Red eyes that didn’t blink.

I can’t look away.

I told myself The Presence wasn’t real. I told myself this is what happens when you fall back into old patterns and give it attention.

The paralysis broke and it was gone.

But the door was still open.

Wednesday, December 8th, 2004

Locked the door. I didn’t check it again. I forced my hands away from the knob and went to bed.

I woke up and I knew before I heard anything that it was going to happen again.

Scratch. Stop.

Click.

The handle went down.

The door opened wider.

And The Presence stepped inside the room. Just past the threshold. Like there was a line it couldn’t cross unless I watched it cross.

Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.

The red eyes were brighter tonight. Not like a flashlight. Like coals.

I thought about calling Dr. Renwyck in the morning. Then I stopped myself. What would I even say? That my sleep paralysis demon learned how to unlock doors?

It’s not real. It can’t be real.

Thursday, December 9th, 2004

No scratching tonight.

That almost tricked me into thinking I might sleep.

Then the lock clicked.

The handle moved down.

The door opened like someone was being careful not to wake the house.

The Presence was already halfway into the room.

I can’t look away. I can’t.

My eyes pinned to it. My body dead. My heart racing so hard it felt like it was pushing against my ribs.

Don’t look at it. Don’t look at it.

The red eyes didn’t blink. They just held me in place. Like just looking at them was pulling me further into its gaze.

When the paralysis broke, the door was closed again.

Locked.

I know it was. I heard it.

Friday, December 10th, 2004

Locked door. Same routine. I did everything right.

I woke up to the sound of the handle moving down.

No scratch. No warning.

The door opened and The Presence was at the edge of my bed.

Not touching me. Just there, close enough that I could feel the air change, like the room had shifted around it.

Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.

My eyes kept dragging back anyway.

I don’t remember it leaving.

I remember the paralysis breaking and realizing my throat hurt from trying to force a sound out.

Saturday, December 11th, 2004

The lock clicked again.

I felt the dread in my stomach before the door even moved.

The handle went down.

The door opened.

The Presence was at the foot of the bed.

I could feel the weight of it in my legs, like standing too close to something loud.

The mattress dipped once, like it tested whether I would react.

Don’t look at it.

I looked anyway. Not fully. Just enough.

The red eyes were closer. Too close.

When I could finally move, I yanked the covers up like that mattered.

The door was closed.

I did not get up to check the lock. I did not.

Sunday, December 12th, 2004

I made it through the day on coffee and anger and the promise that I’d call Dr. Renwyck on Monday if it happened again. If it was still happening in the cold light of day.

Because right now, I don’t know what I believe.

Part of me is sure this is still sleep paralysis. Old fear wearing a new mask. Something my brain is doing to itself.

And part of me keeps thinking about the lock. The sound it makes when it opens.

Locks don’t open themselves.

I locked the door tonight. Once. I did not touch it again.

I went to bed telling myself, “Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.”

I woke up frozen and The Presence was already hovering over me.

Not at the doorway. Not inside the room. Not at the edge of the bed.

Above my chest. Close enough that the darkness felt warm.

I can’t look away.

The red eyes were so close I could see the shape of them, like they had depth.

It lowered its head.

And I realized it wasn’t faceless.

Something unfolded where its face should be.

Teeth.

Not like a human smile. Too many. Too thin. Layered like a trap.

Don’t look at it. Don’t look at it.

I looked anyway.

It opened its mouth slowly. It sounded wet, like it was salivating. Then it hissed at me, low and steady.

[Whispers]
“Look at me.”

And then the weight came down.

Not on my chest. In my chest. Like something pressing through me instead of onto me.

My heart was pounding so hard I thought it would burst.

And then, in the same instant, it stopped.

The paralysis broke.

I sat up gasping and my room was empty.

The door was closed.

I don’t remember closing it.

I don’t remember locking it.

I put my hand on my chest and I could feel my heartbeat again, but it felt wrong. Like it was too quiet. Too far away.

If this is just in my head, why does it feel like it can touch things?

I’m going to call Dr. Renwyck tomorrow.

I have to sleep, but I don’t know how.

PATIENT RECORD ADDENDUM

Patient: Reginald “Reggie” Anderson
Date: Tuesday, December 14th, 2004

Detective Raynor contacted me this morning. His first words were, “We got another one.” He asked if I would come down to the morgue and observe the autopsy.

Mr. Anderson was found in his bedroom with the door locked from the inside. All windows were closed. No sign of forced entry was reported. Mr. Anderson’s sleep diary was recovered on his nightstand.

Of note, Mr. Anderson repeatedly refers to the perceived figure as “The Presence,” consistently capitalized in his writing. This is not language he used in prior records. I am documenting it as a change in framing, and because the term appears to function as a proper name rather than a description.

Initial examination suggested chest trauma. There was notable bruising over the sternum and ribs, with suspicion of internal bleeding. Based on these findings, an autopsy was ordered.

During the autopsy, it was determined that Mr. Anderson’s heart was missing. There was no entry wound and no evidence of surgical intervention. No incision, no clean separation, no tool marks. The cavity where the heart should have been was empty. The absence did not present as a precise removal. It was consistent with force, more akin to something torn away than excised.

I asked the attending physician to notify me if any other findings were out of the ordinary, no matter how minor they might seem in isolation.

Of all the cases Detective Raynor has involved me in, this is the most peculiar to date. I am unaware of any scientific explanation for how the heart could be removed in this manner without an external wound or evidence of access.

It is disconcerting to consider that this may extend beyond hallucination and into measurable physical effect.

FILE CLOSED

CONCLUSION

That’s the last clean piece I have from Reggie’s file. Yet another “file closed.”

[Alex exhales]
It’s getting late. That’s all I have for today.

[single UI notification]

[Alex half-laughs, annoyed]
…What’s this?

[Pause]

DONT_LOOK.txt

Don’t look…?

[HDD seek / write begins]

[UI notification again]

[Alex quieter]
Don’t look.

[UI notification repeats, faster]

Okay. Okay, I get it. Shut up, you stupid piece of junk.

[UI notification, then another, overlapping]

[Alex, mumbling]
“Don’t look.”
“Don’t look.”
“Don’t look.”

[HDD activity grows louder]

[UI notifications stutter into a rapid burst]

[sudden STOP. Only HDD idle]

[door creak]

…What is going–

[Whispers in Alex’s voice]
“Don’t look…”
“Don’t look…”
“Don’t look…”

[The Presence whispers]
Alex.

[PAUSE. Whispers cut out completely.]

[Only HDD idle]

[The Presence whispers, aggressively]
Look at me.

[Half-beat]

[BRAAM]

[immediate HDD error]

[Alex – Sharp inhale, like being freed from being restrained]
What the fuck–

[Sound of cables moving around, thud on the desk]

[Alex in a panicked voice]
Nope. Nope. Nope.

[HDD spin down]

[Alex still audibly breathing]
What the hell… What was that…

OUTRO PLAYS