TRANSCRIPT: SOMNARIUM. S.019 – Trapped Inside The Walls
Case of Callum Rusk. First seen by Dr. Paul Moore on December 1st, 2015, for insomnia, recurring nightmares, and a growing fear that he was becoming trapped inside the structure he helped build.
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INTRO
[hdd spins up]
ALEX
Hmm… Okay, so.
Maddy’s been digging into Raynor’s whereabouts and any other relevant information she can find.
So far, she hasn’t located him yet.
What we do know right now, is that he was investigating BWF Construction specifically. Ever since the first case popped up, he’s been looking into them.
As far as I can tell, from Renwyck’s archive, the oldest mention of BWF Construction is in 2003. The case of Brian Whitman. Then from the context of the e-mails exchanged between Raynor and Renwyck we can assume that the IT guy who worked for an unnamed large construction company worked for them too.
MADDY
[from the other side of the room]
Is that the guy with the fear of elevators?
ALEX
Uhh, yeah. That’s right. Thomas Mitchell.
So, yeah. Raynor’s been on their tail for a very long time, but until May got evidence for him he was never able to take any action against them.
MADDY
[closer now]
And once he got that evidence, he conveniently retired.
ALEX
I know, I know. No coincidences.
They must’ve had something on him, to be able to force him into retirement.
[pause]
MADDY
Now we just need to figure out who “they” are.
ALEX
“They” might just be the Blackwell family and no one else.
MADDY
How are you so sure? They might not even be in charge.
ALEX
Who else could it be?
MADDY
I don’t know, but I do know that all of my digging has led nearly nowhere. Apart from what’s publicly disclosed, they are extremely secretive. We have no way to prove they’re the ones in charge, much less the only ones involved.
ALEX
Well I mean, their name is on the building…
Also, I was digging through the hard drive, trying to figure out what could actually lead us somewhere.
And then I found another file that mentions BWF Construction.
But this one is different.
Its timeline overlaps with another BWF Construction file.
MADDY
[surprised]
Oh? Which one?
ALEX
Marcus Hill. The concrete foreman.
MADDY
Wait, how is that possible?
ALEX
Just… listen.
[clears throat]
Case of Callum Rusk. First seen by Dr. Paul Moore on December 1st, 2015, for insomnia, recurring nightmares, and a growing fear that he was becoming trapped inside the structure he helped build.
PATIENT APPLICATION
Applicant: Callum Rusk
Date: November 25th, 2015
Referral: Dr. [REDACTED]
Dear Dr. Renwyck,
My doctor referred me to your office after I suffered a panic attack and developed insomnia due to an odd experience I had at work.
I call it odd, because I don’t know what else to call it without sounding insane.
I’m a construction worker. Interior walls and service corridors, mostly. We put up the plasterboard and hide all the ugly bits of a building.
For the last few weeks, I’ve been working on a BWF Construction site.
We were called in after a lot of the concrete work was already done. Our job was to put up the inner walls and prepare service access for the plumbing, wiring and whatever else they wanted hidden.
The lower levels were strange from the start. Not like haunted-strange or anything. Just badly designed.
Way too many narrow corridors. Too many dead ends. Walls placed where they shouldn’t. Access spaces that were technically perfectly usable but were just way too small.
We were joking that whoever drew up the plans for this place must have hated anyone who’d have to work here when the building was finished.
We worked a lot of overtime and late nights. BWF is notorious for paying ridiculous amounts of money to speed up their projects. And this one was no different.
The regular pay was already generous to say the least, but any additional overtime would be paid double, can you believe it?
I didn’t have to ask my guys twice, they immediately agreed.
Then one evening, must’ve been close to midnight, I heard what I thought was someone calling for help from within one of the service corridors.
Most, but not all, of the crew had left by then. I had stayed behind with two others to finish a section around one of the access panels. One of the supervisors had asked us to rush this section so a different crew could come in and do their thing.
I was inspecting part of the framework when I heard a voice.
Faint. Barely there.
At first I thought one of the guys had called out to me. I answered, but no one replied. Then I heard it again.
Closer this time.
“Help me.”
It came from behind the wall.
I told myself someone was messing with me. I mean, it had to be.
Then the voice said:
“I’m stuck.”
I leaned closer and put my ear near the opening.
The voice came again.
“I can’t find my way out.”
A shiver ran down my spine, and suddenly I was focused. I shone my flashlight inside. At first it looked like a normal service gap. Narrow, dusty, unfinished. The kind of space you close up and forget about.
Then I spotted what looked like a mistake one of my guys had made.
There was a gap between the framing and the concrete wall behind it. Small enough to miss at a glance, but just wide enough for a person to squeeze through.
I hurried over, shone my flashlight into the gap, and called out.
“Hello?”
“Please,” the voice replied.
I should’ve gone for help at that point.
Instead, I went in.
The first few feet were exactly what I expected.
Tight, dusty, uncomfortable. I had to turn sideways and keep one hand on the framing so I didn’t lose my balance. My jacket kept catching on screws and rough edges. I remember being annoyed more than scared, because whoever had managed to get in there had no business being there.
I called out again.
“Where are you?”
The voice answered from somewhere ahead of me.
“Here.”
So I kept moving.
Then it hit me, none of this made sense.
There shouldn’t have been an “ahead.” Not really. It was a gap behind a wall, not a hallway. I should have reached the end after a few yards. But the space kept going, just wide enough for me to squeeze through if I turned my shoulders the right way.
I stopped and looked back.
I could still see the opening behind me then. A rectangle of light. Small, but there.
One of the guys laughed somewhere outside, and for a second I felt stupid. I almost backed out.
Then the voice said, “Please don’t leave me.”
So I kept going.
The deeper I went, the quieter the site became. The drills faded. The voices faded. Even the hum of the temporary lights seemed to pull away behind me. All I could hear was my own breathing and the scrape of my jacket against the wall.
Then the framing stopped.
I didn’t notice it immediately. I just reached out expecting metal or wood but felt concrete instead. Both sides. Cold, rough concrete. Close enough that my shoulders brushed against it when I breathed in too deeply.
I turned around.
The opening was gone.
I know that’s impossible. I know how walls work. I know how buildings are put together. There was no corner. No turn. No way for me to have lost sight of it. But behind me there was only more narrow space, going back into darkness.
I called out, hoping one of my guys would hear me.
Nothing.
Then the voice came again, but this time it was behind me.
“I’m stuck.”
I spun around so fast I scraped my shoulder against the concrete, ripping my jacket in the process. My flashlight flickered, and for one second I saw something farther down the gap. Not a person. Just a shape blocking the passage. Big. Too big to fit there. A hard hat, maybe. Broad shoulders. Standing still.
Then the light came back properly and there was nothing there.
That was when I started to panic.
I tried to force myself back the way I came, but every few steps the space seemed to change. Sometimes it was wider. Sometimes it was so tight I had to exhale just to move forward. I kept thinking I would find the access panel, or hear one of the guys, or see light through a seam.
Instead I heard footsteps outside the wall.
Real footsteps.
Someone walking slowly along the corridor.
I slammed my hand against the concrete and shouted. My voice sounded wrong, thin and far away, like it was muffled.
So I knocked.
Three times.
The footsteps stopped.
For a second I thought they had heard me.
I pressed my face against the wall and shouted again.
Then all the lights went out.
I don’t remember much after that. I remember dropping the flashlight. I remember trying to breathe and not being able to get enough air. I remember the voice whispering very close to my ear:
“I can’t find my way out.”
The next thing I knew, I was on the floor outside the wall.
One of my coworkers was shaking me by the shoulder and telling me to breathe. He said he found me lying in the corridor beside the access panel. He said I was clawing at the concrete with both hands.
The panel was closed.
Nobody was inside.
Nobody had called for help.
They told me I must have passed out from exhaustion.
Maybe I did.
But when I looked at my hands, my knuckles were split open.
And then I realized my jacket was ripped at the shoulder.
Since then, I’ve barely slept. And when I do sleep, I dream of those service corridors, pushing in on me from both sides.
Sometimes I hear the voice again.
“Help me.”
“I’m stuck.”
“I can’t find my way out.”
And sometimes I wake up standing in my bedroom, facing the wall.
Knocking.
Three times.
CONSULTATION NOTE
Patient: Callum Rusk
Date: December 1st, 2015
Subject: Initial consultation
Mr. Rusk attended consultation following referral from his primary physician after a panic episode at work and subsequent recurring nightmares.
Patient presented very tired, but coherent. He was uncomfortable recounting the incident, as is to be expected. Aside from the panic attack, it seems that the patient suffers no other psychiatric disturbances. Patient agreed that his account sounds implausible and repeatedly acknowledged the possibility that he may have panicked, misremembered details, or lost consciousness.
What concerns me is not the presentation itself, which could reasonably be explained by exhaustion, environmental stress, and a panic response.
What concerns me is the overlap.
Mr. Rusk was working on the same BWF Construction site recently described by Marcus Hill. Both men reported confusion related to the lower levels. Both described impossible or inconsistent spatial features. Most notably, Mr. Hill described hearing knocking from inside a wall, while Mr. Rusk describes entering a wall space after hearing a voice calling for help.
Taken together, these details are too specific for me to dismiss as coincidence.
At present, I have advised Mr. Rusk not to return to the site until symptoms stabilize. Sleep diary requested, with attention to nightmares, wall spaces, construction sounds, knocking, voices, and any further episodes of disorientation.
Follow-up scheduled in one week.
SLEEP DIARY
Wednesday, December 2nd, 2015
First night after seeing Dr. Moore.
I still feel strange about writing to Dr. Renwyck and then being seen by someone else, but Dr. Moore seemed competent enough. He was calm about the whole thing, which helped. I think.
He asked me to keep this diary. Sleep, dreams, waking incidents, anything that might connect back to what happened at work.
I told him I haven’t gone back to the site. My doctor told me not to, and Dr. Moore agreed. That should make me feel better, but it somehow doesn’t. If anything, staying away makes the place feel larger in my head. Like it’s still there, waiting, and I just can’t see what it’s doing.
I barely slept last night.
When I did, I dreamt I was back in the lower levels. Not inside the wall this time. Just standing in the corridor near the access panel.
Everything was quiet. No power tools. No voices. No temporary lights buzzing overhead. Just concrete and dust and that narrow panel in the wall.
I knew I should walk away.
Instead, I stood there listening.
Waiting.
Then I woke up.
Friday, December 4th, 2015
I slept more than I expected last night.
I wish I hadn’t.
I was back at the site again, only this time I wasn’t standing in the corridor anymore.
I was inside the wall.
At first I thought I was awake. That’s how real it felt. My shoulder was pressed against concrete on one side and framing on the other. I could feel screws catching on my sleeve. I could taste the dust in my mouth. That dry, chalky taste from plasterboard and concrete powder.
There was a line of light ahead of me. Thin. Like it was coming through a gap in the wall.
I tried to move toward it, but the space was too narrow. Every step scraped something. My jacket. My elbows. My back. I had to turn sideways and shuffle, one foot at a time.
I kept telling myself I knew where I was.
Service gap. Access panel. Corridor outside.
Simple.
But it wasn’t. This whole place feels like a maze, even the finished sections.
Then I heard voices.
Workers, I think. Somewhere on the other side of the wall. I couldn’t make out every word, but they sounded calm. Normal. Someone laughed. Someone dropped a tool. Someone complained about the schedule.
I tried to call out to them.
But it was useless. The walls were pressing in on my chest, and I could barely get enough air in to make a sound.
I got closer to the light and looked through the gap.
There were two men in the corridor outside, carrying a board between them. They passed close enough that I could have touched them if the wall wasn’t there.
I hit the inside of the wall with my palm.
Once.
The sound resonated for far too long.
Neither of them heard.
I hit it again, harder.
Still nothing.
Then, somewhere farther down inside the wall, someone whispered:
“Help me.”
I woke up with my hand against the bedroom wall.
Monday, December 7th, 2015
I still didn’t go back to work today.
I told myself I was doing what Dr. Moore said. Staying away until I felt better. Being sensible.
Truth is, I don’t think I could walk back into that place if you paid me triple.
Last night I dreamt I was inside the wall again.
Same narrow space. Same concrete. Same thin gaps of light coming from somewhere ahead.
Only this time, I could move faster. Not easily, but faster than before. Like my body was starting to adapt to fitting in tight spaces.
I followed the light for a while, keeping one hand on the wall, trying not to think about how far I must have gone. Then I heard workers on the other side again.
More than before.
Boots. Voices. Tools. The sound of them hauling plasterboard and putting it up against the wall.
I found a gap and looked through.
There were men in the corridor outside, but they weren’t working. Not really. They were standing still, holding their tools at their sides, all of them facing the same direction.
Nobody spoke.
Then I heard the footsteps.
Heavy. Slow. Coming from somewhere farther down the corridor.
The men moved aside before I saw who they were making room for.
At first I thought it was one of the site supervisors. Big man. Hard hat. Work jacket. Boots.
But then he came into view.
He was too large.
Not tall in a normal way. Large. Wide. Like the corridor had been built around him and still got the measurements wrong. His shoulders nearly touched both walls. His head almost scraped the ceiling.
I couldn’t see his face properly. The brim of the hard hat cast too much shadow.
All I could make out was an old tattoo on his forearm. A bull’s head, I think. Or maybe just horns.
I knew he was looking at the wall.
At me.
I held my breath.
He stopped right outside the gap.
Nobody moved.
Nobody said anything.
Then, from somewhere deeper inside the wall, the voice whispered:
“Don’t let him find you.”
I woke up on the floor beside my bed.
Thursday, December 10th, 2015
Last night I was in the wall again.
Not that I expected anything different.
This time, I wasn’t in the narrow service gap near the access panel.
I was deeper.
I don’t know how I know that. There were no signs, no landmarks, nothing to measure distance by. But I knew. The same way you know when you’re below ground even if nobody tells you.
The walls were close on both sides, but the space had changed shape again. It bent where it shouldn’t. It sloped down for a while, then turned sharply, then narrowed until I had to get on my hands and knees.
I could hear workers outside.
Even closer than before.
They were putting up boards. I could hear them lifting each sheet, setting it into place, fastening it down. The screws made this short, sharp sound every time they went into the frame.
One after another.
I tried following the sound because I thought it might lead me to an unfinished section and I could finally get out of the wall.
I rounded a corner and sure enough, there was an open section in the distance.
I struggled and pushed myself as fast as I could.
Then I heard one of them say:
“Close this one up.”
I started shouting for help.
I knocked on the walls.
Not once.
Not twice.
I hammered at the wall with both fists and shouted until my throat hurt.
Nobody reacted.
Then the heavy footsteps came again.
Every worker in the corridor went quiet.
Through the gap, I saw that same huge figure stop beside the wall, the one with the bull tattoo.
He leaned closer.
Not to the gap.
To the wall itself.
Like he could hear me breathing through it.
Then a voice whispered from somewhere behind me:
“Wrong way.”
And that’s when I woke up.
Sunday, December 13th, 2015
I was in the wall again.
It doesn’t matter how many times I write that down, every time I still feel weird.
The dream started deeper this time. No access panel. No light from the corridor. No voices at first. Just concrete on both sides and enough space to keep moving if I turned sideways and didn’t breathe too deeply.
I kept one hand on the wall and followed it forward.
After a while, I heard the voice.
“Help me.”
It was ahead of me.
I stopped.
“I’m stuck.”
I almost laughed. Not because it was funny, but because I knew better now. I knew what it wanted.
Still, I followed it.
I don’t know why. Maybe because there was nowhere else to go. Maybe because some part of me still thought I could find whoever was making that sound and maybe bring an end to all of this.
The space narrowed until I had to crawl. My knees scraped against the concrete. My shoulder kept catching on something sharp. Every few feet, the voice came again.
“This way.”
“I’m lost.”
“I can’t find my way out.”
Then I saw light.
Not a thin crack this time. A real opening.
There was a section ahead where the wall hadn’t been closed yet. I could see the corridor beyond it. Concrete floor. Temporary lights. Plastic sheeting moving slightly in the air.
I crawled faster.
For the first time in days, I thought I had found a way out.
I reached the opening and pulled myself through.
I was in the corridor.
Actually in it.
I almost cried. I just sat there on the floor for a second, breathing, touching my own chest and arms like I needed to check I still had shape.
Then I heard people.
They were inside the walls.
Not out here with me. Inside.
All around the corridor, behind the plasterboard, behind the concrete, behind places where no person could fit, I heard them moving. Boots scraping. Tools dragging. Boards lifting. Screws being driven into frames.
And under all of it, voices.
Not shouting. Not panicked.
Working.
Like they had always been in there.
I didn’t know what to do next. I had never made it this far. But all I could think was:
“Get out.”
I got up and started walking. I wanted the stairs. The lift. Any way back to the surface. But every corridor turned into another corridor. Every route bent back toward the lower levels.
Then the lights started going out behind me.
One.
Then another.
Then another.
Like something was following and switching them off as it came.
I started running.
I passed the same access panel three times. I know it was the same one because there was a smear of grey dust across it in the shape of a hand.
Mine, I think.
Then I turned a corner and saw him.
The big worker.
Standing at the far end of the corridor.
Hard hat. Work jacket. Boots. That bull’s head on his arm.
He didn’t run. He didn’t have to.
He just stood there, filling the corridor, and somehow I knew every way out was behind him.
From inside the wall beside me, the voice whispered:
“Don’t let him find you.”
Then someone knocked.
Three times.
Right beside my head.
I shot awake and I quickly realized that I wasn’t in my bedroom.
I was on the cold hard floor.
Concrete.
My body felt stiff and I struggled to get up.
For a moment I thought I was still dreaming, because everything was exactly the same.
The corridor.
The concrete.
The lights.
Then I looked down.
I wasn’t wearing my boots.
I was barefoot.
I was still in the clothes I had gone to sleep in.
And I was standing in the lower levels of the BWF site.
I don’t remember leaving my apartment.
I don’t remember driving there.
I don’t remember getting past the fence.
But I remember the knock.
Three times.
Coming from inside the wall beside me.
PATIENT RECORD ADDENDUM
Patient: Callum Rusk
Date: December 14th, 2015
Subject: Urgent patient contact; transfer request
Mr. Rusk called the office shortly after opening this morning and requested an appointment for the same day.
He sounded exhausted and frightened. He stated that he had woken up inside the BWF Construction site during the night, with no memory of leaving his home or gaining access to the property. He was unable to give a clear account of how long he had been there, but repeatedly insisted that he “came out of the wall” and that something was still inside.
Given the severity of the reported episode, I agreed to see him as soon as possible and asked him not to return to the site under any circumstances.
Before the appointment, I sent Dr. Renwyck a brief summary of the case and requested her opinion, specifically because of the overlap with the Marcus Hill file and the repeated references to the lower levels, wall spaces, knocking, and impossible spatial layout.
Dr. Renwyck bursted into my office less than twenty minutes later.
She demanded to know why Mr. Rusk had not been transferred to her care after the first consultation. I told her that while the case was unusual, Mr. Rusk had presented coherently and did not appear to be experiencing anything beyond acute panic, exhaustion, and recurring nightmares following a workplace incident.
She interrupted me before I could finish.
“No, Paul. You clearly don’t understand what this is.”
I explained that I had already noted the overlap with Mr. Hill’s case and had contacted her precisely because I felt the similarities were too specific to ignore.
She said I was still treating the overlap like something to monitor.
Then she took the file from my desk and turned straight to Mr. Rusk’s diary.
She skimmed through it once.
Then again.
When she looked back at me, she was visibly shaken.
“Did I not give you clear instructions on which cases were to be transferred to me?”
I told her she had.
She asked if I had reviewed the keyword list.
I told her I had.
She then raised her voice.
“Maze. Lower levels. Impossible layout. A bull-headed figure. He used the language, Paul. More than once.”
I explained that Mr. Rusk had only used “maze” casually, and that the figure he described was a large worker with a tattoo.
Dr. Renwyck said, “That is exactly why I gave you the list. So you would know when casual language isn’t casual.”
I had no answer to that.
She said we had lost valuable observation time and that Mr. Rusk should have been transferred to her care after the first consultation.
Dr. Renwyck demanded I immediately transfer Mr. Rusk to her.
I complied.
CASE TRANSFERRED
CONCLUSION
CONCLUSION
[silence]
ALEX
That was…
[pause]
I mean, we have seen Renwyck show concern before. Even being cautious at times.
But this is the first time I’ve seen anything in these files where she actually shows any sort of emotion.
[pause]
Walking into Moore’s office like that. Taking the file from him. Raising her voice.
That doesn’t sound like Renwyck.
MADDY
No, it doesn’t.
ALEX
So whatever Callum was going through… it was important enough to draw Renwyck away from her research.
It might even be connected.
[pause]
And that just proves that Moore doesn’t know anything…
MADDY
Alex.
ALEX
Yeah?
MADDY
I found something.
ALEX
About this case?
MADDY
No.
[pause]
About Raynor.
ALEX
Did you find him?
MADDY
Maybe.
I found an archived copy of a local newspaper. Tiny little listing in the ad section.
“Raynor Investigations. Private investigator. Missing persons. Discreet inquiries.”
And there was a number.
ALEX
Raynor became a PI?
MADDY
Looks like it.
ALEX
Call it.
MADDY
Already dialing.
[phone dialing]
[ringing]
[ringing]
[click]
ANSWERING MACHINE / RAYNOR
You’ve reached Raynor Investigations. I’m not available. Leave your name, number, and a brief message.
[beep]
MADDY
Hello, Mr. Raynor.
[pause]
My name is Maddy Palmer. You don’t know me, but I think you knew someone I used to work with.
She went by May.
[pause]
I found something she left behind. Your name was in it.
[short pause]
I need to know what happened to her. I need to know why she was trying to find you.
And I need to know what you know about BWF Construction and Dr. —
[Maddy gets cut off]
[click]
RAYNOR
Stop talking.
MADDY
Hello?
RAYNOR
If you know what’s good for you, leave it alone.
MADDY
Mr. Raynor?
RAYNOR
Who gave you this number?
MADDY
I found it.
RAYNOR
Then lose it.
MADDY
No.
RAYNOR
It’s non-negotiable. Lose the number. Forget my name. Forget about May.
MADDY
I-I can’t do that.
RAYNOR
Then you’re already in deeper than you understand.
MADDY
She was my friend.
[pause]
RAYNOR
Then listen to what I’m about to say very carefully.
If May left you something, she wasn’t asking you to follow her.
She was warning you.
MADDY
What happened to her?
RAYNOR
Just, stay away from it.
MADDY
What happened to May?
RAYNOR
I said stay away.
ALEX
Ask him about Somnarium.
MADDY
Do you know what Somnarium is?
[long silence]
RAYNOR
Who is that?
MADDY
A friend.
RAYNOR
Put him on.
MADDY
No.
RAYNOR
Listen, kid.
[pause]
I don’t know where you heard that name.
But forget it.
Forget your friend.
Forget any of this happened.
Forget about me.
ALEX
Why?
RAYNOR
Because you don’t understand what you’re getting yourself into.
[pause]
MADDY
Then help us understand.
RAYNOR
I… can’t.
MADDY
You mean you won’t.
RAYNOR
No.
[pause]
I mean I can’t.
[pause]
Don’t call this number again.
MADDY
Mr. Raynor, wait–
[call disconnects]
[phone line beeping]
ALEX
He picked up.
MADDY
Yeah.
ALEX
He knows.
MADDY
Oh yeah.
[pause]
ALEX
And he’s scared.
[hdd spins down]
OUTRO PLAYS