'Well, when a locale has a long tradition of superstition, and if the roots of that history are deeply entrenched in the occult, sleepers often suffer the same nightmares for generations.' He feels himself light up inside and, despite his reticence at becoming an academic bore with such a pretty girl, his enthusiasm carries him along. 'You know, the bad dreams last for years, even centuries, like a kind of echo. I've travelled to Newfoundland, South America and Africa chasing this pattern for my book. I want to collect data reflecting how, inexplicably, a haunted past can become locked, like an energy, in a specific area, and affect the sleep of even those people who are otherwise oblivious to the history of the place in which they live.'
'How do these night terrors affect people?' Kerry asks, her voice sharper.
'Well, some of the good people who have confided in me have had the same dreams since they were kids, and want to know why they go to the same place every time they close their eyes. Others are too afraid to sleep, or find their dreams affect the way they behave. In some extreme cases, well, folks do unusual things. They become volatile, or unreasonable. They can sleepwalk too.'
The girl's eyes widen and her body stiffens.
'But it's usually just the sleeping consciousness, and night terrors are a universal phenomenon. There is no need to –'
'Sleepwalk, you say,' Kerry interrupts. 'How extreme does sleepwalking get?'
'Well, it varies, from strolling around the house to incidents of amnesia. In extreme cases –' he pauses '– well, it seems to be the start of something more complicated.'
Kerry closes her eyes and covers them with a slim hand, pressing her varnished nails into her cheek, just below an inflamed scratch. He hears her say 'Shit' under her breath.
'Kerry, I'm sorry. I don't want to frighten you. Girl, that is a very unlikely scenario.'
When she removes the hand from her face her eyes shine with tears. Hart swallows. 'Listen, Kerry, I think we should start. Just lie back there on the couch and relax. If you want another drink or a smoke just holler. That's it, get comfy. Don't worry about your boots, just relax. I'm going to ask you a few questions and I want you to be as candid as you are able. I'm not an analyst, but I believe talking about it, to someone who knows what's going down, will take the world off your shoulders. Clean off, honey, where it hadn't ought to be.'
She reclines on the couch and sinks into the cushions and throwrug. She dabs at her eyes with a white tissue she has kept tucked up her sleeve. Hart stretches his arm across to the tape recorder and indents the RECORD button as quietly as possible. 'This is Doctor Hart Miller on August 25 at 11:00 a.m., speaking with Kerry Sewell, a fourth-year student on the Art History honours degree programme, at St Andrews University. Kerry, I would like to ask you a few frank questions about your general wellbeing and state of health.'
'OK.'
'Are you taking any medication, or have you been over the course of your troubled sleep?'
'No. Wait a minute. Yes. Some hay-fever tablets. And I had a really bad flu. Like a forty-eight-hour thing. I took antibiotics.'
'Have you suffered unduly from stress or depression?'
'I'm not depressed, but I have been working hard. I had final exams and still have my thesis to finish.'
'So you often work late?'
'I would say so.'
'How much do you drink a week, on average, in terms of units of alcohol?'
'Umm, I don't know. Wine sometimes with a meal, or in the evening, and at the weekend I go out with friends, but I rarely get drunk.'
'OK. Is there a family history of mental illness? Schizophrenia, to be precise?'
'No. Grandma's a bit scatty, but she is nearly eighty.'
'Right. Have you ever had any psychological problems?'
Kerry looks away.
'Kerry, I am not asking for specific details, but generally have –'
'I saw a psychiatrist during my A-Levels.'
'A-Levels? What are those?'
'Exams you take before university.'
'Oh, right. So you needed counselling for something?'
'Yes. I had a few problems in my teens. Nothing major.'
'That's all right, honey, I –'
'Sorry, but it was very painful. Can we talk about the dreams now?'
'Sure, sure. I was just establishing a bit of background.'
'And you think I'm a nut already, because I saw a psychiatrist?' Her words come quickly and her face hardens with annoyance.
Still smiling and keeping his voice steady, Hart says, 'Kerry, there is no taboo in counselling. I think everybody should have an analyst. I spent most of my youth on a couch talking about my mother to some dude in a check jacket and brogues.'
Anger changes to relief, and her face softens with a smile. 'I'm sorry . . . for snapping. But everything is difficult for me at the moment. I'm not sleeping and I think I should leave St Andrews.'
'Kerry, I hear you, but I think you should start at the beginning. You mentioned your nightmares on the phone. Just give me what you can remember about when and how they began.'
She folds her arms across her chest, as if for warmth, clasping the top of each arm with a hand. 'It started about two months ago, when a student called Ben Carter killed himself. At first I thought it was a reaction, like delayed shock. I didn't know him that well, but when someone your own age dies, it's terrible. You just don't expect things like that to happen.'
Hart nods his head. 'It was awful. Did you and Ben take the same courses?'
'No. Ben and I were part of a group. I knew him from there.'
'What kind of group?'
'Umm, a paranormal society, run by a lecturer in the divinity department. Eliot Coldwell. Lots of people went, but it was all quite harmless.'
Hart frowns.
'Most of the people there went out of curiosity. Mr Coldwell has quite a reputation for being weird. Bit of a giggle, really. That's why my friend Maria and I went along.'
'So this lecturer, what did he do?'
'Oh, gave talks and things. Like the stuff you see on those Arthur C Clarke's Mysterious World programmes. I heard he conducted experiments with some people who thought they were psychic as well. But I dropped out early. I had too much work to do.'
Hart squints and tries to remember where he's heard the name before. 'Eliot Coldwell. The name rings a bell.'
'He wrote a book. Some of the boys in the group kept asking questions about it. Because of the drugs in it.'
'Yeah. Can't remember the title.'
'Banquet for the Damned.'
'That's right. I've read about it. Started a few cults in Britain and some of those heavy metal bands went for it in a big way. Led Zep, I think. Maybe Sabbath too. He was into the whole Eastern thing. Kind of like a minor-league Crowley or Huxley.'
Kerry nods. 'It's in the library. I never read much of it. Found it a bit heavy going.'
'Did these group meetings start your nightmares?'
'No. That was all finished before the summer. People say the university stopped it. There was a lot of fuss about a group like that here. It's a very quiet place and I think Mr Coldwell was told to stop the group. It was nothing really, though. Just discussions and some meditation. It helped me to relax and he had a beautiful voice. Like Anthony Hopkins.'
'What about your friend, Maria? Did she have nightmares?'
'I don't know. We fell out. A while ago. Over a stupid man.'
Hart nods. 'Most of them are. I can say that because I don't count. With this much hair I gotta be the missing link.'
Kerry giggles.
'Did this lecturer stop his group?' he asks.
'I think so, but there was talk about it going underground.'
Hart frowns. 'Ben Carter was a member too. I didn't know that. My buddy Adolpho went back to Brazil after Ben's death to do his fieldwork. He only mentioned the kid's nightmares.'
'Ben was into it more than most people. I think he was Mr Coldwell's research assistant.'
Hart
nods some more, deep in thought, before turning his attention back to Kerry. 'Your nightmares. Tell me about your disturbed sleep. I'm sorry for digressing, but this is all new to me. I was in Nigeria last week.'
'You don't look very brown.'
'Too many insects on me. The sun never had a chance.'
Kerry laughs again and then looks toward the ceiling to concentrate her recall. 'These dreams were different to anything I've experienced before. They're so real.'
'Go on. How are they vivid?'
'I could swear I'm awake. In the beginning, something terrible would happen in a dream and I would wake up, suddenly. And be really frightened. Even in tears. And my bed sheets would be all strewn about the room. And things would have been moved around my bed.'
'Can you remember the dreams?'
'No. Not really. Not in full. I would just wake up with a horrible taste in my mouth and my arms and legs . . . and things, would hurt, as if I'd been attacked. Sometimes there were bruises, but I thought I had done them to myself. Then recently, these dreams came back every other night, and I began to remember bits. There is always someone in my room. Trying to find me. To get at me.' She sniffs again.
'So Kerry, let's concentrate on the waking moment. You said that things in your immediate physical environment had changed. How so?'
After clearing her throat and dabbing the now crumpled tissue at the corner of both eyes, she continues in a quivery voice. 'I used to leave my bedside light on. It sounds silly, I know, but after it all began I just couldn't bear to sleep in the dark. And when I woke up, the light would have been turned off and I could hear someone in my room.'
'You're sure you were awake? This wasn't the residue from a dream?'
'I didn't really know at first. My whole body would be like tingling and I couldn't move. It was terrifying. I was paralysed and tried to scream for my neighbour, Sarah. But I couldn't make a sound.'
'Aphasia,' Hart mumbles, nodding his head and staring toward the window.
'What?'
'Just a technical term for the inability to speak when paralysed. It's more common than you think.'
'Really,' she says, her eyes widening and something approaching relief entering her tone of voice.
'Sure, but anyway Kerry, please go on. You said there was someone in your room.'
'Yes. Someone's by my bed, in my room. Sort of sniffing. Like a dog, but not in a dog way. Not friendly. It's slower. And I can't move but I can hear it moving about, and reaching for things. Like . . . Like it's looking for me.'
'Did it vanish quickly when you woke up fully?'
'Yes, to start with, but as the dreams became much worse, it would linger. A couple of weeks back, I saw it for the first time, just as I woke up. I saw what looked like a long arm reach across my bedside cabinet to touch the light, which went off. And it just sat there, huddled over in the dark, making these sounds.'
'The breathing and so forth?'
'Yes, and more. It was . . . It's hard to describe, it seemed to be whispering to me too, but I didn't recognise the language. It just sounded very old and unpleasant, with bits of English breaking through, but I could never fully understand the words. And it would hiss, like . . . like it was excited.' Kerry pauses to dab her nose. She turns her face away from Hart but he can see her jaw trembling as she tries not to cry.
He feels terrible for pushing her even further, but he has to. 'The intensity of the visitations, I will call them, increased as time went on. The nightmares became more vivid and the presence stayed a little longer each night.'
'Exactly,' Kerry continues, her voice breaking around the edges. 'There was this one time when I'd woken up and it was still there. There was some light coming through a gap in the curtains, so I got a better look at it. A dark shape over by the window. Very tall. It went right up to the ceiling but still had to bend over. My heart nearly stopped. And it was trying to show itself to me. Leaning right over toward my bed. But its hands were covering its face.'
Hart leans forward in his chair, resting both hands on the edge of the coffee table.
'And I remember feeling so cold at that moment and I heard it whispering to me. Through its fingers. It was there for a moment and then it moved very quickly to the side of my bed. I could smell it. It was horrible. I closed my eyes. I couldn't bear it for a moment longer, but I did see it move. It wasn't like a normal walk. Not natural. It was more of a glide. But very quick. I remember it was very thin and then it was making a sniffing noise. Right by me.' Kerry's face is pleading for an explanation.
He clears his throat. 'And it would stay beside you and watch you?'
'Yes, but it was agitated. It sounded fierce and I was just so frightened with it hovering by me, waiting for something.'
'Kerry, it was only a dream. A very vivid dream.'
The girl's face crumples and reddens. She covers it with her hands and sobs. Her chest heaves, and Hart hears her final stand. 'It's trying to kill me. The nightmares have always been leading to something, that gets stronger and more real every time, until the thing in my dream attacked me. Last night it nearly killed me.'
He stands and flits across to the couch in alarm, but only manages to dither beside her and look at the ceiling in exasperation. What can he do? What has he forced her to remember? He isn't trained as a psychiatrist and the girl seems manic. It could be more than his theory about night terrors. For a moment he wishes he'd never come to St Andrews. Maybe the girl has been raped, repressed the memory and been too scared to tell the police or her parents.
Maybe there is a stalker on the campus.
Forcing composure, he sits back down on the corner of the couch. It is important he doesn't touch her and he feels like a louse for all of the desperate and hungry thoughts he entertained earlier. 'Kerry, listen to me. I know this has been painful, but draw some comfort from what I am going to say. You're not the first young woman to suffer from dreams like this. I've heard about this more times than I've wanted to. You're not crazy. But I think you should go home, to your parents, or a friend's or something. Can you do that?'
Kerry nods.
'Just get out of here for a while. Maybe see a counsellor.'
Kerry sits up suddenly, and removes her hands from her tearstained cheeks. 'I'm not mad! I know what you're thinking. That I'm some stupid little girl who's been raped and can't face the truth. You're wrong. These dreams are real. There was something in my room. It took me to the pier, Mr Miller. It took me to the pier and tried to kill me. It wanted me to die. Like Ben Carter. That's why he burned. It made him do it! I know it!'
The violence in her voice forces Hart away from the couch. His hands hover at the same level as her shoulders but fail to narrow the distance. 'OK, honey,' he says, his voice no more than a whisper. 'But did you hear me? Go home. Leave today and put some distance between yourself and this town.' Just in case, he wants to add. Just in case you're right and everything I've been studying is true.
The girl continues to sob.
Kerry walks through Market Street in a daze after confessing so much to a stranger. These night-time experiences are more than bad dreams and Hart Miller knows it. She could tell by his face. Other girls have suffered the same thing, he said so. That's why he is in town, looking for the thing that came for her at night. It sniffed around her when she slept and attempted to consummate its final wish down on the pier. She can't spend another night in St Andrews and doesn't need Doctor Miller to tell her so. She's only stuck it out because of her work. Four years of study can't be just thrown away. She needs the degree for the job promised her by a management consultancy in London. But last night changed everything.
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