Dr. Benoit was only a bit more sane than his patients. Volunteering on Christmas Eve felt rash to his office partners, but the veteran psychiatrist insisted. He’d received an emergency call from a healthcare protection officer at noon, and by twelve-thirty, Dr. Benoit drove his compact car five hours downstate through hoary weather, listening to past recordings from the involuntary psychiatric wing’s most precarious patients including… her. When he arrived at Gray Ridge Hospital Center, a crepuscule blackness drank the sky’s leftover light. An unrelenting gale punished the winterland doldrum, compelling Dr. Benoit’s car towards the main gates.
Backup floodlights shined down on the grounds of the four-floor infirmary. An untangled holiday wreath obstructed the automated gate’s sensors from releasing the egress. Dr. Benoit pressed a drive-up call button, but when no one responded, the Rubenesque psychiatrist squeezed from his car and straightened the plastic evergreen ring. A mechanical response ground from the motor box before the gate swung open. Dr. Benoit peered inside the grounds. A dappled light, like television static, flitted through the east wing’s frosted windows. Dr. Benoit retreated from the biting weather back into his car, straightening a photograph on his dashboard of an older woman with a striking smile.
“Come Libby,” said Dr. Benoit to the photograph, pushing his car into drive and paving through snow to the employee parking lot. “There’s work to be done.”
Not a creature stirred in the main lobby. The grumble of a distant generator echoed through the halls, drowning the knell of Carol of the Bells from an overhead speaker. Dr. Benoit peeked over the office counter where a computer screen displayed several camera angles on a grid. A bed of neighboring two-way radios inside a unit charger crackled with voices next to the monitor. Dr. Benoit spotted two protection officers, a maintenance woman, and a nurse on a video-block struggling with a furnace inside what appeared to be a cellar. Dr. Benoit reached for a radio and pressed down on its push-to-talk button.
“Test, test. This is Dr. Benoit—the locum’s psychiatrist you called for?”
“Hey doc,” a man with a thick city accent said. “This is Matty. I’ll be up shortly. Dang generator ain’t heating east-sector.”
“I’m quite familiar with the facility,” said Dr. Benoit. “I can see myself if you’re in dire straits?”
“No, don’t do that!” shouted Matty. “I’m coming up.”
Dr. Benoit sighed and helped himself to a miniature candy cane resting on the desk. He fixated on a particular section of the computer’s grids. In the east wing where the involuntary psychiatric patients lived, rime glazed over walls. Each door, painted in vivid colors to mask its uncongenial nature, kept a circle top window. In each of those fogged windows, patients’ heads bobbed, gawked, or pressed against the glass. All except for one. At the end of the hall, the ajar door for Ms. Gryla Drosselmeyer flickered with the identical television static from outside, though the camera angle denied perspective within.
“Doc,” said Matty, entering the room. Dr. Benoit sprang up, hand over his heart. Manny, donned in a police blue uniform, wiped his greasy hands along his sleeve.
“Goodness, you startled me,” said Dr. Benoit.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to spook you. I appreciate you coming out on Christmas Eve.”
“Why is the east wing so active? Is there an issue with their medication?”
“That’s just it, doc. As soon as my shift started, the entire sector got chatty.”
“About anything in particular?”
“The Conception.”
“Conception?”
“No idea, doc. We’re used to peculiarities, but not in collusion. Martha asked Barry and I to assist her in giving them something, but the power went out before we could. We’ve been on the back foot ever since.”
“I notice Ms. Drosselmeyer’s door is open.”
“I know,” Matty said. “No power and old locks. We figured the other doors ain’t open, so the old staff-breaker can’t get to anyone.”
“Staff-breaker?”
“Little nickname we gave her after her third nurse quit.”
“What did your director have to say about all this?”
“He’s in Cancun, and our supervisor is stuck across the state. We received instructions to contact the authorities, if necessary, but it doesn’t seem appropriate.
“No, that’s unnecessary. Have Martha prepare Geodon. I’ll administer it.”
“I’ll gather the crew so we can hold down Ms. Drosselmeyer.”
“Allow me to go alone. We’ve built a relationship.”
“I don’t know, doc. Ain’t that a little unorthodox?”
“Desperate times. Now, do you have a spare keycard I could use?”
“Take mine. It’s the only one working right now.”
“What are your instructions for me and the team?” asked Manny, unclipping a fob with his ID from his belt.
Dr. Benoit took the keycard and smiled. “Fix the heat.”
***
A distinctive atmosphere reigned in the east wing, dated and demode. Dr. Benoit journeyed down the corridor forged in sand-lime bricks and Victorian cornice. The hot incandescent bulbs and cool air formed a lingering mist that curled along the ceiling. Room signs with sharpied patient names and notes warned about who lurked inside. Someone from a far-off room spoke in a child’s voice before cackling, while fingernails scraped from an adjoining wall. Dr. Benoit proceeded down the hall, syringe of Geodon in his hand.
“Saint Nicholas is here,” said a bass heavy voice from a room Dr. Benoit passed. The seven-foot man with stringy hair and a chin beard stared through the snowman he drew in the window’s condensation. Months ago, Dr. Benoit watched this man tear off a protection officer’s winter jacket sleeve with a thrust from his offhand before five staff members struggled to restrain him.
“Hello, Foley,” said Dr. Benoit. “Glad to see you. It’s been—”
“One-hundred-and-seventeen-days.”
“That’s right. Apologies for the cold. Staff is working on it.”
“We wished for it. We made a snow globe.”
“What do you mean we, Foley?”
“The east wing. We asked The Conception.”
“The Conception?”
“We’ve been working hard on it. Hey Saint Nick, I got you something for Christmas.” Foley ducked from the window, and a hard key slid from under the door’s crack. Dr. Benoit picked up the laser cut key and put it in his breast pocket as Foley’s face returned behind the window.
“Oh, that’s wonderful, Foley. I’m sure I’ll find a use for it. Say, have you seen Ms. Drosselmeyer?”
Foley’s gaze lowered.
“Everything okay, Foley?”
“Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn’t before! What if Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store? What if Christmas… perhaps… means a little bit more?”
A creak of metal down the hall stole Dr. Benoit’s attention. “Well, there’s my answer, I suppose. Good to see you, Foley.”
“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a goodnight,” said Foley as Dr. Benoit renewed his trek.
Dr. Benoit tottered down the corridor, disregarding patients’ further attempts to gain his attention from their windows. Upon reaching the end of the hallway where Ms. Drosselmeyer’s ajar door awaited, he cleared his throat.
“Come in, Dr. Benoit,” said the smokey, anodyne woman’s voice from inside.
Dr. Benoit drew the rest of the door open to find Ms. Drosselmeyer, contrary to what he’d seen the first time they’d met. Her hair, once a wild mess, was now tamed and pulled under a Santa hat stained with blue pen ink. Where she once washed herself red from self-inflicted wounds, now she awaited with clean pale skin. Her pressed pajamas tucked neatly as she sat up crossed legged on the edge of her bed reading a dog-eared copy of The Gift of the Magi.
“Merry Christmas, Ms. Drosselmeyer,” said Dr. Benoit. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Gryla is fine, doctor.”
“I see you’re managing on your own. That’s very good, Gryla.”
“Spare me your placations, Dr. Benoit. Same degree.”
“I’m not here to condescend, Gryla.”
“You’re here to control me. That is Geodon in your hand, isn’t it?”
“Gryla, progress is slow, but you’re getting there. For now, we must take precautions.”
“You’re no stranger to irony, Dr. Benoit. These safeguards they keep imposing on us facilitated The Conception’s threading.”
“Yes, Foley mentioned something of that. Care to elaborate?”
“We built it in our sleep. The staff sedates us twice the legal limit, so we have plenty of time to dream. Now, it wishes to free us.”
“Gryla, this sounds delusional.”
“I respect your honesty, doctor. You’re one of the few who care. That’s why we invited you.”
“Thank you. Can you tell me more about The Conception?”
“Dr. Benoit,” Ms. Drosselmeyer stared at her cuticles. “You mentioned your wife last we met. Do you remember?”
“I do.” Dr. Benoit’s posture stiffened.
“You displayed vulnerability, perhaps to build a connection?”
“There’s nothing wrong with being vulnerable. I’m human too.”
“Your words that day resonated with me. Do you remember what you said?”
“Nothing is ever lost in our dreams.”
“Did I tell you how I ended up here?”
“You lost your boy.”
“I owned a memory retrieval practice. Twelve years, in fact. Then my patient implicated a man with good lawyers of seven felonies. The state revoked my license after he was proven innocent. Then David left me. Jacob’s death was a consummation of it all. A discount babysitter.”
“You did what you could. Anyone would fold under that weight.”
“I still see Jacob. David too. They’re here now… and I’m happy again.”
“The Conception did that?”
“Yes.”
“Gryla, you’ve told me what The Conception does, but not what it is. Could you expand?”
“It is us, and we are it. A construct weaved from our hopes and our memories. It wants what is best for us because it is us.”
“I see. Gryla, why don’t you take a break?” Dr. Benoit brandished the syringe. “Let me help you.”
“We are the Sleepless. We don’t need rest anymore. The Conception provides contentment without that facet.”
“Gryla, this is irrational.”
“It will give you Libby back if you help us.”
“Please don’t use her name like that.”
“We need you, Dr. Benoit. It’s why we called you here. We want out.”
“Gryla, this is the last time I’ll ask,” Dr. Benoit took a step forward, uncapping the needle tip. “Let me help you.”
A half dozen steel doors from the east sector moaned open. Dr. Benoit flashed a glance over his shoulder. The smiling patients of the east wing approached like a school of white pajamaed sharks, trapping the therapist amid them and Ms. Drosselmeyer.
“You don’t believe the power outage would only affect a single door, did you?” Ms. Drosselmeyer glanced up from under her fingernails. The massive hand of Foley reached for Dr. Benoit, clutching the psychiatrist by his shoulder.
“Marley was dead to begin with,” said Foley.
Dr. Benoit winced as he sank to a knee.
“Beneath the bark is rot,” a short-haired woman with gray lips said in a child’s voice, prying the syringe out of Dr. Benoit’s hand, and offering it to Ms. Drosselmeyer.
“We are victims of fate,” said Ms. Drosselmeyer, squeezing the syringe plunger until it spit a droplet of sedative. “The people here wash away our past, drown out our now, but we deserve to preserve our dreams. You included Dr. Benoit.”
“Gryla, what are you plotting?” Dr. Benoit murmured, grasping Foley’s colossal hand.
“We want to escape,” stated Ms. Drosselmeyer. “We’ll take our loved ones someplace special. Once you meet The Conception, I’m positive you’ll help. You’ll be sleepless.”
Ms. Drosselmeyer stood, loomed over Dr. Benoit, removing her hat and placing it on the psychiatrist’s head. She kissed his dimpled cheek, then pressed the needle into his neck. Dr. Benoit froze, numbness washing through his nerves. When his bones turned to rubber, he heard it. From behind the hall of patients, a cat’s purr, a mother’s laugh, and a child’s coo echoed. A swell of darkness with a hundred eyes flickering like black-and-white static constructed itself behind the patients. Oily tendrils slithered from the stalking gloom, curling along the assembly. Silhouettes of grandmas, parents, and children embraced the patients. Dr. Benoit’s heavy eyes slid to Ms. Drosselmeyer, who rested her hand on a boy’s shoulder while the dark form of a man put his arm around her waist.
“No,” Dr. Benoit said. “This isn’t real.”
“Robert,” the voice of Dr. Benoit’s wife called out. A strobe of light poured from The Conception. “It’s okay. I’m here.”
A long string of oil stretched from the standing black wave with one-hundred eyes and coiled around Dr. Benoit’s ankle before taking shape.
“Libby?” asked Dr. Benoit.
“Nothing is lost in our dreams,” said the congealing shape of a slender woman who pressed her sable hand onto Dr. Benoit’s cheek. The east wing’s smiles grew, elated by Dr. Benoit’s reunion. Patients clapped, tittered, and cheered.
“God bless us, everyone!” said Foley over Dr. Benoit’s sobbing.
***
“So, he left with them all?” asked the policewoman, staring down at the grid of cameras replaying security footage.
“The doors locked up, and he had my fob, so we couldn’t do anything until it was too late,” said Matty. “Locum’s doc just… took them away.”
“Locum’s?” asked the policewoman, watching a parade of patients from the east wing follow a Santa hat clad Dr. Benoit dancing out of the faculty door.
“Rent-a-doc,” said Matty. “Still, he came all this way from upstate. Seems decent enough.”
“Or lonely enough. How’d he get the key to the bus?” asked the policewoman, watching a rosy-cheeked Dr. Benoit wave ebullient patients into a half-bus with the Gray Ridge Hospital Center logo on its side. Ms. Drosselmeyer patted Dr. Benoit on the arm before assisting a short, invisible person up the bus stairs.
“That’s beyond me. I was just trying to survive the shift. Didn’t think someone could orchestrate something like this. He must have been planning it for months.”
“Someone was.”
The policewoman zoomed in on Dr. Benoit as the jolly psychiatrist spoke to the vacant space behind him before kissing the air. Then, after the last patient entered the vehicle, with a wink of his eye, Dr. Benoit climbed the bus stairs. The camera’s grainy display showed high beams ignite before the bus cut through the employee parking lot snow and fly out of view.
“They all look so happy,” the policewoman said.
“Yeah, well,” Matty shrugged. “Their Christmas dream came true, I guess.”
