Article 5: Paranoia

"That is the whole story of how I got here, long-winded as it may have been."

Harold ended his crazy tale. The doctor was right, he was good with words. I could vividly picture the situation he went through and the horrors he had to experience. Whether it was true or not was anyone's guess.

He had concocted a story so intricate that it made one believe he was telling the truth. Never once did he waver in his story and all the micro expressions on his face indicated his belief in what he was saying.

I had no idea if such a story was true. Weird, never-before-seen weather, a crashing satellite, his best friend dying due to the crash, a weird man who survived the crash, the briefcase, the CIA, torture, all of it was a fantastical story—but, was it real? Probably not, given where he is. Even though he explained that he was put here for the exact reason I wasn't going to believe him, it didn't matter. In the interviews with other patients, some had come up with similar explanations as to their admittance into their respective psychiatric facilities.

While this one was significantly more detailed, it was simultaneously that much more unrealistic. Just mentioning someone surviving a satellite crash for such a time, or at all, for that matter, was crazy. People die from falling off of buildings far shorter than literally the edge of space. So, saying that the mysterious man managed to survive was highly improbable. The same went for his friend. Getting cut in half, but still surviving until his friend arrived some ten or more minutes latter? What are you, superhuman? Unlikely.

The more I thought about his story, the crazier it sounded. It was the craziest story I had heard... well maybe not. But, it was the craziest with the most detail.

After he concluded his story, I asked him some questions about his story, like "did you get visitors?", or "do you know what happened to your friend's girlfriend?", stuff like that. Unsurprisingly, he had no visitors. One would expect the girlfriend to visit at least once, but that never happened.

So, I concluded, he was truly suffering from delusions of grandeur. Just like the rest of them.

***

"Thank you for letting me interview the patients, it helps my work a lot."

"No problem, anytime... What'd you think about Harold's story? Pretty crazy right?"

"I'll say. I've never met a patient like him. His story was one of the craziest by far, and one of the most unrealistic too. But he was pretty damn convincing."

"What did I say, he has a way with words... Anyway, do you need someone to show you out?"

"I'm alright, I'll find my way out. Once again, thank you for this opportunity."

With that, I left Dr. Reeves office. He was quite the sociable guy. At little egotistic, but a good guy nonetheless.

On my way out, I said hi to the assistant who led me in; she was fun to talk with.

After I reached the lobby, I signed out, and left the building.

Click. Click. Clunk.

I entered my car and thought back on what I had just heard. It was a good harvest for writing material. Normal delusions like Ronald's weren't as exciting or juicy to write about as the kind Harold's were. They lacked substance, for a lack of better words. People wouldn't be excited reading things like "a random guy is trying to drug me." But, people sure would like to read about a CIA conspiracy. Nevertheless, it was just one piece to the ever expanding puzzle that was my article.

***

With the digestion of today's interviews over, I recalled one major problem I was currently facing. Lodging. I didn't remember to book a hotel for the area, so I currently didn't have a place to stay.

So, I went on my phone and pulled up my usual hotel booking app and looked for places around here. I found one that had a reasonable rate for the quality of housing where I could spend the night. So, I quickly started the engine and made my way there.

***

Brrrrrrrm, brrrrrrrm, brrrrrrr— click.

"This is agent White."

"It's taken care of."

"What did he think about the subject?"

"Obviously he thought he was crazy. No one would believe a story like that."

"I see. Good work. Did he tell the journalist where the briefcase was?"

"I didn't hear. I was in a different room..."

"...You're kidding right?"

"...Um...I'm not..."

"Haaaaaah! Did you at least leave a recording device nearby?"

"..."

"Tsk."

"AH! The journalist! He was recording every interview, maybe we can take his recordings and see if Harold said anything."

"Hmm. Good idea. Do you know what his name is, we'll need to know his location."

"His name was Marcus Koch. I don't know where he's at, but that shouldn't be a problem right?"

"Yes, don't worry. We'll handle it from here. You're lucky that journalist is diligent."

"Yes, yes."

Click— rrrrrrrrrrrr....

Agent White hung up the call and the end tone was left playing out. The man talking to Agent White was none other than Dr. Reeves.

After the call, Dr. Reeves reclined in his chair and sighed out, 'thank goodness I got saved.'

It wasn't the first time this had happened. He kept repeating the same mistake with the other patients. As a matter of fact, the facility was being used by the CIA to imprison their targets on USA soil without people getting suspicious. Dr. Reeves was put in charge of the place a dozen years ago when the facility was opened. The CIA had been the ones who built it for the sole purpose of holding prisoners or people who knew too much. While it functioned as a regular psychiatric facility, it doubled as a prison to the people the CIA had captured or broken.

It never occurred to the visitors that there was an abnormally high rate of patients suffering from similar symptoms or backstories. But, that was good for the people running the place, since they would have one more patient if they were aware otherwise.

***

Knock. Knock. Knock. "Room service."

I was suddenly awoken by the sound of someone knocking on my door. I checked the time and saw it was 3:00AM. Furthermore, I didn't remember ordering room service.

Realizing this, I carefully crept towards the door and looked through the peephole.

Sigh. All I saw was a maid wheeling a cart around. It looked like she had gotten the rooms mixed up or something. That freaked me out.

Maybe I was being paranoid. I had heard Harold's story, and it greatly moved me, and maybe subconsciously, I had accepted it, and thought someone was trying to come after me for some reason... Man, I sound like the people I call crazy every day.

When I opened the door to tell the maid that she had the wrong room, she looked very apologetic and apologized multiple times for waking me up. I told her not to worry about it, but she kept apologizing until I decided to just shut the door on her...

What? I'm rude for shutting the door in someone's face? I'm tired, so shut it.

However, I woke up real quick when I turned around. A mountain of a man was standing behind me.

Where did he come from? How didn't I notice him? What was going on? Many thoughts flew through my mind at that moment. Then I realized, was Harold not delusional?

"Where's the recording?"

The man had a rough sounding voice. From the way he spoke and his shape, it reminded me of that blonde guy Harold told me about. My only thought was "oh shit."

***

Damon had entered the hotel room Marcus was in, and snuck up on him. While he wasn't the stealthiest of people, an ordinary civilian wouldn't be able to notice him if Damon tried.

Damon's approach was harsher than most agents would've taken. Instead of stealthily stealing the recording, he basically just barged his way in and demanded Marcus to hand over the recording. One might call this "muscle-brained."

Anyway, Marcus was staring up into Damon's eyes. His eyes were shaking, from shock, fear, paranoia, or whatever, Damon didn't know. However, he soon got irritated when Marcus didn't respond.

"Hey! Hurry up and give me the recording, or else!"

Even though he sounded like a middle school bully, it was quite effective. Marcus was visibly trembling.

Marcus was a guy who hadn't been bullied, let alone had his life threatened. He hadn't even been punched before. There was no way he could stand up to the pressure Damon was putting on him.

"...HEY! ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING?!?"

Marcus still hadn't moved from the spot he was standing. He was like a deer caught in headlights. After the point when Damon had already repeated himself once, Damon got even more annoyed when Marcus still didn't respond, and ended up picking Marcus up by his collar.

However, at that moment, Marcus moved. It was toward his pocket.

Damon wasn't afraid Marcus would pull a knife on him or something, but he was still wary of what Marcus was doing.

However, he soon stood there in disbelief afterwards. When Marcus pulled his hand out of his pocket, Damon could see shards of plastic falling from his hand!

It was the recording! But, Marcus had crushed it before it could be retrieved!

"YOU FUCKING BASTARD!"

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!...

"Haha... hahaha... HAHAHAHAHAHA!"

It looked like Marcus' psyche had collapsed. While Damon vented his rage on Marcus' face, Marcus just laughed like a lunatic the whole while.

At this point in time. Knocking came from the door of the room. It was obvious that this would happen. They were in a hotel, after all. The walls were basically nonexistent, and people could hear even the quietest of sounds, let alone Damon's yelling and punching or Marcus' hysterical laughing.

"OPEN THIS DOOR! YOU'RE BEING A BOTHER TO THE NEIGHBORS!"

While someone obviously as loud as Damon had approached, he called out to the other side trying to quiet them down.

Damon stopped punching. His knuckles were bloody and his breathing was rough.

"Haha... Hah... Ha."

Marcus was still laying on the ground, laughing with a dead expression in his eyes. One could tell he was a weak willed person and easily broke under the quick shock that was Damon.

"Whatever, just be quiet, alright?!"

The man left after hearing Damon stop yelling and punching Marcus, and Marcus' laughing die down.

"Shit!"

SMACK!

The last punch knocked Marcus out.

***

I woke up the next morning with a splitting headache. I didn't know whether that was a dream or not—well, a nightmare, or not, but I couldn't care less. I felt worse than when I had a hangover after I blacked out at a frat party in college.

I went into the bathroom and washed my face and got a glass of water. After I did that, I was shocked when I looked in the mirror. I clearly remembered getting pummeled by that tall blonde man, but my face was perfectly fine. It was really strange, to say the least. There were no scars either.

I was quite confused for a lack of better words. I had no idea why that man left me in my hotel room or how my face didn't look like a work of modern art, but I didn't care either way. If it was just a nightmare, fine. If it was reality, then something big was happening that no one knew about.

I went to check my pants for the recording. As expected, it wasn't there.

My journalistic instincts kicked in as this reeked of a ripe exposé on the CIA. I had to be careful now that I knew Harold wasn't lying. If that was the case, then the first place to start was the cabin. That would confirm my thoughts. I already knew the general location where the cabin was, but it would take me a while until I got there.

While I was processing this, I was struck with a sudden sense of estrangement. The craziness of Harold's story and my rationalization of his insanity made me feel odd. How many people did I label as crazy, only for them to be telling the truth? How hopeless must one feel in that situation? I had no way of knowing. If I told my story, I would be sent straight to the loony-bin, just like they had.

The swamp of my thoughts kept dragging me down, and the realization of this truth made me feel short of breath. It was getting difficult to breathe. I collapsed to my knees and started hyperventilating, my face starting to numb with the continued gasping of air. Then I looked up and saw my reflection in the glass of the window.

I put my hands over my head and started to calm down my breathing. I had gotten too excited and embroiled with a tumultuous amount of strong feelings.

Sigh. I sighed out as I finally regained my calm.

I breathed in and out slowly for a few more seconds, to fully settle down. I recollected my thoughts back to the beginning. The cabin. I would start there. I wouldn't bog my mind down with useless thoughts until I confirmed my suspicions.

***

After affirming my decision, I got myself ready—the usual hygiene necessities. After that, I went down and ate breakfast.

I had a nice plate of pancakes with strawberries and whipped cream on top. It was quite a pleasant time considering what had happened not too long ago.

After finishing consuming my breakfast, I didn't stay any longer and checked out of the hotel. I needed to quickly get to the cabin before anyone could catch up to me, if they were actually still following me.

My car started up fine, thankfully. I was paranoid beyond belief at this point. The man that attacked me last night had brought me over the edge. At this point, I would suspect them drugging my water, like Ronald claimed. I had to find that briefcase and see why there was such a conspiracy.

I set up my GPS for Squaw Creek Rd, and headed there immediately. I was pretty close to the location, so it only took me an hour before I arrived.

When I arrived at the rough location that Harold mentioned, all I saw was an empty field of grass. I didn't see a giant crater or anything like what Harold had mentioned. However, a few years had passed between then and now. The crater was most likely filled in.

I parked my car and locked it, but didn't forget to check my surroundings to satisfy my paranoia.

When Harold told the story, he mentioned he went in a random direction until he found the cabin. He then trekked back along the same path and went perpendicular to his path, and ended up in Beaver Creek. That meant that he either went North or South to find the cabin, since Beaver Creek was towards the East from my current location. Additionally, the mountain Harold went up further narrowed down my search. The mountain Harold went up was to the North East of my current location. While it was an assumption, I would think Harold would run in the opposite direction he had come from, and not uphill at that. Thus, I concluded he went South. While it was my best guess, it wasn't certain, but it was a start. So, I went South.

***

While I was walking through the woods, I kept feeling like someone was watching me. It was probably my paranoia stopping by to say hi, but I still kept my wits about me, just in case.

I don't know how long I had been walking for, but I finally saw the cabin ahead of myself. It was, in fact, towards the South of Squaw Creek Rd. While I was happy that was the case, I suddenly frowned.

The paranoia started to kick in again. I felt like I was being watched even more so than I had been before.

I started walking towards the cabin with the same pace I had been using on my trek here, only to hear the leaves crinkling behind me. I started to feel verrrrry nervous at this point, and I sped up my walking speed.

Crack.

I started to walk faster.

Crack.

I started to lightly jog.

Crack.

At this point, I was in a full-blown sprint. Whatever or whoever was behind me, I didn't want to find out. I just kept moving forward, without looking back.

Creak! SLAM!

I made it into the cabin and slammed the door shut, as if that would keep whatever was behind me out.

There was no time to waste, I had to quickly find the briefcase. If whatever was behind me was someone who was following me, then I had to quickly get what I had come for and escape, if that was even possible.

I looked through the house and quickly found the room with the fireplace. I slipped my hand into the fireplace and found the hatch and opened it.

CLANK.

There it was. The briefcase. As soon as I opened the hatch, the briefcase fell into the fireplace.

It was dirty, as expected of a few years of constant exposure to the weather above. I looked at it, trying to find out if I could open it. Surprisingly, one of the locks was already undone. It was the biometric lock. It seemed like the man from the satellite crash had opened it before giving it to Harold. All that was left were the two traditional latches on either side of the front of the briefcase.

Click. Click.

I quickly unhooked the latches and carefully opened the lid to the briefcase.

SPSSSSSSSSSHHHHHHHH!

A gas sprayed me in the face as soon as I opened it! I tried to shoo the gas away, but it was useless. As if the gas had a mind of its own, it gravitated towards me and was quickly seeping into all the orifices and pores on my body.

I could feel the gas enter my body like I was applying lotion to dry skin. It was a pleasant and refreshing feeling, like being coddled in a warm blanket on a cold night.

However, that soon changed.

PAIN!

My head and body were consumed by an imaginable wave of pain. It was so much that I couldn't even make a sound. I just fell to the ground and seized up. I couldn't do anything. I just had to lay there, in agony, without being able to alleviate the pain in any way, shape or form; I couldn't even scream.

As I laid there, feeling like I was dying—literally—I could feel something move inside my head and in my body. It was such a weird feeling, I could only describe it as a multiple worms squirming inside me. It was like something was growing inside me.

The pain suddenly surged, and I almost blacked-out. The pain I was experiencing in that moment was on a whole 'nother level compared to what I felt at first.

This pain lasted for an undiscernible amount of time. I became numb to the physical pain at some point, by disassociating myself from reality and retreating into my mind. However, after a while, I started to feel pain again. It wasn't physical, however. I didn't even know I could feel a pain such as this, but I did. It was worse than the physical pain I had experience. It was a pain originating from what I presumed to be my soul. While I didn't know if we actually had souls, I couldn't deny that I was feeling a pain that wasn't physical, that didn't stem from my nervous system.

Time seemed to melt away; I had no idea how much time had passed in the outside world, if I was still in that cabin, or whatever. All I knew was that I was in pain. My senses had long left me, and I was in an isolated mind-world by myself and the pain.

...

...

...

How long had it been? Years? Decades? An eternity? I had no idea. I had suffered in constant pain for what felt like a literal eternity in the eyes of humans. However, it was in this infinity that I started to feel a reprieve from the pain. Gradually, over a period, which felt like years, I felt a cooling sensation bathe me. It felt like it was invigorating me, empowering me, giving me a new lease on life.

The cooling sensation started to fade, and with it came my senses. The first to return was my sense of taste. It really didn't alert me of anything other than how dry my mouth was. The next was my smell; it smelt like moldy wood and body odor. I vaguely recalled I was in a cabin all that time ago, was I still there perhaps? Then came my sight. I confirmed I was still in the cabin, thankfully. Then came my sense of touch...

FUCK!

That was my only response. My nerves were alight, like an urban center at night. It felt like I had decided to lay under a giant magnifying glass in the mid-summer's sun. I felt paralyzed, unable to properly move my joints and muscles.

Then came my hearing. All I heard was the gradual crescendo of ringing; my ears were suffering from tinnitus.

After a few minutes, the cooling sensation gradually returned. The blazing sparks from my nerves gradually cooled and started returning to normal, bit-by-bit.

My hearing started to return along with the coolness as well.

...

...

After laying there for a second, relishing in the refreshing feeling of not feeling that intense pain I was previously in, I looked around myself.

On the ground was the opened briefcase—the progenitor of this pain.

I looked inside the case and only found a small container and nothing else. The container was empty. There was a crack in the container pointing outward, however. That was probably where the gas sprayed out from.

Looking around some more, I notice the ground around me. It is wet and dirty. I then notice something else: my clothes are soaking wet.

If I had to infer what happened, I would say that I had sweat so much that I created a small pool of perspiration. It would also give credence to my dry mouth. The "dirt" I didn't know what it was. It could be clumped up salt or other excretions from sweating, but I didn't really pay too much attention to it.

At that moment, I realized something; the thing that was following me, what happened to it? Also, how long had I been in the cabin?

If I looked at the sun, I would assume that no time had passed. But, how could that be possible? I experienced years of torment and pain. How could time have basically stood still? I know that when people experience high-stress situations, they perceive time as passing slower, but to experience what felt like an eternity in a matter of maybe a minute or two? Impossible! How could that be possible? No matter how I look at it, it's not possible. But, I have to accept that, since it appears it happened. I check my phone to confirm it, and lo and behold, only a minute or so had passed! While I'm dumbstruck by such a realization, I don't stay that way for long.

BANG!

I hear the front door get broken down. I don't know who or what was following me, but I don't want to find out. I quickly run to the backdoor and furiously rip it open, with almost enough strength to rip the door off its hinges.

I'm shocked. When was I this strong? Is this adrenaline or something else? I don't care at this moment. RUN! That's all I can do. If I stay and try to fight... Pfft! Don't make me laugh, I can barely lift half my body weight comfortably, let alone confront possibly that big blonde man from last night. The dude's arm was bigger around than my legs!

I break into a desperate sprint and dash into the woods once again, not looking back to see what I fear may be there.