The leather chair in Dr. Mitchell’s office always squeaked when I shifted my weight. I stared at the geometric patterns on his rug, trying to find the words.
“It’s the same dream, Dr. Mitchell.” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Every single night. It always starts the same way.”
Dr. Mitchell leaned forward, adjusting his glasses, and said,
“Go on, Nathan. We’ve talked about your anxiety, but you’ve never broken down the dream itself. When did your dream start?”
“It all started when I was fourteen.” I said, rubbing my temples. “Right around the time my family abruptly moved away from Oakridge Academy. In the dream, I’m fourteen again. I’m wearing that stiff, blue school uniform. I’m standing in the gravel parking lot of Oakridge.”
“What happens in the dream?” Dr. Mitchell asked.
“It’s field trip day.” I shuddered, the memory washing over me with sudden, icy clarity. “The yellow school buses are idling. Exhaust fumes fill the air. All the kids are laughing. My best friend, Steve, is sitting next to me on the bus. We’re driving somewhere deep into the woods. To this day, I can’t remember the name of the place. The sign out front is always blurred in my mind, like water on glass.”
Dr. Mitchell nodded, scribbling notes, and said,
“How do you feel when the bus arrives, Nathan?”
“Terrified.” I admitted. “The moment the brakes hiss and the doors fold open, the atmosphere shifts. The teachers… they start acting weird. Mrs. Gable, my homeroom teacher, usually smiled constantly; but in the dream, her smile was too wide. Static. Her eyes don’t blink. The tour guides at the facility are the same. They move like puppets. They don’t look at our faces; they look at our necks.”
I swallowed hard, and my throat was dry at this point.
“They line us up.” I continued, my hands starting to tremble. “They lead us down these long, windowless concrete corridors. Deep underground, the air smells like copper and rotten vinegar. I look at Steve, and he’s crying silently, but he keeps walking. We get lured into this massive, central room. No windows. Just a heavy iron door. The moment I step inside, every instinct in my body screams that something is horribly, unspeakably wrong.”
“What do you do, Nathan?” Dr. Mitchell asked, while stopping his pen.
“I panic. I drop to my knees and start praying to God to save me. The teachers ignore me. They start grabbing kids by the shoulders, pushing them into a smaller, darker room at the back. Steve gets pushed in first. The door slams shut behind them. They never come out, Doc. Never.”
The office was dead silent. I could hear the clock ticking on the wall.
“Then the sounds start.” I whispered, tears blurring my vision. “Through the walls, I can hear chanting. Low, rhythmic, guttural chanting in a language that doesn’t sound human, and beneath the chanting… the screams. The kids are screaming, screaming for their parents, screaming as if they’re being torn apart piece by piece. I bolted. Three other kids, including myself, ran for the iron door. We fought our way out into the woods, but some of them, such as Steve… they weren’t as lucky as we were. Right when the chanting peaks, right when the screams cut to silence… I wake up. I still don’t know what it means, Dr. Mitchell.”
I looked up. Dr. Mitchell was pale. His knuckles were white against his legal pad. He looked genuinely, visibly disturbed.
“Nathan,” Dr. Mitchell said carefully, his voice strained. “Dreams like this… they rarely come from nowhere. This sounds like an extreme manifestation of repressed trauma. Did anything… Did anything abusive or traumatic happen to you at Oakridge Academy?”
“No.” I said immediately, shaking my head. “Nothing. I had a normal childhood. I don’t remember anything bad happening to me.”
“Are you absolutely sure, Nathan? The mind can bury horrific things to protect itself.” Dr. Mitchell said.
“I’m sure, Dr. Mitchell.” I insisted, though a cold bead of sweat rolled down my spine. “It’s just a nightmare.”
Dr. Mitchell checked the clock, and said,
“Our time is up for today, Nathan. Please, think about what we discussed.”
I stood up, said my goodbyes to Dr. Mitchell, and left the office.
The drive home was suffocating. My mind raced like an engine on the verge of exploding. Repressed memories. The words echoed in my head with every turn of my steering wheel. Was Dr. Mitchell right? Was my brain hiding something from me?
Instead of going to my apartment, I drove straight to my mother’s house. I needed answers.
When I walked through the front door, she was in the kitchen, pouring tea.
“Nathan! What a pleasant surprise!” My mother smiled.
“Mom!” I blurted out, skipping any pleasantries. “Did anything bad happen to me when I was a kid? At Oakridge?”
The ceramic teacup slipped from her fingers. It shattered on the linoleum floor, splashing hot amber liquid across her shoes. She froze, her face draining of all color.
“What? No. Of course not!” she stammered, avoiding my eyes as she instantly dropped to her knees to clean the mess. “Why would you ask that?”
“Because of the nightmare, Mom. The one I’ve had every night since I was fourteen.” I said.
I sat my mother down at the kitchen table, took her trembling hands in mine, and told her everything. I told her about the bus, the underground room, the chanting, and Steve.
By the time that I finished, my mother was sobbing uncontrollably. She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking violently.
“I hoped…” she choked out through her tears, “I prayed to God that those memories would never return. They told us that the trauma blocks would hold.”
“Mom, what are you talking about?” My heart hammered against my ribs.
My mother stood up, walked to the hallway closet with weak steps, and pulled down an old, dusty plastic bin. She dug through it until she pulled out a faded yellow newspaper clipping from twelve years ago. She slid it across the table.
The headline stared back at me in bold, ugly black ink:
OAKRIDGE ACADEMY CLOSED: FACULTY ARRESTED IN UNDERGROUND CULT RITUALS [1]
My breath hitched. I read the text frantically. The article detailed how the principal, the teachers, and the owners of a local secluded retreat had built a massive underground temple. They were a cult. They had been systematically sacrificing students to a nameless, ancient deity for power and prosperity.
“You were there, Nathan.” my mother whispered, clutching a tissue. “We had no idea. We trusted them. The police raided the facility after you and three other children escaped into the woods. You had a massive panic attack in the temple room, which delayed them just long enough for you to break away; but Steve… and twelve other children… they were already gone by the time the police broke down the doors.”
My mother gripped my hand, and said,
“The state psychiatrists used intensive hypnotherapy to bury the memory. They said that it was the only way you could live a normal life. I am so, so sorry.”
A bizarre wave of emotions washed over me. Horror, pure and unadulterated, at the fact that my nightmares were real; but beneath the horror, a strange, overwhelming sense of relief blossomed. I wasn’t crazy. The puzzle pieces finally fit. I knew the truth.
I leaned forward and wrapped my arms around my mother, hugging her tightly as she cried. As I held her, looking over her shoulder out into the dark evening, a chilling thought crept into my mind. The other three survivors who escaped with me… do they still have the same nightmares?
Later that night, I lay in my old childhood bed. The house was dead quiet. The weight of the truth felt heavy, but for the first time in over a decade, I felt like I might actually sleep without fear.
I rolled over to turn off the bedside lamp, but my hand brushed against the edge of the nightstand drawer. It slid open an inch. Inside, poking out from beneath an old yearbook, was the corner of a glossy photograph.
Curious, I pulled it out. It was a group photo from the morning of that final, fateful field trip. There I was, fourteen years old, smiling beside Steve. Behind us stood the faculty of Oakridge Academy.
My eyes drifted to the back row, focusing on a man standing right behind Mrs. Gable. He was younger then, without glasses, but the sharp jawline, the distinct smirk, and the piercing, cold eyes were unmistakable.
It was Dr. Mitchell.
Credit: Noel Haynes II
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