“Every night, doc,” I said, rubbing tired eyes. “Every night. It never ends.”

“Have you tried sedatives?”

“Yeah, of course. The last guy prescribed me something. It made it worse. Without the meds, I wake up in a cold sweat. With them, I can’t wake up. No escape. All night. All night the bugs.”

“Tell me again about these bugs.”

“I don’t know what else to tell you, doc.” I leaned back, stared at the ceiling. He’d put Dali prints up there. Sadistic bastard. I closed my eyes. “Millipedes,” I told him again. “Hundreds of millipedes. What’s that make? Hundreds of thousands of legs. Crawling. Squirming.”

Dr. Doom cleared his throat. Oh, his name was Dhamri or something Indian like that, but I called him Dr. Doom. I hate my HMO. “Perhaps… perhaps there is something else that can help.” His voice, swimming in my consciousness, made me think I was calling Dell for technical support.

“What? We’ve tried all the drugs. Nothing helps.”

“There are… older techniques,” he said. His voice became softer, more urgent. I opened my eyes, turned away from the surreal landscapes, and tried to focus on him. He leaned forward in his chair, studying me.

I couldn’t help but laugh, a bitter cough of a chuckle. “What? Like yoga or something?”

His smile was brief. “Hypnosis. We can try hypnosis.”

“Aw, come on, doc-“

“Please, Mr. West. Please keep an open mind. Hypnosis has a long and verifiable history in psychoanalysis.”

I sighed. “Fine. Fine. I guess it’s worth a try. What did you have in mind?”

“A post-hypnotic suggestion. Something to convince your subconscious. You say they are the same every night, these… millipedes?”

“Yep, never changes.”

“Good, good, we can work with that. All we have to do is redirect your subconscious. To tell it that the millipedes are actually something else. A nice beach scene. Beautiful women.”

I snorted. “Okay, whatever. Do the hocus-pocus thing.”

“Please, Mr. West. Nothing quite so crude. Now, sit back and relax. Concentrate on the sound of my voice…”



I look all around the room for bugs – real ones. I know I’m not crazy, not yet, but if I don’t get some sleep soon, all bets are off. Nothing. The room’s clean. It always is, but I can never shake the feeling that these nightmares are the result of real bugs sneaking up on me once the light’s out.

Climbing into bed, I reach over and click off the bedside lamp, lying in the stillness. I’m exhausted, but scared – scared that when I close my eyes, the creepy-crawlies will return.

“Only a dream,” I mutter. “They’re only a dream. There are no millipedes. Nothing in this room but me.

Sleep finds me.

Bright figures surround me. I wake with a shout. Not bugs. Not bugs, I think, settling back to my sweat-soaked pillow and closing my eyes again. At least they’re not bugs.

I’m running down a dark alley, pursued by the figures. Men. Men in bright face paint, all primary colors.

Clowns.

Their smiles widen, brilliant red lips crawling over their faces.

I scream.

There is no one to hear me.