― John Steinbeck
I don’t usually counsel people experiencing paranormal phenomena but listening to this patient I coulden’t help but be intrigued.
I sat patiently as he continued recounting his experience.
“I found myself wet and shivering, lying on my bed, covered with seaweed.”
“Do you sleepwalk?”
“Never.”
I stared at Mark trying to make sense of his story.
A lot of what he told me came down to a form of hysteria, particularly, the strange writing that appeared on his chest.
It’s not uncommon for sub cutaneous phenomena and mystical obsessions to present themselves in hysterics and in male patients they usually tie in with an underlying gender conflict.
“I think this has something to do with Edi,” he muttered.
His offhand remark caught me by surprise. “What would your girlfriend have to do with your sleepwalking?”
He stood up and took off his shirt and turned to show me his back. I gasped.
“Edi made you get a pentacle tattoo on your back?”
He nodded and sat back down despondently, not even bothering to put his shirt back on.
“I began living with Edi in April and she told me about two weeks later she was a witch.”
I could see the fact bothered him—he was wringing the fabric of the shirt with his hands.
“Why don’t you put that back on and then tell me all about it?”
He stood and mechanically dressed himself—his face devoid of all expression.
I sat back and lit my pipe. “Do you smoke?” I gestured to the cigarette box. He nodded and fished out a Marlborough and lit up.
I waited until he sat back down and took a deep drag and then watched him exhale and visibly relax.
I take it you’d never have become involved with Edi if you knew she practiced witchcraft.”
“For sure, but it’s even worse than that—she’s mixed up with Satanists too. I wish I never slept with her.”
“What specifically are you afraid of?”
“My pastor told me there could be a transference of spirits from her to me—even more so, since we had sex.”
I heard of cases of demonization resulting from intercourse with a possessed person. One of my colleagues, a Jesuit priest, treated a young woman in a similar situation—but frankly, this was beyond my expertise.
“I’m sure this makes sense to you viewed through your belief system—I personally don’t believe, but I can refer you on to a colleague…”
“Look, Doctor Evans—I’m a lapsed Catholic—I don’t particularly believe myself, but there are elements here I can’t explain.”
I took a deep breath. “Can you elaborate?”
“My sleepwalking episode was not the first time—it happened last week too.
I woke up on the couch, fully dressed, with my knuckles skinned and scratches on my face. Ever since then, I asked the concierge to lock my door from the outside to prevent my going out.”
“Could he have forgotten to lock the door?”
“No, because I always try it to make sure. I can assure you it was locked that night.”
“What about the window or a balcony?”
“No balcony and my room’s on the third floor.”
“That is strange.”
I felt a tingle at the back of my skull. I had researched mystic phenomena associated with hysteria and had read about bizarre manifestations including levitation—but flying in and out of a third floor window? It seemed less a case for psychoanalysis and more a role for Bell Lugosi.
“You don’t believe me, do you?”
Frankly, I didn’t—believe his interpretation, that is, but I had to do something.
“Suppose we conduct an experiment. I’ll accompany you back to your apartment and I’ll stay overnight. You’re exhausted and look like you haven’t slept for weeks. What do you say?”
He agreed. I half-hoped he wouldn’t, but he was already taking 20 mg. of Ambien to try to sleep and I was concerned he might become addicted.
I didn’t believe for one moment that there was anything paranormal involved, but what happened next made me doubt my judgment.