The Experiment of Dreams

by Brandon Zenner

  Ben nodded.

  “You’ll receive five hundred dollars up front, either when you arrive at the lab or when the limo picks you up. The remainder will be given to you after the presentation.”

  “Cash, right?”

  “Cash.”

  “And lunch is on you?”

  Dr. Wulfric laughed. “Of course. I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He motioned to the waitress for the bill by signing his name on an imaginary piece of paper in the air.

  “Well, then,” Ben said. “I have a lot to think about.”

  Chapter 3

  Ben conjured up images of the lab in his mind. Questions circled his brain, specifically: What the hell is going on in the Hamptons?

  Dr. Wright had shared some unfortunate news with Ben just a day ago: the old doctor was retiring. This was a huge blow to Ben, both financially and for his own mental well-being. Ben needed the stability—the scheduled tests and rigorous sterility of the hospitals. No matter how laborious the experiments seemed at the time, the hospital was his life outside of his real life. And lately, his real life was nothing special.

  Ben went back to his apartment after his meeting with Dr. Peter Wulfric. He walked to the center of his living room and looked around. The unpacked stacks of boxes in the dining room corner were still there from when he moved in. He didn’t know what was in most of them. The kitchen cabinets were empty, except for a few cans of soup. The refrigerator was the same. He even stopped buying milk because it went bad before he could finish it.

  His life was boring. And as he looked at the seat on the couch where he always sat— looking up at the painting across the room as he drank more, and more, and more—he became more solemn.

  When was the last time I had people over? Have I ever had people over?

  Ben got the bottle of Jameson from the kitchen counter and rinsed a glass in the sink, dirty from the previous night. It was early, but he needed a stiff one.

  This experiment, this test, whatever it was, did have one thing going for it: it was exciting. Ben had no idea what it could possibly be about, but one thing was certain, it was not a simple sleep-deprivation test.

  As the booze sank in and his mind calmed to a gentle flow, he rationalized his thoughts, reflecting back to his childhood … and how it all began:

  As a child, Ben suffered from extreme and somewhat unusual migraines. Not only did he often get the usual pain and nausea associated with the headaches, but he also suffered from a condition called aura migraines. They would strike without warning, starting out as a small blur in the corner or center of his vision—like looking into a bright light bulb then looking away, with the afterimage of the bulb still burned in his eyes. The small blur would grow, spreading fast, until it took over most, or all, of his field of vision. Bright and blurry colored lights, in an array of lightning-bolt fractal patterns, would consume his sight. His vision would return about a half-hour later, but the world would look like he was viewing it through a piece of smoky glass.

  Vertigo, nausea, and confusion followed, ranging in severity from a mild nuisance to near disablement—not being able to read or understand words written on a page. The experience could last anywhere from a few hours to a couple of days. Oddly enough, the pain was typically mild during these episodes, making it difficult for doctors to make an initial diagnosis. Information on aura migraines was sparse when Ben was a child.

  Ben’s parents, and then foster parents, took him to specialist after specialist—each doctor trying to determine the cause and trigger for these strange headaches. Some doctors believed they were strokes, the symptoms being similar, although not nearly as severe. Other doctors believed they were purely diet related. Some even suggested they were not neurological whatsoever, but caused by torn retinas in his eyes. Ben went on restricted diets, endured CAT scans, MRI’s, vision exams, and hearing tests.

  As he grew older, the aura migraines became less frequent—attacks occurred maybe once a year, sometimes the respite lasting as long as two to three years. The trigger for these migraines was never determined, with all the initial tests done in vain.

  An acquaintance referred Ben and his foster family to Dr. Stuart Wright when Ben was barely a teenager. The then forty-something-year-old doctor was making a name for himself in the field of Neurology with a particular fascination in sleep related sciences. Dr. Wright was the first doctor to diagnose Ben’s condition as aura migraines, ruling out the possibility of strokes or a diet related allergy. This was a huge relief for Ben and his foster parents. Now they had a name for his condition.

  Dr. Wright worked with Ben to make the tests as stress free as possible. He believed the constant transition from specialist-to-specialist and test-to-test was compounding the stress on Ben’s mind, further fueling his condition. Dr. Wright explained to Ben in a friendly and factual manner the science behind his condition: it was a chemical and electrical response between nerves in his brain, made worse by a sudden onslaught of blood throughout his head.

  Ben was finally able to understand what was happening as it happened and not panic, which normally compounded the effects. He could feel and identify the areas in his head where the blood was congesting as the aura migraine was twinkling before his eyes. The pressure started at the base of his neck, where his spine and skull met, and worked its way up to the crown of his head. It felt like small bubbles inflating against his skull, ready to burst, then suddenly deflating.

  It was during these initial tests, after talking to Ben about his sleep patterns and irregularities, that Dr. Wright had told Ben that he had much more going on in his head than just aura migraines. These peculiar observations further fueled Dr. Wright’s own research, and grew to consume the majority of his professional career.

  Ben’s dreams were vivid experiences. He could remember his dreams in full detail, hours after waking. He was aware he was sleeping while he was sleeping, and eventually, with plenty of practice and understanding, he could control some or all aspects of his dreams down to the smallest detail.

  Dr. Wright had been familiar with similar studies done on lucid dreaming prior to meeting Ben. The subjects in those studies reported the experience being just as realistic in touch, taste, smell, and clarity as when conscious. Ben told the doctor that the environments he experienced around him while dreaming lucidly were brighter and entirely more vivid than they were in real life—somehow more realistic. His senses were heightened and extremely sensitive. Experiences came straight from the brain, bypassing the physical body and world. Ben felt textures: grass under foot, bumpy brick walls, and sunlight on his skin throughout his body in a stimulating rapture. Sexual intimacies were full-body, euphoric experiences and highly addictive, especially when Ben was a teenage boy.

  After some initial tests, Dr. Wright deduced that Benjamin’s brain reached the REM phase of sleep faster than normal, and the activity in his brain during REM was much more active and alive than any person previously recorded.

  With this knowledge, the working relationship between Ben and Dr. Stuart Wright took off, even blossoming near friendship levels.

  Their relationship further increased after Ben’s foster parents died in a freak car accident coming home from a Halloween party. Their car skidded off the highway and hit a telephone pole. His foster mother died instantly, while his foster father survived halfway to the hospital.

  The accident might have happened because the roads were icy that night. It might have happened because they were drinking at the Halloween party, or because they were driving over the speed limit. Whatever the case, the accident did happen, and his foster parents did die within an hour of each other.

  Ben’s estranged grandmother agreed to take him in while he was still a minor under the stipulation that Ben abide by her strict living conditions. Unbeknownst to Ben at the time, she had only agreed to take him in so she could declare him as a dependent and receive a tax break. His grandmother, a woman he barely knew, had no business supporting a teenager—or anyone
for that matter. She could have taken Ben in when he was eight years old, when his birth parents died in a boating accident while he was at Sunday school, but she didn’t. Ben’s foster parents told him that his birth mother was given up for adoption by his grandmother when she was just a baby. His birth mother and grandmother didn’t meet until later on in life. Ben never questioned his grandmother about his real mom and doubted she would tell him much if he did.

  Ben was young when his birth parents died, but he could remember the details of that day clearly. He had been in Sunday school, sitting on the ground playing with wooden blocks. Two uniformed police officers walked into the classroom with their caps in their hands. All the kids stopped playing to stare at the police officers. His teacher, Mrs. Hughes, stood with her palms over her mouth as the officers spoke to her in hushed voices. The crackling noises from the radios on their belts cut through the stillness of the classroom.

  The official report stated that his father had a freak heart attack while steering his boat when out for a leisurely afternoon cruise. He lost control, and the boat veered wildly before flipping over the surface of the water like a skipping stone. A gash on his mother’s head indicated she was most likely knocked unconscious before drowning.

  That was all there was to it.

  Ben’s grandmother only agreed to take him after his foster parents died since he was already a grown teenager and would be out of the house as soon as he turned eighteen. She never shared with Ben any benefit of the tax rebates she got from Uncle Sam, but rather made Ben pay rent while he was under her roof. He was an incursion in her life, an unwanted thorn in her side, and he knew it. Ben was a stranger, merely a lodger in her neat and weathered little home, and he did not want to be there.

  It was during this time, while Ben was living with his grandmother, that Dr. Wright gave him the best possible support he could offer: he gave Ben a job, a purpose in life. Ben no longer had to pay for office visits, but rather received pay to volunteer as a test subject.

  A year later, with money also coming in from waiting tables at The Pit Boss BBQ, he was able to move out from his aging grandmother’s house, leaving her alone to wallow upon her recliner in angry solitude, drinking glass after glass of cheap boxed wine. He moved to a small one-bedroom apartment that he rented for a couple of years. That time of his life was painful and confusing— blurry even, as if the essence of time did not pertain to those cloudy years. There was no one around to help him become a man, to see him through the difficult process of becoming an adult and dealing with the loss of his parents and foster parents. He moved farther upstate soon after to distance himself from the pain of his childhood and to begin a future as a man.

  The only happiness he received came from the hospital—from hearing Dr. Wright’s voice—or his receptionist—on the phone to set up another visit. The doctor’s voice meant money, and money meant rent, food, and paying bills. Money equaled adulthood. His mind relaxed when he heard the phone ring. If he could, at nineteen, he would have worked at the hospital day and night. During a few of the trials, he nearly did.

  The early studies and tests were exceedingly enlightening for Ben. He was an experimental subject in everything from simple sleep deprivation studies to the testing of pharmaceutical-grade sleeping pills—everything from mild melatonin to zolpidem tartrate.

  In a way, those early tests were genuinely fun to perform. He learned about his mind, how sleep patterns worked, and how his brain waves changed during different activities and times of the day. He learned that his mind cycled from beta waves during normal day-to-day activities to alpha waves when he became calm, relaxed, or meditative. These brain waves were much higher in frequency than the theta and delta waves, which occurred during sleep.

  With his increased knowledge and awareness of how his mind worked, Ben was able to take control of his lucid dreaming on a scale never before seen. There was one milestone test Ben completed where he was able to respond to questions using eye twitches while in a deep sleep. Ben could hear Dr. Wright’s voice from within his subconscious and decipher a rational decision on how to respond.

  The hospital recognized Ben’s eagerness to participate in these tests and experiments, making them more frequent, and increasing his pay. They recognized his ability to truly flex his mental capabilities while under the influence of mind-altering medication. Thus began the long relationship between Dr. Stuart Wright and Benjamin Walker, and the many years of tests and experiments that followed.

  As the years passed, the jobs rarely changed in frequency.

  Ben took a lull in the testing during the eight years he was married, but then greatly increased his participation after the accident that left his wife dead and his business in shambles. Although his friendship with Dr. Wright was more on the professional side, the man was always there for him. When Ben needed money and asked the doctor for work, Dr. Wright always had some new experiment, some new drug, or a new sleeping pattern to offer.

  At present, Ben did not care how long or strenuous the assignment might be. He just wanted to work and keep his mind active. When he was alone with his thoughts without his dear wife Emma, drinking unaccompanied on the couch, his mind would veer to dark and dangerous places.

  Ben swigged a mouthful of whiskey and sighed. What did he have to lose by going to see the lab? Even if he decided not to participate, he would be five hundred dollars richer; and maybe he would learn a thing or two. Judging by the stacks of unfinished books on the coffee table, learning was something he could use. Besides, it wasn’t like Dr. Wulfric posed any sort of threat. If Dr. Wright trusted the man, then Ben could too. With Dr. Wright retiring, what choices did Ben really have? The bar wouldn’t hire him full time. He was lucky enough to fill in on shifts when they became available.

  An hour went by as Ben contemplated his prospects, and with the time went a quarter of the Jameson bottle.

  He retrieved Dr. Wulfric’s business card from the bedside table, and dialed the number. A man with a nasal voice answered the phone, identified himself, and said Dr. Wulfric was not in. Ben was talking to his assistant, Dr. Charles Egan, and Dr. Egan would love to set up a date for Ben to visit. Ben asked, “How about tomorrow?”

  Dr. Egan answered: “Tomorrow would be great. Would you like the limo to pick you up, or would you prefer to drive?”

  Ha! The Limo!

  “The limo would be great, thank you.”

  After a few additional mouthfuls of whiskey, he found himself in bed early. He didn’t get drunk and stare at the painting as usual—losing himself in loss and regret—but rather, his mind was preoccupied with his visit to the lab. Having something to look forward to was a strange feeling. A feeling he had not felt in quite some time.

  A limo is picking me up!

  Chapter 4

  The limo stopped at the gated entrance to Stone Hollow. The driver lowered his window, leaned out to type on the security keypad, and the gates opened before them. The car continued along the narrow pebble-lined driveway, curving to the left and right past rolling sand dunes covered in patches of low scrub-brush. After a few twists and turns, the driveway entered a clearing. To the left was a two-story house with an attached two-car garage. The car stopped before the house and the driver got out to open the back door. Warm air, laden with the salty thickness of the sea, rushed inside.

  Ben got out, stretching his legs and looked about. The house was rectangular, with the driveway leading to the narrow side so that the front of the house faced off to the right. This was strange, Ben thought, since he had never seen a house that faced the side of a property.

  The house was large, but not the mansion he’d envisioned when told all about Mr. Timothy Kalispell, the owner of Stone Hollow Estate. During the long drive up, Dr. Wulfric told Ben that Mr. Kalispell was a multimillionaire, perhaps billionaire, who liked to spend his money on lavishness and luxuries, and sometimes oddities and obsessions. The house Ben saw before him had maybe four bedrooms.

  “Is he home?
” Ben asked Dr. Wulfric as the old doctor pulled himself out of the car.

  “Mr. Kalispell? No, he’s rarely here. This is his summer home. He brings his family here once in a while, but I haven’t heard word of him coming down.”

  Ben could smell the ocean and hear it along in with the breeze, but all he could see were the rolling sand dunes and the wild thorn bushes and trees.

  “This way, Ben.” Dr. Wulfric started walking toward the house as the limo driver drove farther up the driveway. Ben noticed that the driveway swerved past the house and disappeared around a bend. Dr. Wulfric caught Ben’s gaze and stopped, “Oh,” he said, “Were you asking if Mr. Kalispell is here—in this house?” He pointed to the two-story building, the bottom half a façade of light oval stones, the second half wood-shingled in soft blue, almost grey, with three white bay-windows facing outwards, and one large half-moon window cresting out of the roof from the attic.

  “This isn’t the house, Ben; this is the guesthouse. Rather, it was a guesthouse. Now it’s our lab. Originally it had a pool, I believe, but the pool was filled in long ago.” The doctor laughed. “No, no, Mr. Kalispell wouldn’t be here, his house is farther up the driveway.”

  They walked to a door on the side of the building. Dr. Wulfric found his keys, unlocked the door, and held it open for Ben to enter. The entryway looked more like a home than a lab, with a Persian rug on the ground and colorful sconces on the walls. The row of starched lab coats hanging on the wall contrasted with the cozy feel.

  Dr. Wulfric exchanged his jacket for a lab coat, asking Benjamin to do the same. Immediately Dr. Wulfric looked like a scientist—a stereotypical mad scientist. His white hair and beard, combined with his glasses, white shirt and tie, changed him from a gentle old man into a serious doctor.

  “Okay, Ben, this way.” Dr. Wulfric opened a second door and searched a moment for a light switch on the other side. Overhead lights flickered to life, and Ben entered the lab.