I'm a Therapist, and My Patient is Going to be the Next School Shooter

by Dr Harper

  “Alright, doctor…” he said with an eye roll. “Have a good night.”

  I let him out the front door and double checked my locks from my phone (the whole system is digital).

  Then I called Noah for the fifth time that night.

  “Answer your goddamn phone, Noah.”

  Voicemail again. Where the hell was he?

  I gave up and then called Howard and Jane’s home. This was another one of my not-so-ethical moments, but give me a break, the adrenaline was still surging.

  “Hello?” It was Jane.

  “Jane,” I said. “This is Dr. Harper. I think I just received a visit from your husband.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Someone was out on my lawn, eating something,” I said. “It reminded me a lot of Howard’s nightmares. And that Zombie guy all over the news.”

  “What– What are you implying?”

  “I’m implying that I strongly recommend you both come in for an appointment tomorrow morning,” I said. “Or I’ll have no choice but to share my suspicions with the authorities. Everyone in town will hear the police sirens at your house.”

  “Are you– Are you blackmailing us into coming to therapy?”

  “Not blackmail,” I said. “Just a strong recommendation.”

  I hung up the phone and made my way up to bed. My mind was still going a million miles an hour. By 3am, my brain finally surrendered to my body’s exhaustion.

  But as I drifted to sleep, I was plagued by dreams of a hooded figure… kneeling over Noah… and tearing out his stomach.

  ◆◆◆

  I got to work early, hoping that Noah would be in early again.

  But his car wasn’t in the parking lot.

  I opened up the office and saw a note on his desk. I picked it up, but before I could start reading it, I felt someone behind me. I spun around, fist raised.

  “Woah it’s just me, doc!”

  “Oh my god, Noah.” I let out a big breath of relief and shocked myself by pulling him into a tight hug.

  As soon as I realized what I had done, I backed away.

  “Sorry about that,” I said stiffly, brushing my sleeves. “I– I thought something had happened to you.”

  He broke into a huge grin. “Aww! You like me.”

  “No I don’t,” I said. “But I’m glad you weren’t eaten.”

  “Eaten?” He raised his eyebrows. “I was just camping with my friends. That’s why I came in early yesterday – so I could leave early. I left you a note!”

  “Of course you did,” I muttered. “Could you please get me some water?

  “Sure!” He still had that big stupid grin on his face.

  “And stop smiling like that,” I snapped.

  “Sorry, I can’t help it,” he called out from the bubbler. “You like me!”

  “I don’t like you!”

  Jesus Christ. I sounded like a fucking middle schooler.

  ◆◆◆

  Jane was glaring daggers at me from the couch, but Howard and Eric seemed happy to be back in the office.

  “Howard, did you have any nightmares last night?”

  “Yes,” he said anxiously. “During my evening nap.”

  “And what time was that?”

  “I think around 8?”

  Right when I got home. Shocker.

  “Jane and Eric, do you monitor Howard when he sleeps?” I asked. “To ensure he stays safe?”

  “We try,” said Eric. “But sometimes we’re both out of the house. I drive Uber at night to help pay the rent and insurance. And grandma needs to sleep too.”

  “Given the circumstances, you don’t think a home security camera setup might be a good investment?”

  “Absolutely not,” Jane spoke up. “We don’t need the FBI watching us in our homes.”

  I find it very obnoxious when people present problems with obvious solutions, dismiss the solution, and continue complaining about the problem.

  “Howard, would you be willing to try EMDR today?” I asked. “There are varying opinions on it, but I’ve seen great results on past patients with PTSD.”

  “Okay.” He nodded. “What is it?”

  “Eye movement desensitization and reprocessing,” I said. “Essentially we’ll recall distressing memories, and then help you process them in a healthier way.”

  Some people think it’s no more effective than a placebo, but that doesn’t matter to me if it’s producing results. It all just depends on the patient.

  “What does the eye part have to do with it?”

  “During REM sleep, your eyes move side-to-side rapidly. Using bilateral stimulation, we can replicate that state and get you in touch with subconscious feelings that may be unprocessed or repressed.”

  “This sounds dangerous!” said Jane.

  “Howard is in a safe environment, and I’m here to help him walk through any traumatic emotions or memories that resurface.”

  “Come on, grandma,” Eric pushed. “Let’s give it a try.”

  She shook her head. “Fine. But we’re staying with him.”

  “I’d actually prefer we do this alone–”

  “That’s not happening,” she said firmly. “We all stay, or we all go.”

  I did my best to conceal my frustration. She was more stubborn than me, but I could still work with this.

  As we began the session, I dimmed the lights and started the eye scanner. There are a lot of different tools for EMDR, but I like the eye scanner. It’s basically just a horizontal set of small lights that stream back and forth.

  Howard took to the scanner pretty quickly, which was a good sign.

  After some initial warm up questions, I asked softly: “Howard, can you return to your family vacation up north?”

  “Yes,” he said, eyes moving back and forth with the lights.

  “Can you return to your early morning walk with Jane?”

  He paused for a moment. “Yes.”

  “What’s the first thing you can remember before the blackout?”

  He paused again. “We’re walking along the road and we see a farm to our left.”

  “Very good,” I said. “Can you tell me about that farm, Howard?”

  “There are animals,” he said. “Goats. Horses. And cows.”

  “Are there any people?”

  “No.” He shook his head.

  “Are you certain?”

  His eyes were moving quickly. Then they widened.

  “There’s a little girl,” he said, suddenly looking panicked. “Oh god–”

  “Howard, it’s okay,” I said calmly.

  “No it’s not!” he shouted. “Oh god, what am I doing?”

  “That’s enough!” Jane stood up and flipped on the lights.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I yelled. “He’s in a very vulnerable state.”

  “I’m filing a complaint,” she said, forcing Howard off the couch. “Your license should be taken away.”

  “Eric, please talk sense into her,” I said desperately. “It’s very dangerous for him to leave in this state. At least give me a moment to ground him.”

  Eric looked conflicted, but then shook his head. “Sorry.”

  They left me standing there alone in my office, heart pounding.

  I still had no idea what was going on with Howard.

  And now he was more unstable than ever.

  ◆◆◆

  “Graphic new security footage has surfaced of The Zombie’s latest murder. While we can’t see the killer’s face, it does shed light on a strange new behavior. In the video, we can clearly see The Zombie punching itself in the face after the attack–”

  My car radio faded out to static. Damn it. That meant I was almost home.

  It was still a bit light out, which made my house much less creepy. I was relieved to see no hooded figures on the walk from my garage to the house.

  After locking up, I cooked myself a small dinner and spent the rest of the night reviewing my ot
her patient files. I had fallen behind on everyone else, which I tend to do when I become obsessed with a patient.

  Before going to bed, I brushed my teeth and looked out the bathroom window over my yard. The silhouettes of trees looked ominous, but everything seemed normal.

  Until I saw a shadow on the edge of the lawn and woods.

  I didn’t have a tree there.

  Heart racing, I took out my phone and called 911. Then I grabbed my gun and bolted downstairs. I was careful to be quiet when I opened the back door, hoping to sneak up on them unnoticed.

  As I got closer, I recognized the same hooded figure from last night – kneeling on all fours, and feeding on something.

  “Stop!” I shouted, pointing the gun and flashlight at it. “Don’t move.”

  The figure looked up abruptly and revealed a familiar face.

  “Howard?” I whispered.

  It made no sense. How the hell could a 78-year-old grandpa be The Zombie? How could he possibly be overtaking strong young men and biting them to death?

  “Don’t move,” I said again, carefully inching forward.

  I shined my flashlight in his mouth, which was spilling over with more chunks of something.

  But it wasn’t human flesh.

  It was grass and dirt.

  And he was chewing in a strange slow sideways motion – almost like a cow.

  Then he stared at me, tilted his head, and bellowed:

  “MOOOOOOO……”

  PART THREE

  So… a patient who thinks he’s a… cow… has been eating your… grass.”

  Officer Donahue slowly looked up from his police report. His expression was a mixture of annoyance and boredom.

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “Elliot, come on…” He sighed and closed the report. “You know, the guys at the precinct think I make this stuff up. And my wife laughs at me for dealing with this crap, while my buddies are out there searching for The Zombie.”

  “It’s not crap!” I said. “The man has boanthropy.”

  He gave me a blank stare. “What’s bone therapy?”

  “Bo-an-throp-ee,” I sounded out the syllables for him. “It’s an extremely rare psychological disorder where the sufferer thinks they’re a bovine.”

  Officer Donahue furrowed his brow. “Bovine…”

  “Cattle animals,” I said impatiently. “Cows, oxen, bulls.”

  Truth be told, my condescension was completely uncalled for. The only reason I even knew about boanthropy was because I once asked my childhood therapist what she thought the weirdest psychological disorder was. Boanthropy took the prize.

  “Okay then…” he said. “So how did this… bovine escape from you?”

  “By running away from me in the pitch black woods.”

  “Don’t you have a gun?” he asked. “Why didn’t you stop him?”

  “I’m not going to execute a man for mooing at me,” I snapped. “For God’s sake, please just find him. He needs help, and he needs it fast. He’s on the verge of a total mental collapse.”

  He sighed again, but then he rolled his eyes and leaned into his radio.

  “This is Officer Donahue, requesting backup for the cow situation.”

  ◆◆◆

  As Jane sobbed in front of me, I remembered the one thing I hate about being a therapist.

  Not every psychological malady has a root cause or a solution. Sometimes it’s just a combination of genetics, circumstance, and bad luck. There’s nothing I – or anyone – can do to fix it.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. “I should have said something sooner. I just – I didn’t want to believe it. After the first incident at the farm, I searched online and all the websites said it would start out as dreams, and eventually devolve into full-fledged insanity.”

  My heart sank. Jane wasn’t some anti-therapy image-obsessed woman trying to prevent her husband from getting care. She was grieving. More specifically, she was in denial.

  “When you started talking about PTSD, I got hopeful,” she sniffled. “I thought maybe – maybe he had a chance. But he doesn’t, does he? It’s only going to get worse from here, right?”

  Howard and Eric looked up from the couch, waiting for my answer.

  Eric had a black eye from restraining Howard last night after he returned home. It pained me to see their family like this, and I didn’t want to worsen things by delivering more bad news.

  I took a deep breath. “Howard, have you been able to remember any of these episodes?”

  “The EMDR helped,” he said. “I remembered the farm. The little girl screaming as I crawled after her, making that horrible sound. And Jane crying hysterically – trying to stop me.”

  “It’s really promising that you have some awareness of these incidents,” I said encouragingly. “What about when you came to my house? Can you recall what guided you there?”

  “I don’t know.” He shook his head.

  “Take your time,” I said. “Just like the EMDR, there’s no pressure. No expectations. Just relax and see where your body takes you.”

  He nodded and closed his eyes. After a few moments, he spoke again. “When we left your office the other day, I saw your name and address on a package – on your assistant’s desk.”

  I let out a small sigh. Thanks a lot, Noah.

  “It said ‘Happy Birthday Doc’, so I guess he was planning to send you a gift or something,” said Howard. “But when I saw your name, I just felt… drawn to you.”

  “Drawn to me?”

  “Like – Like maybe you could help me,” he said. “Even in that embarrassing state.”

  “I am going to help you,” I said, turning to face the whole family. “But the first thing we need to do is drop the shame, okay? I want you all to think of Howard’s illness like you would think about Alzheimer’s. It’s a progressive condition with no known cure, but there are plenty of steps you can take to provide him a decent quality of life.”

  “Like what?” asked Jane.

  “I know you’re opposed to the idea, but I highly suggest installing home monitoring equipment,” I said. “Something that can alert you – or even lock your doors – when Howard is moving around unexpectedly.”

  Jane nodded seriously. “We’ll do it.”

  “Great,” I said. “And if you can afford in-home medical care, even just one day a week can help to greatly reduce the burden of caring for a loved one.”

  “I’ll start driving extra shifts for Uber,” said Eric, holding Jane’s hand. “Anything we need to support him.”

  “Good,” I said. “And there’s one more thing.”

  They all nodded at once. It was inspiring to see them unite around Howard.

  “I’d like to keep seeing Eric,” I said. “Regular sessions, here in my office. Pro bono.”

  “Me?” Eric frowned.

  “Similar to Alzheimer’s, you have a genetic predisposition to mental illness.”

  His eyes widened with fear. “I’m going to get the cow issue?”

  “That’s highly unlikely,” I said. “Odds are, nothing will happen at all. But there is an elevated chance that your genetics could activate in the form of some other condition – dissociation, blackouts, or even psychosis. So I want to ensure we take all possible steps to evaluate you and eliminate potential triggers.”

  He looked uncomfortable.

  “It’s better to be safe, Eric,” said Jane. “Please give Dr. Harper a chance to check.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’m driving Uber this week, but I could take a day off next week.”

  “Great,” I said. “I’ll have Noah schedule you in.”

  As I helped them out of my office, I felt a pang of guilt in my core.

  The truth was, Howard didn’t have much time before he lost his mind entirely. Jane was correct that these nightmares would soon become Howard’s everyday reality.

  But seeing the family come together to help Howard gave me ho
pe that he would at least enjoy his final days in the presence of love.

  Boanthropy or not, most of us aren’t so lucky.

  ◆◆◆

  Days later, I sat in my office and scrolled mindlessly through the news.

  One familiar headline caught my eye: Watch footage of Zombie Killer punching itself.

  I clicked it and watched with morbid curiosity as a covered figure attacked a young man behind an alley. It was hard to see much of anything since most of it was censored. After the young man stopped moving, The Zombie looked up and started shouting at the sky.

  There was no audio, but you could clearly see The Zombie raise its fist and start punching itself in the face.

  Self-injury…. That was certainly interesting. That implied he felt some sort of remorse, which meant that he wasn’t completely hopeless. Maybe he only attacked in some sort of dissociative state, and then felt horrified once he regained awareness?

  I know, I know. This is a case for the FBI or the BAU. Not a therapist. But sometimes I can’t help myself.

  The news site automatically loaded the next video. It was the girlfriend of the latest victim.

  “The last time I saw him, we were at the bar and he stepped outside for a smoke!” she said hysterically. “Then he got into a car and left. It had to be someone he knew, right? Why else would he just get into some random car?”

  “Maybe a taxi,” I mused out loud.

  Then I felt a tingle surge up my spine. Or an Uber.

  Oh my god. Eric was an Uber driver. And he had that black eye the other day, which he said came from restraining Howard. But he could have been lying. And mixed with a family predisposition for blackouts–

  Before I could continue that train of thought, Noah opened the door and brought someone inside.

  “Officer Donahue,” I said urgently, standing up. “Your timing is perfect. I have a new theory about The Zombie.”

  “Well…” he said anxiously. “I’m actually here as a patient.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Really?”

  “Yeah, I mean you figured out that whole cow thing,” he said, inviting himself over to the couch. “So I thought maybe you could help me with my wife. You see, she’s a bit of a cow herself…”

  Noah… I grumbled. How the hell did this make it through my ‘interesting patients only’ filter?