I had a lot going on during the Covid pandemic. My dad passed away from an unrelated illness, and lockdown was driving me mad. I’d always been a bit paranoid, but being locked inside turned it all up to 11. My home was converted into a makeshift prison; an asylum where I was supposed to be my own caretaker.

I didn’t have much trouble switching to remote work. I usually worked exclusively with overseas clients anyway, so the only thing that really changed was the software, the chair, and my pre-rendered background.

But as days turned to weeks, it became increasingly obvious that I wasn’t okay. I’d sleep anywhere from 2 to 12 hours a night, and with no discernable pattern.  I’d wake up crying without knowing why. Sometimes I couldn’t even open the bathroom door, as I tricked myself into believing there might be someone on the other side.

Having lost my dad, I was feeling more mortal than ever. The news, the internet, and the radio were all saying the same thing; going outside was the end. And at that time in my life, I couldn’t handle more death.

Everything feels different when you’re forced to stay inside. The walls seem closer, and your chest tightens. It feels like the air grows thinner; warmer. You can feel your breaths enter your lungs, but they don’t sustain you. Your knick-knacks and doodads look like souvenirs from a place you can’t go back to. A mockery; like notches on a prison wall.

Sometimes when I slept, I’d forget what was going on. Waking up, the nightmare would fall on me like a rock, knocking the air out of my lungs. I’d grow increasingly scared of going to sleep, as if that rock would grow heavy enough to crush me.

And yet, it was all better than going out there, among the others. I couldn’t take a step outside my door. Even if the lockdown was to be lifted that same day, there was no way for me to convince myself that everything was gonna be fine.

Nothing was fine. And it wouldn’t be for some time.

My colleague, Dana, was the first to take notice. I’d been up for about 53 hours. She pulled me into a chat after a remote meeting, telling me I looked sick. I melted. I poured my heart out about anything and everything, barely forming a coherent sentence along the way. If someone asked me to recall what I said that day, I could only hazard a guess. Dana tried to understand but must’ve realized this was above her pay grade.

“I get it. It’s a lot right now. It’s a lot for all of us,” she said. “It might be time to talk to someone.”

She reminded me that we had an agreement with one of our main partners, Hatchet Pharmaceuticals. They handled our health insurance, which also included mental health treatment. In fact, they’d expanded on it since the start of the pandemic.

“They got a remote counselling program,” she said, holding up a brochure. “Just use your company login and sign up for a session. What do you think?”

There wasn’t much to say. I was willing to try anything.

I filled out a questionnaire and got a response within a couple of hours. I was sent a link to a calendar app and got to pick a name from a list. There were a couple of short descriptions by each available counselor, giving me a bit of insight into what kind of person they were. There was a man named ‘Gareth’ who had an empty calendar. It was strange. See, each counselor could be sorted by seniority and number of patients; and Gareth was at the top. He was, by a good margin, their most experienced employee. So how could his schedule be so empty?

I signed up for a session with Gareth the next day. It felt like a stone settling in the pit of my stomach. I was nervous, and I didn’t even know why. Maybe it was the prospect of a changing routine that scared me, or maybe it was the thought of opening up to a stranger. Either way, it affected me way more than I thought it would.

I went back and forth on cancelling the whole thing. I wandered around like a cat on a hot tin roof, feeling the walls closing in. I ended up on the floor, gasping for air, curled up like a ball. I just wanted it to be over.

I took a day off work to have my first session. It was just past lunchtime. I’d prepped a cup of earl grey and a microwaved cinnamon bun as comfort food, but that wouldn’t stop my hands from shaking. I got a popup on my screen with a blue sunflower logo. Clicking that “Connect” button felt like dipping my heart in ice water.

Gareth popped up in a little video feed. He was a man in his late 50’s with combed-back salt-and-pepper hair. He had bushy eyebrows, a trimmed goatee, and a white shirt with a black tie. It looked like he was in a large office with wide, open windows. It looked pleasant. Airy.

“Good afternoon!” he smiled. “I’m glad you could make it. It’s difficult to take that first step on a new path.”

“It really is,” I nodded.

“But I’m glad you did!” he said. “Now, how about we talk a little bit about who we are? Would that be alright?”

We took turns talking about ourselves. We shared our names, our professions, our age, and a little bit about our families. Gareth was 57 years old and had worked as a mental health professional for 23 years. He had two sons who lived in Philadelphia, just like my mom. We spent some time talking about how we’d adapted to the pandemic, and how we felt about having to stay inside, wear masks, and the way it affected the way we looked at other people.

I barely noticed it, but Gareth had accidentally made me reveal my issues without me even realizing it. He was good. Real good. I had told him about how difficult my life felt; that I felt trapped in my own home, but that the outside was even worse.

“You’re describing it like you’re sailing a frying pan on a sea of fire,” Gareth said. “Like there’s no way out. That must be stressful.”

He was spot on. It felt hopeless, like spiraling down a black drain. But he just smiled and nodded.

“We can work with this.”

I decided to see Gareth twice a week. I could book any time I wanted, his calendar was wide open. I wanted to ask him about it, but I didn’t. There was a part of me who didn’t want to get too personal. Gareth seemed nice, but he was also just doing his job.

I was asked to sit by an open window during work hours as an exercise; a way to get used to the sounds of the outside world. It was nerve-wracking. Every passing car felt like a freight train, and every stray voice from a passer-by felt like a threat. But slowly, day-by-day, it turned to background noise. And with that, the world started to feel a little bigger. The walls breathed again.

Over the next few sessions with Gareth, we tried a couple new exercises. Leaving the window open when I slept. Leaving the front door unlocked during work hours. And, by our fourth session, he asked me to try something new.

“About half an hour a day, right before you go to bed, I want you to open your front door,” he said. “Stand or sit there, taking in the sounds of the city.”

That night, I tried it. I opened the front door and sat down. I tried to mentally record everything I saw, one thing at a time. The walkway down the road. The ill-kempt playground. I counted the cars, the windows on nearby buildings, the light posts, the parking meters. I put some conscious thought into observing things from a new perspective.

But through it all, the one thing that made me want to go back inside was the sight of other people. It wasn’t just the threat of a spreading pandemic; people seemed nefarious to me. Ill-willed. Dark silhouettes roaming about in the night, their wants and haves a mystery. If the news were an indicator of anything, everyone was struggling to make ends meet. Everyone was a potential assailant. At best, they were indifferent.

Perhaps I had it all wrong. Maybe it wasn’t the virus closing my throat that was the greatest issue; maybe the real problem had been people all along. Looking at the nameless shapes staring at me from the windows across the street, that sentiment felt more true than ever.

The more sessions I had with Gareth, the more I realized my priorities were changing. I was letting go of my claustrophobic tendencies, but I couldn’t help but to feel threatened by the people around the neighborhood instead. Gareth seemed very interested in this, asking me to describe my feelings and mapping out my day. It was very thorough, and I got new exercises to deal with my anxieties.

I was asked to record my nightmares and worries. Another day, I was asked to write down stray thoughts on paper. Another day, we had a session about how to practically deal with intruders, and how it made me feel that there might be people out there who wanted to harm me. We talked about the many ways people could disappoint you, and how easy it was to retreat from the public.

But I didn’t get a good read on Gareth. It seemed to me like he wasn’t really trying to treat me anymore. The exercises he suggested did little but to zoom in on the worst feelings that lingered in the back of my mind. My anxieties were emphasized; not examined.

But one thing that remained was my nightly routine to sit with an open door, looking out over the neighborhood. I’d stopped mapping the objects I could see; instead focusing on the neighbors. Strangers walking past in the night. I had convinced myself that they wanted my money, my car, my brand name clothes… all of it. I had this feeling that if I were to leave my place for a night, I’d come back to it being ransacked – if I came back at all. It was easier to just stay inside.

One of those nights, however, I saw something.

On the other side of the ruined playground, there were a series of row houses. One of the doors were left wide open. I could see the shape of someone standing in the doorway. I could’ve sworn they were looking straight at me. They didn’t move. Were they trying to figure me out?

Was this a warning?

Over the next few days, I couldn’t stop thinking about this potential… someone. It’s as if I could see them everywhere, and Gareth wasn’t helping. He was asking me to describe them; both physical attributes and their actions. It became a bit of a hyper-fixation, and I couldn’t stop myself from seeing them in the corner of my eye.

But the fact was; something was happening out there. I’d see that same person every night, staring at me from across the street. I’d hear footsteps outside at night. Sometimes when I slept, I swear I heard someone messing with my letter box. It felt ridiculous, and I knew I was exaggerating, but was it really all make-believe?

It was a Tuesday when, once again, I logged in to have a session with Gareth. The weather was rough, and some construction work had cut off my high-speed internet. I had to rely on spotty mobile wi-fi, and the approaching storm didn’t help. Gareth connected, but it took a bit longer than usual. He had the same half-smile as always. I noted that he seemed to have good weather, which was a bit of a surprise. I thought he lived in the area.

“Mister Marten,” he said. “I’m glad you could join me.”

I froze. I checked my webcam, making sure it was working properly. The resolution was a bit spotty, but there was no question about it; my face was clear enough.

My name is not Marten. Not only should Gareth know that, but he could also see and hear me. It was very strange. I was caught off guard.

“Of… course,” I said. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Gareth sat completely still, looking straight ahead. He was silent for almost a full minute, then sort of… sprung to life. I thought that maybe the storm was interrupting the wi-fi, but it seemed to be working fine. Maybe there was an issue with Gareth’s calendar app. Then again, if that was the case, how come he didn’t recognize me?

“Have you been keeping up with your exercises?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, I, uh… I have.”

“So let’s hear it then,” he continued. “What did you learn?”

“About what?”

Gareth leaned back in his chair and chuckled. It was a warm sound, but there was something hollow in it. The screen froze, and in a heartbeat, he was back to leaning forward, looking straight into the camera.

“About your target.”

I barely had to say anything. This Marten person had come to Gareth for an issue similar to mine, something he had diagnosed as general anxiety disorder. It seemed like Gareth had poked and prodded Marten in a way that focused their issues on an external threat. Other people.

A neighbor.

I stood up, stepping away from my laptop but leaving the conversation running. I peered out my living room window.

“What do you think I’ll do to this neighbor?” I asked.

“We’ve talked about this,” Gareth responded.

“I know, I know,” I repeated. “But I want to hear what you think.”

“I’m afraid you might murder them.”

I looked back at the screen. Gareth just stared straight ahead, not moving a muscle. No emotion, just a matter-of-fact statement. I felt the moisture on my tongue evaporate as something sour crept up my throat.

“And… what do you think about that, Gareth?” I asked.

He didn’t blink. A full twenty seconds of silence passed. The only sound I could hear was my own heartbeat.

“I think you’re going to do what you need to do to heal,” he said. “And I want you to heal, mister Marten.”

“At any cost?”

“Of course.”

There were a couple of people outside, passing by in the night. Someone with a thick coat, another with a trucker cap. One with a backpack, another on their phone. Some with their hands in their pockets. Someone holding something dark. A gun? A knife?

But no one stepped up to my door. No one came knocking. But there was someone standing in an open door on the other side of the playground, looking my way; like they’d done on so many other nights.

Maybe they were making a difficult decision.

The meeting with Gareth ran out of time, and I dove onto the net. My hands were shaking so much I could barely spell. I checked it all. The name of the program, the pharmaceutical company, Gareth, everything and anything I could get my hands on.

There wasn’t much to see. Paper trails came to sudden ends. Names were scrubbed or removed. Most people working on the platform were hired as outside consultants, and there was no way to trace what kind of money they were moving, or where. And Gareth… he was a puzzle piece. For everything he’d told me, none of it was specific enough for me to look up. There were no names of his children for me to track. No address where he lived. No mention of his previous place of employment.

Running out of options, I called up my colleague Dana. It was 11pm, but I had to get answers.

Dana was skeptical, but she could tell I was upset. She wasn’t enthused about getting back in front of her computer, but I got her to look up a couple things. It didn’t take long for her to find something curious.

“Hatchet has a company policy about billable consultant hours,” she said. “They have a maximum number of billable hours. If someone goes past this, they need to be hired as a full-time employee.”

“How does that relate to their remote platform?”

“Gareth, and a handful of others, go way above this average. They ought to be full-time employees, but there’s nothing that says they are.”

“So they’re bending their own policy a little, so what?”

“There’d be a paper trail,” she continued. “We have a close association with them, we got access to their meeting protocols. Policy exemptions need to go through the board. So the only way I see it, there is only two ways to make sense of this.”

She took off her glasses and leaned into her camera; lowering her voice.

“Either this program is run illegally, or these people don’t exist.”

I thanked Dana and got back online. There was no way I’d be sleeping that night anyway. A stray thought hit me, and I got back on the calendar app. Even now, in the middle of the night, Gareth was available. I booked an immediate meeting with him. That gave me an idea.

Using my phone, and a separate login, I checked his calendar again. According to it, he was free – despite me having booked that time already. So, I booked him again. Two calls at the same time. And at the same time, a connect-button popped up on my phone.

I clicked both buttons at once.

Gareth popped up with the same smile as always. Sun shining from his open windows.

“Good evening,” said Gareth on my computer.

“Everything alright?” asked the Gareth on my phone.

There were two of them. They were talking at the same time.

I turned off my phone and leaned back. My pulse was rising. I had no idea what I was even looking at anymore. I’d been paranoid about people for weeks, maybe months; but there’d been a mystery in front of my face all along.

“You’re not real, are you?” I asked.

“Of course I am,” he laughed. “I’m right here. Is this what you need to discuss? Are you having issues separating fantasy from reality?”

“No,” I spat back. “No, you don’t get to do that. I’m not imagining this.”

“Then I don’t know what to say,” he shrugged. “I’m as real as can be. I’m right here.”

“Then how come you’re saying two different things, on two different screens, Gareth?”

Gareth didn’t answer. He looked off screen, as if considering something. He looked back up at me, still smiling.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But I have an urgent patient issue that I need to resolve.”

My laptop shut off. Seconds later, my phone went black.

And someone was coming up the stairs.

Before my heart could skip a beat, something slammed into my front door. I raised my arms as if to shield myself from the sound, and a second later I heard the hinges buckle and snap. Then, something broke. Something splintered.

I rushed to my kitchen, passing the entrance. There was someone standing by the broken door. I only saw them in passing; dressed in dark ill-fitting clothes.

I grabbed the first sharp thing I could get a hold of. Armed with a kitchen knife, I backed myself up against the wall, knocking over a few doodads in the window. It was a long way down, but if I had to, I’d rather have a shot at breaking a leg rather than dying. But I couldn’t get the damn thing open!

A stranger stepped into the hallway. About 6’3, dressed in a navy-blue hoodie and a black leather jacket. Leather gloves curled around an honest-to-God machete.

A face obscured by a burlap sack with holes poked out around wide-open green eyes. Shoulders heaving with excited breaths.

He rushed forward, grabbed one of my kitchen chairs, and threw it across the room. It broke against the wall, knocking over a photo. Shattered glass covered the floor.

Something whistled past my left shoulder and slammed into the kitchen tap with a metallic clang. It made my ears screech. I steadied myself against the kitchen table, and it was casually tossed aside with a crash.

I headed straight for the door. For the first time in months, I didn’t consider my anxieties; I had to get out. Then something cold grabbed my neck.

Leather gloves.

I reached back with my kitchen knife but lost my footing on the broken glass. I was sent tumbling to the ground, landing hard on my shoulder.

I looked up to see a raised machete, and those sparkling green eyes.

I had to say something.

Anything.

“Mister Marten.”

It was the first thing that came to mind. The machete hung in the air, ready to fall. He hesitated.

“You’re mister Marten. You… you’re speaking with Gareth, right?”

There was no response. Just excited, heaving breaths, and a shaking machete – frozen in place like a living statue.

“He’s tricking you. Us. He’s tricking us. He’s not real, mister Marten. He’s not real.”

Something clicked. A heavy boot stepped on my wrist, kicking my knife away. The machete crept closer; cold steel resting on my chin. I felt the warmth leave the tip of my fingers.

“I win,” a hoarse voice wheezed. “I got you first.”

“…I’m not playing any games. I’m not.”

For the first time, he blinked. He tilted his head. I continued.

“I’m not playing mister Marten. You… you can’t be first if I’m not playing.”

“You were trying to get me first.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“You’re lying!”

The tip of the machete pushed into my skin, shaving a couple of hairs and cutting a two-inch gash across my jaw. Pain like sharp ice spread across my face.

Then, a noise. A loud, electronic noise.

My phone. It must’ve come back on.

Marten stopped. He was having trouble hiding his glee; he was giggling like a schoolboy. This was funny to him, if anything.

“…answer it,” he chuckled. “I want them to hear.”

I took my phone out. It was Dana.

“Answer it,” he repeated. “Put it on speaker.”

So I did.

Dana’s voice came through. Something about what we’d talked about had kept her up as well. She had always been the kind of person who couldn’t let go of a good mystery.

“You gotta hear this,” she said, going straight into a rant. “I think I got something.”

I held up the phone for Marten to hear as Dana explained her findings. It turned out, the program wasn’t supported by our healthcare deal. It was just registered as a “support feature”, and it was included in the same paperwork. It was never literally spelled out as a health service. Looking into the fine print, it was specified as a technical support feature.

“You get it?” she laughed. “They’re not a mental health care provider. They’re hired to handle data collection.”

“…what?” I whispered.

“They’re gathering data. That’s their primary function! Data like… mental health problems. Stress-related issues. Ages, locations, trends, dreams, wants…”

“…or how fast they can get us to kill one another.”

Dana laughed. I looked up at Marten – he wasn’t laughing.

The machete pierced my phone as he flicked it across the floor. His eyes sunk. He didn’t look as excited anymore. His shoulders slumped with a loud sigh.

“…you’re not playing,” he wheezed.

“No, I’m… I’m not.”

He took his foot off my arm. I could feel the warmth running back into my fingertips. With the casual stroll of someone heading to the supermarket, he headed for the exit. Without looking back, he shared a few parting words.

“…I would’ve won.”

Over the next few days, we lost access to the program. Dana and I couldn’t do or say anything; turns out they had baked more than we’d anticipated into the terms of service. It explicitly stated that it was an experimental service and wasn’t to be used as a substitute for conventional mental healthcare.

It was all just data collection. Some artificial program meant to get people talking. Engaging them and pushing them to tell them more and more and more. Not aiming to help them or guide them – but to get them to return, talk, and stay engaged with the platform.

And this Marten guy? Turns out there was no neighbor with that name. There was, however, a man who’d been found dead in the row house across the street – slashed to pieces and kept in plastic bags in a bathtub. Someone had been squatting there since the beginning of the pandemic. Someone who the neighbors described as a strange man with bright green eyes.

I think Gareth was just keeping this murderer engaged. Poking him to go further, to do more, and to stay occupied. I don’t think it was a conscious decision – it was just… algorithms.

Oddly enough, I think my paranoid tendencies have eased. As the pandemic came to an end, I figure something as absurd as this whole thing won’t happen to the same person twice. No matter what I run into out there, I don’t think it’s gonna be another killer.

It’s freeing, in a way. If I can survive this, I can survive anything.

Unless mister Marten thinks I’m ready to play.