Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - A Twisted Session

Episode Date: November 3, 2025

When a routine therapy session turns sinister, a towering new patient confesses to horrors from his past—only to discover that his calm, tea-loving therapist may be far more monstrous than he is. Sick of ads? Unlock ad-free listening with a 7-day free trial of Dr. NoSleep Premium: ⁠patreon.com/drnosleep – Cancel anytime. No commitment. Fall is here, and so is our new Pumpkin Spice Coffee — a cozy medium roast with cinnamon and nutmeg that tastes like autumn itself. Go to NoSleepCoffee.com and use code NOSLEEP20 for 20% off your first order! Author: Jake Bible For more terrifying stories from this author, check out his latest release – All The Monsters: Ten NoSleep Stories, Volume One: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FY438TSV * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised.  #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The clock on the mantel strikes three, and I frown as the chimes ring out with their bong, bong, bong, bong. He's late. I used to have a cuckoo clock, but it turned out to be slightly demoralizing for some of my patients. No one likes to be told that their session is over by a tiny stuffed bird, reminding them that they are cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo. It simply wasn't a professional. So I purchased a lovely antique from a former patient's estate sale. They had talked extensively about the clock during our weekly sessions, and I figured that my mantle would be the perfect spot for it after they passed. Of course, I asked the next of kin if they would be comfortable with me purchasing the clock.

I didn't want to be inconsiderate of their feelings. They readily agreed, saying how much my sessions had helped their loved one during some trying times. I had to laugh at that once I was alone. I glanced at the clock, and it's 305. Tarty is one thing, but late without any notice is a whole other problem. I've already set out the tea, cups, sugar, milk, honey, lemon, and a steaming pot of rich black tea. It's a special variety that I purchase from a Chinese market across town, although variety is a misnomer. Unlike coffee, there is only one tea plant.

White tea, green tea, black tea. They all come from the exact same plant. The differences between them are where the plants are grown, the age at which the leaves are picked, their individual curing process, and their preparation. Yet, at the end of the day, orange pico and oolong are of the same tea leaves. It's remarkable what humans can accomplish

through constant practice and perseverance. To think we may not have the dark, smoky flavor of gunpowder tea, or the subtle, delicate flavor of a quality white. Mine is a very special blend that I have made there at the market. Do love my tea. 3.15 and still no sight of my new patient. I could text him since his number is on his initial intake form he filled out online. But for a first session, I feel that made.

get things started on an intrusive foot. So, I lean back in my comfortable, but not too comfortable, or I might not off, chair and wait. 315 becomes 320 becomes 325. I grab my tablet and bring up his intake form. Except I can't. It's gone. I swiped through the different pages on the organization and scheduling software I use for my practice, but there's nothing, or at least Nothing on him. All of my other patient's files are intact. Yet this gentleman's is simply not there. There's a light knock at my office door. Come in. I set my tablet to the side as I stand up. In walks a formidable person, well over six feet tall, perhaps even edging towards seven feet. Broad shoulders, large brow, hands like kettlebells.

Dr. Ozgood? man has a surpassingly mellow, almost melodic voice. Not what I was expecting to come out of such a huge specimen of the human form. Mr. Mazen, come in. Have a seat. I direct him to the small couch, set on the opposite side of the coffee table, or in my case, the tea table, from my not too comfortable chair. I'm glad you made it. You had me worried for a moment. I offer him my hand and he shakes it. I notice a small drop of red on his short sleeve, but maybe I'm mistaken, because he pulls his hand back quickly and the sleeve is lost from sight, so I am unable to get a second look. Sorry, I was running late. Had a work thing I couldn't get away from. Oh? And what is it

that you do, Mr. Mazen? Ben, please. He sits down as directed. A good sign. Well, Ben, I have to admit something rather embarrassing. I thought I was supposed to be the one admitting embarrassing moments. Isn't that what therapy is for? I suppose it can be that way, yes. I take my seat and grab a legal pad in my favorite pen, a waterman that was willed to me by one of my very first patients after they passed. I cherish this pen almost as much as I cherish my tea. But for therapy to work, you have to look at things from a different lens. Perhaps that embarrassing moment was simply a learning lesson. Like how not to be late to your first appointment with a new doctor?

Is being late embarrassing for you? Depends on what I'm late for. He grins and then points at me. You were about to admit something? Oh yes. And like I said, this is quite embarrassing. But I seem to have lost your intake form. I filled it out like you asked.

I clicked on the link in the email and everything. I know, I know. This isn't on you in any way. No, no, this is my fault completely. Hence the embarrassment. It's tech. Shit happens. He shrugs and smiles. A very kind smile. Mix that with his size, and he's surprisingly disarming. You expect one thing, get something entirely different, and your defenses begin to dissipate. Well, because shit happens with tech, can't look up your file. I am forced to ask again, what is it that you do? I'm in tech. Oh, maybe you can help me with my missing file problem.

He only smiles. I probably can. He adjusts his bulk on the couch, easing into the cushions more. I'll have a look after our session. I've already wasted so much time being late. Yes, about that. You said you were late because of work, which is in tech, as you mentioned. Can you be more specific on both?

What exactly do you do? And why did that prevent you from being on time? Well, Doc, that's a tricky one. I'd prefer it if you called me, Dr. Osgood. The informal nature of Doc can lead us astray from the proper doctor-patient relationship. Plus, there's an inherent, or how do I say this, unpleasant undertone to the Doc Moniker. Doc Holiday, Doc Savage, Doc. Did you say Doc Hollywood?

What? Who? Doc Hollywood. I'm unfamiliar with this character. You don't know Doc Hollywood? Oh man. It's that old Michael J. Fox movie. You know him right?

Yes. Yes, from those Back to the Future movies. He has an illness, doesn't he? Parkinson's. That's it. Yes. How unfortunate. Yeah.

Real bummer. Anyway, as I was saying, I prefer it if you call. You really haven't seen Doc Hollywood? No, I'm afraid I haven't. Man, my dad would make me sit and watch that with him over and over. Oh? And how old were you? I don't know.

From elementary school on up, I guess. It was already like 20 years old, but my dad still had the VHS tape, and he'd shove it in our old VCR, and we'd watch it three or four times in one night. Three or four times? The same movie? Not with other films? Oh, no, never. Just that same movie. We'd always watch it three times. The fourth time was only if I couldn't recite the lines properly during the third time. Recite the lines? I don't follow. Say them along with the movie. You haven't ever done that with the movie you've seen multiple times? I have to admit, I don't watch many movies. I prefer a good book and some delicious tea.

I lean over the coffee table. Can I pour you a cup? It's a delightful... Not right now, thanks. I don't really drink tea. Is that so? I suppose that bit of information would be in your intake file, but, unfortunately, we'll never know now.

I guess not. My apologies for interrupting you. I was asking you to explain to me the ritual of reciting lines to this dark Hollywood movie. Interesting choice of words. Pardon? Ritual. You said for me to explain the ritual of reciting lines.

I never looked at it that way before. I guess it kind of was a ritual in a way. Three watchings. Recite all of the lines during the third watching. Forced to watch it a fourth time if I didn't get all the lines right in the third watching. I watch him think it over. It isn't hard to see a storm cloud pass over his features. Ben, what would happen if he didn't get the lines right during the fourth one?

watching. Huh? Oh, you know how Dad gets. He'd be disappointed. Ben, I don't think you're being completely honest with me. I jot down some notes on my pad. What are you writing? Ben leans forward. I don't even have to tilt my pad to keep him from reading my notes. I've been at this for a long while, and I know how to hold my pad for maximum effect. I will take notes during our sessions. Will that be? a problem. Feels like you'll be distracted while writing and not focused on listening to the person in front of you. I set my pen down and study the large man. You've been to therapy before, or listen to a podcast or two. Focused on listening is a very therapy forward phrase. I personally

don't use phrases such as that, because I feel they can be construed as accusatory, like you aren't living up to your part of this duality, which is how many therapists see the doctor-patient relationship as a duality. Personally, I despise that word. There is no duality in therapy. There is only the patient. And if the patient wants to be distracted and not listen, or if the patient wants to sit in silence, that is the patient's prerogative. I am here to help. That is all. Inserting my preferences or feelings on the process benefits no one. like your feelings on being called Doc? Ah, yes.

I can see how you might see that as hypocrisy. But I consider that a ground rule, not a preference or feeling. There are certain rules I have in order for this to work for me, as well as my patience. For something as delicate and important as the health of the human mind, guardrails must be put in place. I completely understand, Dr. Osgood. Wonderful.

Now, while I still would like to know more about why you were late and what exactly you do in this tech job. I feel that we have already stumbled onto something important regarding your father and this Doc Hollywood movie. Would you mind if we continue to explore that? It's your couch, Dr. Osgood. You've got the wheel. No, Ben, you have the wheel. I am only a passenger. You use a lot of metaphors than most therapists I've met. Some are so literal that they wouldn't get metaphor or analogy if it bit them in the ass. All right, so you have been to therapy before. Yep, it's all on the intake form. The smile I give him is polite, but possibly a little cold. Was that a joke? Or was that a personal attack? Is he judging me for losing his

intake form? I'm kidding. He glances over at the clock on the mantle. Wow, time is flying. The Let's get back to you and your father. I picked my pen back up and set it to the pad. What would happen if you didn't get the lines correct during the fourth watching? Nothing fun, that's for sure. Elaborate, please. Well, usually my dad had a lady over. My parents split when I was five or so.

Or, I guess, my mom just split. She was there when I went to bed. She was gone when I got up. All of her clothes and makeup and everything was. just gone. He frowns as I write. I am listening intently, I can assure you, Ben. Please continue. You were saying that your father would sometimes have a lady friend over to watch the movie with you. No, that's not what I said at all. The melody in Ben's voice has turned to menace, and I look up for my pad. My apologies. Please tell me what you said again, so I have it correct. I said that usually

my dad had a lady over. She wasn't a lady friend, not in that way. They weren't friends at all, no sir. How do you mean? Ben shakes his head and laughs. You keep piling questions upon questions, Dr. Osgood. I'm having a hard time keeping them all straight. Which one do you want me to answer first? What exactly I do in tech?

Why was I late to this session? What happened when I screwed up the lines in the fourth watching? Or why the lady that might have been over that night wasn't exactly a friend of my dad's? That about right? Did I get all the questions? I nod, and give him my conciliatory smile I say for priests, next of kin, and police officers. Let me be specific and air it down for you. What would happen if you got the lines and the fourth viewing wrong?

Hmm. Not the question I would have focused on first, but close. He relaxes into the couch and looks up at the ceiling. Then his eyes fall and lock on to mine. Picture this. It's late at night. You're scrolling. and suddenly you find exactly what you've been looking for.

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That's Shopify.com slash D&S. Game Twister. The party game with the plastic mat that has all the primary colored dots on it? Of course. Have you ever had to play with it? Have you ever had to play it with only one other person? Maybe. I mean, it has been decades since I played that game.

College, perhaps. I seem to remember that as people fell or made mistakes they were removed. So, yes, eventually there would only be two players left. Although, I was horrible at it. So I may not have ever made it to the final duel. Final duel. I like that. He rubs his face.

Twister is a simple game, but not easy. Most folks believe that it's all about flexibility. You just have to be able to angle your body and stretch yourself to the correct dot and you will win. But there's so much more strategy to it. He pauses. Wait, I have questions, but he's made it clear which direction he wants to go in, so I let him. However, it does take all of my self-control not to let him know that the tea is slowly getting cold. The strategy of Twister is not for you to be able to move your hand or foot onto green or red or yellow,

but to make sure your opponent isn't able to do the same. And you see the other players as opponents and not companions? I always felt that Twister was a communal game, a party game designed to bring a group together. And you are saying it is a little more competitive than that. Everything is competitive, Dr. Osgood. Everything. We'll unpack that soon. But please continue with your dissection of Twister. Dissection?

He rubs his face again and snorts. A perfect word for this story. A chill runs up my spine, and for the first time, since he's arrived, and I'm embarrassed to admit this as well. I truly see Ben Mazen for who he is. A beast of a man. Look at him. Nearly seven feet tall with arms and legs the sizes of small trees. A chest so broad that I doubt I could hug him and have my hands touched together around his back. Bald head, shaved and shined beautifully. A short beard, trimmed nicely but still messy, with it creeping down his neck. Those massive.

massive hands, his deep penetrating eyes, the way his mouth turns up in a smirk, a smirk that lacks any warmth or mirth in it. No, when this man smirks, he is showing the world that we are in the presence of something very, very dangerous. I shift uncomfortably in my chair, wishing I hadn't left my phone back on my desk, like I always do during sessions. Being able to have a lifeline within reach, just in case things take a turn for the worse. would be comforting right now.

Here's how it would play out Dr. Osgood. On a regular night, I would be sitting there, doing my homework, and my dad would get home. He'd whip up beans and weenies or boxed mac and cheese. We'd eat dinner and watch some tube. I'd finish my homework, maybe watch a little more tube, and then go to bed. Sounds very stable. Ah, yeah. But then there would be movie nights, Doc Hollywood nights. He takes a deep breath, and I can see in his eyes as he searches back for those memories.

Memories that I must assume are very painful from the way the skin around his eyes tenses. I'd know it's a Doc Hollywood night, because instead of parking in the driveway, my dad would pull into the garage. I'd hear that door go up, the car drive in, the door go down, then silence. I learned that I needed to put my homework away and get the VHS tape ready. He looks at the clock on the mantle and smirks. I am not a fan of that smirk. Then he'd come in the house,

grab a beer from the fridge, or a bottle from the liquor cabinet, plop down on the couch, and wait for me to finish making the popcorn. That whole time he wouldn't say a word to me. He barely even looked at me. He'd go from the garage to the couch, with his only detour being grabbing his night's drink of choice,

and be completely silent. Then we'd watch the movie. Three times. And on that third time, you'd have to recite the lines correctly, yes? Now, is it all of the lines, every character, or just the Michael J. Fox part? All of it, every last line.

And if you got them all correct in that third viewing, he'd let me brush my teeth and go to bed, which I did as fast as possible. Sometimes I'd take cough syrup so I could fall asleep quickly. You would medicate yourself? Why would you do that, Ben? Did your father...

Did he come into your room at night? Dad? Oh, shit, no. He was no kitty-diddler. He'd like them at least in their thirties. Petit, brunette, or dark red with good tits and a perky ass. They were mostly white trash. But every once in a while, he'd bring home a black lady or an Asian.

That was rare, though. I think women like that grew up a little more wary of guys like my dad. Wary? Wary, how? Am I being too subtle? Perhaps. Okay, well, I would dope myself and go right to bed, so I couldn't hear him drag the woman from the garage.

So I couldn't hear her crying as he pulled her down the hallway past my bedroom, that's why. So I couldn't hear her calling for help, so I couldn't hear the sound of those wax, the wet, heart-chopping sounds. Kethunk, kthunk, kthunk, kthunk. He rings his hands, and I can see the blood being pressed out of his fingers. When he isn't speaking, his lips are pressed tightly together. turning them as white as his fingers. He stares at me, and I see that beast in there, the monster lurking just below the surface.

Will I have time to sprint to the corner of the office and grab my phone off my desk, before he can leap across the coffee table and grab me by the back of the neck? Dr. Osgood, you still with me? Oh, yes, sorry. I was processing what you just said. I swallow hard and really wish I had a cup of tea to sip from. I should have poured my own before he arrived. Are you saying that your father harmed these women?

Harmed? No. Oh, that is good. Harm is when you kick a dog. No. My dad? He fucking chopped them up into messy chunks. Then put those chunks under the covers with him and went to sleep.

My mouth is suddenly desert dry. So dry that I worry if I move my tongue, it will make a scratching noise like, Cat claws on a sliding glass door. Not expecting that, were you? His laughter is cruel and mocking. None of you people ever are. You people?

Therapists, psychologists, psychiatrists, counselors, people like you and your colleagues. You've told this story to others? I take it. That's it. Keep him talking. Let him run his mouth until I'm able to steer this session back on track. Yeah, I've told it to others. He places his finger to his chin and acts as if he is deep in thought. There was the woman in Scranton. She specialized in color therapy. I painted her off as bright red.

Then there was the dude in Toledo. Scream therapy was his kink. He screamed and screamed and screamed during that session. The older gentleman in Hillsborough, he was more traditional. Just a good old Freudian psychoanalysis. I emphasized the psycho part for him and stuffed all his parts inside that cliche couch he had against the bay windows of his office. Know that if I even flinch, this beast, this monster in my midst, will use it as an excuse to do to me what it sounds like he has done to others in my profession. I did not expect this session to take this turn.

I also don't move because I refuse for all of this to take the turn that Ben Mazen wants it to. He stepped into my office after all. You still haven't told me what would happen if you didn't get the lines correct in the fourth watching. I think I've told you enough for you to figure out the broad strokes. I don't believe you have. You told me of the horrible things you heard, but only after you had gone to bed, and only after you had self-medicated. All of that is passive in its way, but you mentioned Twister,

and Twister requires active participation. What was that active participation, Ben? What were you forced to do? Why do you assume I was forced to do anything? Because children generally do not come to participate in brutal violence on that level of their own accord. You sound like you have a good idea of what I had to do. Why make me say it?

That's therapy, Ben. If you don't say it out loud, then you can't really hear yourself. It's your job to hear me. If I have to hear me, then I could just stay home and talk to myself. myself in the dark. I wouldn't be out the $200 for the hour. It's only $40 a session with insurance. I don't use insurance. Didn't you see that in my file? I stare at him and he rolls his eyes. Take a joke, Doc. Dr. Osgood, if you please. I think we'll stick to Doc from now on. I'd rather you didn't. I'd rather I did. Do you want me to finish the story or what?

A loaded question if there ever was one. Do I want him to finish the story and tell me all of the grisly details of his nightmare of a childhood? Maybe, particularly, and more to the point. Do I want to keep him talking and talking until I figure out my next move? Absolutely. Please continue. Thanks, Doc. I will.

If I screwed up the fourth watching, then my dad would smack me upside the back at the head and tell me to wait right there, which I did. If I was standing by the TV, I stayed standing by the TV. If I was mid-step and trying to head to my bedroom, I'd stay mid-step and freeze like I was a statue. Stay right there meant stay right there. The ticking from the clock on the mantel has never been so loud in my ears. I can't tell if he notices.

How could he not? It's like a booming. When the clock strikes four, I fear my eardrums will be shoddered. Dad would come back into the living room, dragging whatever the night's catch was by the hair. She'd be crying and pleading with them. Then she'd see me and go absolutely apeshit. Help me, kid! You gotta help me!

Like that was going to happen. I never understood the women who tried to bargain their way out of the situation. What were they thinking? Dad has kidnapped them, feet them, stuffed them into the trunk of his car, then drags them into our house where they can see his son plainest day? Oh, sure. for all this. You want to go home? Do you want to see your mother again? No problem. There's the front door. Bye and have a good night. His laugh echoes off the room's walls and I do everything in my power

not to cringe. Yeah, so he dragged them in and then tell me to go get the twister box. I do that. Set up the plastic mat and then hand him the spinner while he handed me the hatchet. The visceral effect of the story is so real that I have to keep myself from squirming in my chair. He'd spin. The woman would cry and try to get out of her bindings, and I twirled the hatchet in my hand as I studied her body. I would look for the weak points. Maybe she'd have thin wrists or ankles, or maybe it'd be the elbows or shoulders. Rarely would I need to go above the knees. Though, unless that particular woman had those thin, live legs that go all the way up to her waist, I knew my dad, and he liked it when those legs came off at the hips.

He's studying me closely now, watching to see when I'll break, when I lose my cool and panic. He wants me to get up and run for my phone. He wants there to be a chase. A predator meets prey moment. Dad would get us in place on the mat, which was silly since the women's feet were always bound. But how the game started wasn't the point. It was how it ended that he loved. I glance at the tea and he smiles at me.

Thirsty doc? Perhaps you? A little. All this talking. May I pour? Knock yourself out. Care for a cup? Not yet.

I smile and nod. I shift forward and get close enough so I can lean over the coffee table and pick up the teapot. My hands are shaking and that amuses Ben. But I don't give him the satisfaction of spilling even a single drop as I pour the tea into the cup on the left. He watches me like a hawk. or a wolf or a lion, until I'd take my cup and sit back in my chair. Continue, please. So we'd be on the mat and he'd spin. Right foot red, he'd call out. If it was my turn, I would place my foot on a red dot. If it was her turn, we'd watch her

fail completely, because no one can actually play Twister with their feet and hands bound. Normally, if this was some slumber party, the game would end there. But with Dad, the game had just begun. From my position on the mat, whatever contorted form that would be, I'd have to take that hatchet, and without moving my other hand or my feet, lop off the woman's right foot, or left hand, or left foot, or whatever the spinner called for. He sits back, letting that admission sit between us. Did you? I sip for my tea. Did you enjoy those games? What? A kiddy? No, Ben, I am not kidding. Did you enjoy those games?

Hell yes, I enjoyed them. I mean, come on! Do you think I'd be here if I hadn't enjoyed every bloody second? Right hand red? Chop! Left foot green? Chop! What a rush!

I see. You got a taste for that rush, didn't you? A taste you couldn't shake. Tell me, Ben. When did you start seeking out victims of your own? How old were you? Oh, wow, that's a good question. Probably the best one so far.

The clock strikes four. Bong, bong, bong, bong, bong. I somehow managed not to jump and cry out, but I do glance at it, then at the door to my office. No one's coming, Doc. I have a four o'clock appointment. Not anymore. I canceled that. And the one after, and the one after that.

I have to say, it's nice of you to allow your patients to come in after work. Most therapists stop around four. I am accommodating, yes. Well, today, you'll only be accommodating me. I hope that's not a problem. My problem is how you managed to cancel the appointments in the first place. That's your problem? That's easy.

Same way I deleted my file. I work for the company that makes the scheduling apps for half the therapists in this country. And when I say apps, I do mean apps. Multiple. Same software. Just different skins. It was the sales department that came up with that racket. Yes, you did say you worked in tech.

So you canceled those appointments and deleted your file. How enterprising of you. I also canceled my appointment. According to your schedule, you took the entire afternoon off. What for? Huh? What did I take the afternoon off for, Ben? What's it matter? Well, won't the police think it's funny that I took the afternoon off for no reason?

I mean, and maybe, I am assuming too much here. Hopefully I am. But I have to assume that you have no intention of letting me walk out of my office alive today. The police will be curious. Didn't you hear me? I deleted my appointment, too. There's no record I was ever here. But what about my other patients?

Didn't you give them a reason for my canceling their appointments? I have to keep them talking while I work out my situation. The session certainly took an unexpected turn. I just need a little more time or the right opportunity. I didn't tell them shit. Just that a conflict came up and you had to cancel. It's always best to keep it simple. Agreed.

So you canceled your appointment too. Aren't you listening? His voice rises, and his eyes flash with frustrated anger. I didn't cancel my appointment! I removed it! It's deleted! Like it was never there! Completely?

Aren't there backup records? Sure. But I have access to the servers. It would take a forensic tech to go through those servers bit by bit, a line of code by line of code, in order to find even a trace that the information was white. And even if they did find evidence of it, they still wouldn't know exactly what had been deleted. that something had. You're very good at your job, it sounds like.

I'm the fucking best. Although I consider this here, what we're doing now? My actual job. My true vocation. And what exactly is happening here now, Ben? Removing liars. Removing the problems. You see therapists as liars as the problem?

Shit, yeah, I do. You people killed my dad. We did. How so? Okay, you didn't technically kill him. But one of your kind put thoughts in his head when he was caught and sent to prison. Thoughts that made him rethink what he'd done, thoughts that made him actually feel bad for some of those women, bad enough that he bit off his own tongue and choked to death in his prison

cell. All because why? He liked to watch Doc Hollywood and play games? That's bullshit. He kidnapped women and forced you to kill them or kill them himself. That is far from bull's. Not to me. Not to you? What? You feel no remorse for those women, even though you participated in their killing? Nope, that's your problem, not mine. Then why self-medicate so you couldn't hear

the screams and cries of the women your father dragged to his bedroom? FOMO. I'm sorry, what? Did you say FOMO? Yeah, FOMO. Fear of missing out. I know what FOMO means. Just not how it applies to your situation. You don't get into computer science programs at decent colleges by shirking your homework. Some nights, I'd have to say all the lines right on the third viewing so I could get back to my school assignments. It sucked, but I had to do it to keep my grades up. Man, but on the nights where I had already done my work or on weekends, I'd screw up lines on purpose so we could play Twister. Oh, I see. Is that so wrong for his son to want to spend quite quality time with his dad. Nothing wrong with that at all. I might suggest that there were

better activities to share together, other than kidnapping and mutilation of innocent women. That's quite an assumption. Who said they were innocent? No need to wade into that bog of psychosis. I finish my tea and lean forward to pour another cup. Are you sure you wouldn't like some? It's still warm and quite good. Well, after watching you down the that cup like that, then I'd be a fool not to, especially since you haven't passed out. Passed out? Why would I pass out? I never eat food or drink beverages I haven't personally made or watched closely as they were made. I've been crisscrossing this country, using my company's apps to track down victims like you for years. I'm not going down for the simple mistake of drinking

spiked tea. Why would I spike the tea? How could I know a serial killer would be my three o'clock? Good point, but better safe than sorry. I'm confused, man. Do you want tea or not? Yeah, sure, why not? Go ahead and pour me a cup. Great. Sugar, milk?

You didn't have sugar or milk, so I'll say no. Fine. I hold his cup out. Straight up it is. He takes it, sniffs, then sips. Oh, wow. My bad, Doc, I should have been sipping this the whole session. You make a damn fine pot of tea.

Thank you. It took me some time to perfect the process. I've had a few hits and a few misses over the years, but now I have it down pat. I refill my own cup and relax back into my chair. He sips some more. I don't know my teas, but this is amazing. I have to ask, what kind is this? Dardjeeling mixed with a little classic orange.

orange pico and Lapsang. He sips again, and I wait while he finishes, then sets his cup down. More? No. That was great. Got a little aftertaste at the end, though. Your blend may not be as perfect as you thought. Kind of bitter there.

But the bitterness only comes in after the last sip, yes? Yeah, I suppose. But shouldn't the... Shouldn't the... Oh! He glances at the cup. Oh shit! Oh shit indeed!

I finished my tea and set the empty cup down on the coffee table. You see, the tea is perfectly fine. It's the blend of sedatives, some serious narcotics, that I coated the inside of your cup with that I had to hone. Initially, the bitterness came forward on the first sip. That made things awkward, a lot of shouting and wrestling and subduing. What? What is shit are you talking about? He tries to stand up but fails spectacularly and collapses into a slack slump on the couch.

I have to thank you for doing the heavy lifting for me, Ben. Wiping your appointment from not only my schedule, but from the entire app, put a load off my shoulders. I figured out how to delete appointments. But there's always been that specter hanging over me that police would dig a little deeper and realize that my schedule was a little more full. fool than they knew about. Not that the police have come sniffing around. Why would they, when there's no appointment with me on any of my victim's phones? Thanks to your company's app,

I delete on my end, and it's deleted on my patient's ends too. You bastard! Be nice. I'm thanking you here. Oh, and thank you for canceling the appointments for the rest of the day. Wonderful! I would have had to drag you into the storage closet until all of my sessions were finished and then start in on you after hours. This way I can get to work and maybe still grab a bite to eat at a reasonable time. I can't move you asshole. Yes Ben, that's the point and in a few minutes you will be sleeping soundly which makes the rest of my work so much more pleasant. No screaming, no crying, no more whining about horrible childhoods that weren't so horrible, although yours were

legitimately hellish. In another world, we could have become friends, maybe even collaborators, but that ship sailed when you revealed who you really were. Slumped over, he tries to focus on my face, but his eyes are already closing. Okay, so while I gather my instruments and the plastic sheeting, oh, and also get the video camera set up. Would you like to hear about my childhood? It's not a father story, though. No, no, I have the classic serial killer origin story. Mommy issues. Hey now, Ben, stay awake. Of all my patience, you're the one who'll appreciate this story the most. Although, sorry to say, you won't be around to appreciate it for very long. I go and make sure that the office door is locked tight.

Now, where shall we start?