[Distant music] [Music playing on the radio] [A strange distortion begins to bleed into the music] [Music returns to normal] [Music playing on the radio] [The strange distortion returns and builds intensity] [The electricity goes out] [Sigh] [Gasp] Hello? [Footsteps] [Startled scream] [Music abruptly resumes] [Music abruptly resumes] [Relieved exhale] [Music abruptly resumes] [Music abruptly resumes] [Quiet] [Electricity goes out again] [Gasp] [Electricity goes out again] (Creepy whispers) Little bird. .

. [Footsteps] (Creepy whispers) Sparrow. .

. [Intense music] No. .

. no! [Deep growl] (Creepy whispers) Feed me.

. . Sparrow Moon was not at all what I thought she would be.

I wasn't given much time to go over her casefile before our first appointment, but from what I had read I half-expected some kind of uncontrollable monster to walk through the door. She wasn't anything like that. She was quiet and guarded.

Smaller in person than what I had imagined from her photograph. A perfectly normal 17 year-old girl. That made it even harder to believe she was capable of doing the things that she did.

She was the last surviving member of the so-called "Woodfield Five. " A group of kids all from the same remote northern town who suffered a series of unexplained, at times violent, mental breaks. Clinical notes suggested some kind of shared psychosis, though unlike anything I'd ever heard of in my twenty year practice.

By all accounts Sparrow had an unremarkable childhood. No indications of behavioral difficulty, good grades in school, active social life, no family history of mental illness to speak of. Her mother had been part of some offbeat spiritual commune years earlier but had left that behind when Sparrow was quite young and eventually remarried.

There was nothing to suggest any kind of underlying trauma or abuse, though as you come to find in my line of work, that's not always so obvious. The only path to understanding what really happened in Woodfield was Sparrow herself, and that would prove more difficult than anyone anticipated. I learned very little over the first weeks of our sessions together, Sparrow was often uncooperative.

Careful never to allow the growing familiarity between us to weaken her resolve. I was not as strong. I became unreasonably attached to her.

The endless medical diagnostics revealed nothing we didn't already know. She barely slept, the scratches on her arms were self-inflicted, and aside from high blood pressure she was physically healthy. No one was certain about what exactly was wrong with her, and she was getting worse.

. . The weeks turned to months and I was running out of time.

The courts had determined that unless I could demonstrate conclusive progress in her treatment Sparrow would be transferred to an isolated psychiatric ward and out of my care. I could have walked away at that point. I probably should have.

But what I wanted, what I've always wanted, was answers. After all that we'd been through she wasn't a kid to me anymore. She wasn't a monster either.

She was a puzzle to solve. Sodium Pentathol can be administered to induce something called Narcosynthesis. A state between asleep and awake where the subject is highly suggestable.

In most places today the practice is frowned upon. Normally I would never consider such a treatment but given the circumstances my options were limited. I knew full well that this could risk professional censure, perhaps even my career itself.

That didn't seem to matter at the time. After after the injection Sparrow was brought to my office. We were left alone and I asked her to count backwards from ten, though before she even got to five it was clear she knew something was wrong.

Her breathing became shallow and her eyes darted around rapidly. She began talking about a mist coming into the room that only she could see. She could hear a voice from within it calling to her.

The drug had disoriented her to such a degree that I don't even think she recognized me. Sparrow's small size and chronic fatigue made the dosage I administered tricky. She drifted in and out for several minutes.

When Lucid I redirected her, asking if she could tell me what the voice she heard was saying. After a long pause she finally whispered, "little bird. " At that point Sparrow was not interested in answering any of my questions.

She just spoke and I listened. She said that it knew. It knew that was what he used to call her.

The old man. But the voice wasn't a man's. It was something else.

She said it comes with the mist. That it takes things from you and it grows, adding to what it's taken from others. It eats you from the inside.

She didn't know its true name, but called it. . .

The Worm. As Sparrow lapsed into unconsciousness I was left with more questions than answers. I arranged to have her returned to her room and resigned myself to the idea that I might never get the chance to understand the truth.

That I had failed. I destroyed the records of our last session to prevent the review board from finding out what I had done. It was over.

Or, at least, that's what I thought. It was that night the dreams started. [Gasp] [Slow creaking door] [Faint creepy whispering] Shhh.

. . Wait, come back!

[Music] [Gasp] Sparrow. . .

[Inaudible whispering] . . .

What? ! Doctor.

I'm so hungry. [Deep growl] [Monstrous roar] [Terrified scream] Every time I go to sleep it's the same. It doesn't really matter how the dream begins, eventually the mist will come and with the mist always comes the Worm.

Just like she said it would. You can't run, that never works. It won't let you.

The best you can hope for is that you wake up quick, before it begins to feed. At first I told myself that it would go away, it could be a simple anxiety induced aberration brought on by the stress of dealing with the case. But it was soon obvious that wasn't it.

The nightmares didn't stop. I couldn't sleep. I couldn't eat.

It wasn't long before my colleagues began to take notice. Things got so bad I had no other choice. I called in every favor, pulled every string I could and arranged access to Sparrow at her current facility.

I needed answers more than ever, and she still had them. I almost didn't recognize her at first. She looked strong and alert, a stark contrast to the tired girl that I had spent all that time with.

I didn't have to ask any questions this time. Just by looking at me she knew all too well what was happening. We sat down, and Sparrow Moon gave me what I needed.

The Worm is some kind of parasite. A pathogen. An ancient thing passed from host to host manifesting in their dreams feeding on their deepest fears.

It will not stop, always hungry for more. It won't kill you. It doesn't want you dead.

It wants what any good virus wants; To propagate. To be passed on. To be fed.

Sparrow tried to hold it inside of her to protect others. She thought that if she could fight it long enough it would die with her. But she passed the Worm to me the same way that it had been passed to her; just by telling me about it.

You have to believe me. I am sorry for this. Now that I've told you, I don't know when, but sooner or later in your dreams the mist will come.

. . .

. . and with the mist always comes the Worm.