The Room With No Answers

The waiting room of Dr. Carmichael’s office was a masterclass in forced cheerfulness, the kind designed to pacify uneasy children and distracted parents. Bright cartoon animals frolicked across the walls, their painted grins fixed in a cheerfulness so exaggerated it bordered on unsettling. They stood in stark contrast to the atmosphere of quiet tension that filled the room, thick and suffocating like a winter fog.

I sat stiffly in a hard plastic chair, the edge digging uncomfortably into the backs of my thighs. My fingers gripped the strap of my handbag, nails biting into the soft leather as my eyes fixed on Sammy. He was absorbed in the battered wooden train set in the corner, his little hands moving the cars in an endless loop around the warped tracks. The sight brought a fleeting sense of calm, though it was fragile at best.

The drive here had been uneventful, much to my relief. The strange car parked near our house hadn’t followed us—or, at least, I hadn’t seen it. Yet the memory of it lingered, a spectre at the edges of my thoughts. Now, as I sat in the waiting room, I found myself scanning every face, scrutinising every movement. Each time the door opened, my heart jumped. Was I expecting a threat? A clue? Or had my mind become so tangled with paranoia that I no longer knew what I was looking for?

A woman sat across from me, her face pale, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen. A crumpled tissue trembled in her hand as she dabbed at her nose. I wondered what had brought her here, what shadows haunted her family. Did she, too, sit awake at night, wrestling with fears she couldn’t voice, watching helplessly as someone she loved slipped further away? The thought sent a shiver down my spine, and I quickly looked away, afraid of seeing too much of myself reflected in her grief.

The gentle hum of the heat pump filled the room, a low, monotonous drone broken only by the occasional sound of quiet sobs. In the far corner, a young boy clung to his mother, his face buried in her shoulder as she whispered soothing words and rubbed gentle circles on his back. The scene was painfully familiar, tugging at memories I’d tried to push aside—nights spent comforting Sammy, holding him close as he cried in fear of things I couldn’t see, couldn’t protect him from.

When I looked back toward Sammy, I realised he was staring at me. His blue eyes—so like Nial’s—were fixed on mine, and I struggled to interpret the emotion there. Was it concern? Fear? Or something deeper, something I wasn’t ready to name? Lately, he’d been doing this more often, those long, piercing stares that made me feel as though he could see right through me. It was unsettling, as though he were glimpsing things no child his age should be capable of understanding.

“You okay, sweetheart?” I asked, forcing a smile and injecting my voice with an air of lightness I didn’t feel.

Sammy nodded, but slowly, his gaze unwavering. “The shadows are quiet here, Mummy,” he whispered, his voice soft and hauntingly matter-of-fact.

The words sent a chill down my spine, my heart stuttering in my chest. I opened my mouth to respond, but no words came. What did he mean? Before I could even attempt to untangle the knot of fear and confusion tightening inside me, a nurse’s voice cut through the thick air.

"Samuel Triffett?"

The sound snapped me back to reality, but the weight of Sammy’s words stayed with me, heavy and unrelenting. The shadows might have been quiet here, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that they were waiting, watching, just beyond the edges of the bright, painted walls.

I looked up to see a young woman standing at the doorway, a clipboard in one hand, her scrubs a riot of cheerful cartoon characters. The bright patterns were clearly meant to comfort, to project an air of friendliness, but here in this space heavy with worry, they felt jarringly out of place.

“That’s us,” I said, rising from my chair and extending my hand toward Sammy. “Come on, sweetheart. It’s our turn to see Dr. Carmichael.”

For a moment, I thought Sammy might resist. His little body stiffened, and his grip on the wooden train tightened. My heart began to race, bracing for the negotiation that often followed. But then he surprised me, as he so often did.

“Okay, Mummy,” he said softly, slipping his hand into mine. His small fingers curled around mine, warm and trusting. It was moments like these that made everything—the fear, the sleepless nights, the constant uncertainty—worth enduring. Sammy was my anchor, my reason for every fight I had to take on.

“Will you stay with me?” he asked, his voice trembling slightly with vulnerability.

My chest tightened as I knelt to his level, looking into his wide blue eyes. “Of course, darling,” I said firmly, my voice steady despite the storm inside me. “Every step of the way. Just like always.”

We followed the nurse down a long corridor, the soles of her shoes squeaking faintly against the linoleum. The space was awash with contradictions—walls adorned with bright, whimsical paintings designed to calm young patients, but the sterile scent of antiseptic that lingered in the air betrayed the reality of what this place was for. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, their cold glow casting sharp shadows that seemed to follow us as we walked.

The nurse, whose name tag read Nicole, glanced over her shoulder with a warm smile. “Dr. Carmichael is looking forward to seeing you both again,” she said, her tone gentle, almost practised in its reassurance. “He’s been reviewing Sammy’s latest test results.”

I nodded, not trusting my voice. The weight of those words—latest test results—settled heavily on my shoulders. The endless string of tests Sammy had endured over the past few months was a torment I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Blood draws, neurological scans, psychological evaluations—they had drained both of us. And yet, they had brought us no closer to answers. Instead, they had only added more layers to the tangled web of uncertainty.

We reached Dr. Carmichael’s office, the familiar door looming before us like a threshold into yet another round of questions without answers. Nicole knocked softly before pushing the door open, her voice cheerful as she announced, “Dr. Carmichael, the Triffetts are here.”

The weight in my chest grew heavier as I stepped inside, Sammy’s hand still clasped tightly in mine. Whatever awaited us in this room, I knew one thing for certain: I had to be strong, for him and for us both.

Dr. Carmichael’s office felt like stepping into another world, a stark contrast to the cheerful sterility of the clinic outside. The dark wood bookshelves that lined the walls were crammed with weighty medical tomes, anatomical models, and curiosities that seemed pulled straight from a Victorian cabinet of wonders. A detailed model of a brain sat next to a brass microscope, and a jar on a high shelf contained something that looked unsettlingly like preserved eyeballs, their cloudy forms catching the light just enough to make me shiver. The space was imposing, intellectual, and faintly eerie, a reflection of the man who occupied it.

Behind a massive oak desk sat Dr. Carmichael, a figure whose appearance seemed at odds with the gravity of his domain. He looked younger than I’d expected for someone of his expertise—early forties, at most—with prematurely grey hair that stood out starkly against his darker complexion. Thick-rimmed glasses gave him an owlish look, his sharp eyes glinting behind the lenses as he stood to greet us.

“Jenny, Sammy, good to see you both again,” he said warmly, his accent carrying an elusive hint of Eastern Europe—Russian, perhaps, though I’d never been quite sure. His voice had a calm authority, soothing yet precise, as though every word was carefully chosen. “Please, have a seat.”

I guided Sammy toward one of the plush leather chairs that faced the desk. He climbed into it with a childlike ease, his legs dangling well above the floor, while I lowered myself into the chair beside him. My hand found its place on his shoulder, a silent gesture of reassurance that was as much for me as it was for him. The leather creaked beneath us, the sound unnaturally loud in the stillness of the room.

Dr. Carmichael settled into his chair, steepling his fingers as he studied us for a moment. His gaze was intense but not unkind, his expression giving nothing away. “Now then,” he began, leaning back slightly. “I’ve been reviewing the results of Sammy’s latest tests, and I have to say, they’re quite... interesting.”

A pit formed in my stomach at his words. Interesting was rarely a good thing in medical discussions, especially not with everything we’d been through. My voice sounded steadier than I felt when I asked, “Interesting how, Doctor?”

Dr. Carmichael leaned forward, the leather of his chair groaning softly as he rested his forearms on the desk. His eyes behind those thick glasses seemed to sharpen, and his tone grew more deliberate. “As we discussed in our last session, Sammy’s nightmares have been increasing in frequency and intensity. And the episodes of sleepwalking and sleep talking—those have also become more frequent, correct?”

I nodded, flashes of the past week flooding my mind in vivid detail. Sammy standing at the foot of our bed, his eyes open but blank, murmuring strange, guttural words in a language I didn’t recognise. The night I’d found him in the backyard, barefoot and shivering under the cold Tasmanian sky, staring up at the stars as though they were whispering to him. Each moment had left me shaken, unable to reconcile the sweet boy I knew with the one who seemed trapped in some unknowable dream. “Yes,” I said, my voice quieter now. “It’s... it’s getting worse.”

Dr. Carmichael nodded, his expression grave but focused. He turned his attention to Sammy, his tone softening as he addressed him directly. “Sammy, can you tell me about your recent dreams? Have you seen the shadows again?”

Sammy looked up at him, his little body shifting slightly in the large chair. For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer, but then he nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said in a small voice. “They’re... hiding now. But I can still feel them. They whisper sometimes, but I don’t know what they’re saying.”

The room seemed to grow colder, the weight of his words settling heavily in the air. My hand tightened instinctively on his shoulder, the warmth of his small body grounding me against the chill creeping into my chest.

Dr. Carmichael’s brow furrowed, and he jotted something down in his notebook with a quick, practiced hand. “I see,” he said quietly. His gaze flicked back to me, and I saw something in his expression I hadn’t seen before. Concern? Curiosity? Or something deeper, something he wasn’t yet ready to share?

“Has he mentioned this kind of whispering before?” he asked me, his voice carefully neutral.

I hesitated, thinking back to all the fragmented comments Sammy had made, the half-formed sentences about shadows and strange feelings that I hadn’t wanted to believe were significant. “Not in detail,” I admitted, my voice faltering slightly. “But he... he’s mentioned hearing things. And the shadows—they’re always there, in his dreams.”

Dr. Carmichael nodded again, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the desk. Whatever he was thinking, he didn’t share it right away. Instead, he turned his attention back to Sammy, offering him a small, reassuring smile. “Thank you for telling me, Sammy. You’re very brave to share your dreams with me.”

Sammy didn’t say anything, but he leaned slightly into my side, his small hand gripping mine tightly. It was a quiet, wordless plea for reassurance, and I squeezed his hand back, trying to convey a strength I wasn’t sure I had.

“They’re always there,” Sammy whispered, his voice so faint that I had to lean closer to hear. “In the corners, in the dark places. They watch. They wait.”

The words sent a chill crawling up my spine, each syllable spoken with the kind of certainty that no child his age should possess. Dr. Carmichael leaned forward, his expression sharpening with interest. “And what are they waiting for, Sammy?” he asked gently.

Sammy’s reaction was immediate and visceral. He shook his head violently, pressing his face into my side, his small body trembling against mine. I wrapped an arm around him, stroking his hair in the familiar rhythm that had comforted him through countless nights of terror. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” I murmured, my voice soft and soothing, even as my own nerves jangled with unease. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

Dr. Carmichael didn’t push. Instead, he scribbled a note on his pad, his brow furrowing deeply. The motion was so measured, so deliberate, that it made my anxiety spike further. “Mrs. Triffett,” he said, his voice calm but probing, “have you noticed any new behavioural changes since our last meeting?”

I hesitated, my thoughts racing. How much could I tell him? How much could I admit without sounding like I was losing my grip on reality? Sammy’s behaviours had become so unsettling that I’d started questioning my own perceptions, but this was why we were here, wasn’t it? To understand what was happening.

“He’s become... even more withdrawn,” I said finally, my words cautious, each one carefully selected. “He spends hours in his room, talking to himself.” I paused, the weight of the next admission pressing heavily on my chest. “Or... not to himself. It’s like he’s having conversations with someone I can’t see.”

Dr. Carmichael’s eyes narrowed slightly, but his tone remained even. “Can you elaborate on that?”

I swallowed hard, steeling myself. “The other day, I was passing by his room, and I heard him say, ‘The stars are aligning. The gateway will open soon.’” The words, so strange, still echoed in my mind. “When I went in to check on him, he was sitting in the middle of this... this pattern he’d made with his toys. It wasn’t random. It was intricate, almost like a mandala.” I faltered, feeling exposed as I added, “When I asked him about it, he just looked at me blankly, as if he didn’t remember saying or doing anything.”

Dr. Carmichael’s expression shifted subtly, his posture stiffening ever so slightly. A flash of something—concern? Alarm?—crossed his face before he carefully masked it. Whatever it was, it sent a fresh jolt of unease through me.

“Mrs. Triffett,” he said slowly, his voice unusually measured, “has Sammy experienced any new physical symptoms? Any changes to the nosebleeds or bruises we discussed last time?”

The air seemed to grow colder, pressing down on me. My breath hitched as his question dredged up the images I’d been trying to ignore. The bruises—deep, dark, and inexplicable—had been getting worse. They appeared in places no normal childhood tumble could explain, on his arms, his back, even the soles of his feet. But it wasn’t just the bruises.

“The bruises are... different now,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. “They’re not just random marks anymore. They... they form patterns. Shapes. Like the ones he makes with his toys.”

Dr. Carmichael’s expression darkened, his eyes flicking toward his notepad as though confirming something private and troubling. His pen hovered for a moment before he nodded to himself, a gesture that sent my anxiety spiralling. Without a word, he turned to his computer and began typing rapidly. The click-clack of the keyboard filled the silence, each keystroke unnaturally loud, a mechanical punctuation to the tension saturating the room.

I clutched Sammy closer, my free hand gripping the arm of my chair as though it could anchor me to some semblance of stability. The silence stretched on, oppressive, as I tried to decipher the meaning behind Dr. Carmichael’s sudden intensity. When he finally turned back to us, his expression was carefully controlled, but his eyes betrayed a weight of knowledge that made my stomach twist.

“I’d like to run a new series of tests,” Dr. Carmichael said, his tone carefully measured, as though trying to cushion the weight of his words. “Some will repeat what we’ve done before to confirm our findings, but there are a few additional ones I’d like to explore. I’ve also been in contact with a colleague, Dr. Elena Petrov. She specialises in... unusual paediatric cases.”

“Unusual cases?” I repeated, the words catching in my throat as a wave of dizziness rolled over me. “What exactly does that mean, Dr. Carmichael? What do you think is happening to my son?”

Dr. Carmichael removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, a weary gesture that made him look older, more burdened. For a moment, the confident veneer he wore so well cracked, revealing the toll this case was taking on him too. When he spoke, his voice was soft, almost reluctant.

“Mrs. Triffett... Jenny,” he began, his tone shifting to something more personal. “I want you to understand that what’s happening with Sammy is... highly unusual. The combination of his symptoms—the nightmares, the behavioural changes, the physical marks—they don’t align with any standard diagnosis I’ve encountered.”

My chest tightened, and I could feel my pulse thrumming in my ears. “Are you saying...” I hesitated, the words too terrifying to fully voice. “Are you saying you don’t know what’s wrong with him?”

“I’m saying we’re dealing with something... unique,” Dr. Carmichael replied carefully. His eyes held mine, his calm demeanour a fragile barrier against the chaos his words threatened to unleash. “Something that may require a more specialised approach.”

Beside me, Sammy stirred. He had been unnervingly quiet throughout the conversation, his small body unnaturally still. Now, he sat up straight, his posture rigid and his gaze locked on Dr. Carmichael with an intensity that sent a chill crawling up my spine.

“The stars are falling,” Sammy said suddenly, his voice shifting, deeper and far older than his years. The timbre of it was wrong, unsettling, as though something ancient and unknowable was speaking through him. “The shadows are growing.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop, and I felt every hair on my body stand on end. My hand instinctively tightened on Sammy’s shoulder, though whether to comfort him or ground myself, I wasn’t sure.

Dr. Carmichael’s brows lifted slightly, his otherwise controlled expression betraying a flicker of surprise. He didn’t speak immediately, and the silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the relentless ticking of the wall clock. Each second stretched into eternity, the sound amplifying the unnatural stillness in the room.

Finally, Dr. Carmichael cleared his throat, his voice just a fraction less steady. “Yes, well,” he said, his tone regaining some semblance of composure, “I think we should proceed with those additional tests as soon as possible. And I strongly recommend bringing in Dr. Petrov for a consultation, assuming you’re agreeable.”

“Yes,” I said quickly, the word tumbling out before he’d even finished. “Of course. When can she see us?”

Dr. Carmichael turned to his computer, the clatter of his keyboard a jarring interruption to the eerie quiet. “She can fly in early next week—Tuesday, to be precise,” he said, his voice regaining its professional steadiness. “I’ll arrange for the tests to coincide with her arrival. We’ll need the weekend to coordinate the necessary resources and equipment.”

Relief and frustration warred within me. Relief that action was being taken, that someone as skilled as Dr. Petrov would soon join the effort to help Sammy. But the thought of waiting, of enduring three more days of the unpredictable changes in my son, made the frustration almost unbearable. Every day felt like a gamble, a precarious game where the stakes were my little boy’s well-being.

“Tuesday,” I murmured, half to myself, nodding as I tried to steady my swirling thoughts. It felt both unbearably far and uncomfortably close, a deadline that seemed to carry the weight of the unknown.

I glanced at Sammy, who had slumped back into his seat, his expression calm once more, his small frame suddenly looking fragile against the backdrop of the oversized leather chair. The words he’d spoken replayed in my mind, their ominous weight settling heavily on my chest. The stars are falling. The shadows are growing.

Whatever this was—whatever was happening to Sammy—I wasn’t sure how much longer I could hold on.

“What kind of tests are we talking about, Doctor?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady, though the effort felt Herculean.

“We’ll need to do some more comprehensive blood work, another MRI, and a few specialised neurological tests that Dr. Petrov has already recommended,” he explained, his tone clinical but edged with caution. “It’s quite an extensive battery, but it should give us a clearer picture of what’s going on.”

I nodded, the words barely registering. This morning, my concerns had revolved around nightmares and bruises. Now, I was discussing neurological tests and international specialists. It felt as though I had stepped into another world, one where the rules of my familiar life no longer applied.

“In the meantime,” Dr. Carmichael continued, his voice drawing me back, “I’d like you to keep a detailed log of Sammy’s behaviour. Note any unusual statements, sleep disturbances, or physical changes. The more information we have, the better equipped we’ll be to help him.”

“Of course,” I said, though my mind was already racing, replaying every strange occurrence over the past weeks. The unexplained bruises, the bizarre patterns he formed with his toys, the chilling words he muttered in his sleep. How would I even begin to catalogue it all? “Is there anything else we should be doing?”

Dr. Carmichael paused, his hesitation almost imperceptible but enough to make my stomach clench. When he finally spoke, his words were slow and deliberate. “Try to keep Sammy’s routine as normal as possible. But... be vigilant. If anything drastic changes, or if you feel at all unsafe, bring him to the emergency room immediately. I’ll ensure they’re aware of his case.”

The weight of his words hung in the air, the unspoken implication chilling. Unsafe. What did he think might happen? My grip on Sammy’s shoulder tightened instinctively, as though I could shield him from whatever unnamed danger lurked in the shadows.

“Mummy?” Sammy’s voice cut through my spiralling thoughts. I looked down to find him gazing up at me, his blue eyes wide and tired, filled with a vulnerability that broke my heart. In that moment, he looked like my little boy again—innocent, unburdened. Not the strange, otherworldly child who spoke of falling stars and creeping shadows. “Can we go home now?”

I forced a smile, though it felt brittle on my face. “Of course, darling. We’re all done here for today.”

As I stood and helped Sammy to his feet, Dr. Carmichael reached out, placing a gentle hand on my arm. “Mrs. Triffett,” he said softly, his eyes meeting mine with unwavering seriousness. “I know this is overwhelming. But please remember, you’re not alone in this. We’re going to figure out what’s happening to Sammy. I promise you that.”

I nodded, though I couldn’t quite trust my voice enough to reply. His words were meant to be reassuring, but they only amplified the gravity of the situation. Whatever we were dealing with wasn’t just strange—it was unprecedented.

As we left the office and stepped into the waiting room, the familiar sight of the cartoon animals on the walls should have brought some comfort. But now, their exaggerated grins seemed sinister, their cheerful eyes leering as though they knew more than they let on. The hum of the heat pump and the murmur of other patients barely registered as I gripped Sammy’s hand tightly, pulling him closer to me.

The walk to the car felt like wading through a dream—slow, surreal, and thick with the weight of uncertainty. As the doors of the clinic closed behind us, I glanced at the sky. The fine drizzle had returned, blurring the edges of the world and wrapping everything in a haze. It felt fitting. My once-clear life was now shrouded in shadows, with no path forward, only the relentless hope that somewhere in the mist lay answers.

As I buckled Sammy into his car seat, I caught myself studying his face intently, searching for... what? Some flicker of the little boy I knew so well? Or perhaps some clue to the strange, unknowable force that seemed to be entwining itself with his very being. His features were so familiar, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was looking at someone—something—else entirely.

“Ready to go home, sweetheart?” I asked, my voice trembling slightly, though I tried to mask it with forced cheerfulness.

Sammy nodded, his eyelids already drooping with the exhaustion that seemed to cling to him like a second skin. In sleep, he looked so small, so fragile. How could this be the same child who spoke of shadows and falling stars, whose words sent chills through my very soul?

Sliding into the driver’s seat, I realised my hands were trembling. I gripped the steering wheel tightly, willing them to steady. We have a plan now, I reminded myself, repeating the thought like a mantra. Tests, specialists, answers. We’ll figure this out. We have to.

But as I pulled out of the carpark, that fragile thread of reassurance frayed against the weight of my unease. The low-hanging clouds over Hobart seemed to press down on the city, smothering it in a bleak, grey light that turned even familiar streets into something oppressive. The drizzle on the windscreen blurred the world beyond, casting everything in a shifting haze that felt almost otherworldly.

The farther I drove, the heavier the atmosphere seemed to grow. It wasn’t just the weather—there was something else, something intangible that settled into the car with us. A sense of inevitability, as though we weren’t driving away from the clinic but towards something dark and unknown.

I glanced in the rearview mirror. Sammy’s head lolled slightly to the side, his chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep. His little face was peaceful now, the furrow of worry gone, replaced by the innocence of dreams. My heart ached at the sight, an overwhelming mix of love and dread.

“It’s going to be okay,” I whispered, the words so quiet they were almost swallowed by the rain tapping on the roof. I wasn’t sure if I was trying to reassure Sammy or myself. “Mummy’s here. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”

The promise hung in the air, unacknowledged but binding. Yet even as I said it, doubt crept in. Because for the first time, I wasn’t sure if it was a promise I could keep.