Every night for the past four weeks, Alan Hunter had dreamt of the Kraken. He could taste the sea air, feel the pitch and yaw of the boat as it tumbled under the beast’s attack. It was so real, the sweat he woke in could have been seawater. Some of the electrodes would come loose, and he would feel a spike of anxiety at the lost data.
It was his ex-wife Martha who had convinced him he needed help. Alan’s rebuttal was – he was already getting help. That’s why he went to the Institute four months ago and signed up for the trial. They said they could stop the shakes, the fibres in his skin, make automatic doors open for him again. Martha insisted he see the protocol through to the end. A week after signing the contract he discovered Martha had joined the Institute as a researcher.
From the corner of his bleary eye, Alan Hunter saw a tentacle slither out of his bedroom. He felt the compunction to follow the Kraken – now seemingly escaped from his unconscious mind – so he picked up the GM unit and crept quietly onto the landing. The unit warbled quietly as his bare feet padded over the sodden carpet, and down the stairs.
As he neared the bottom, he could hear the TV playing. Odd, he had definitely turned it off. Creeping closer to the darkened room, he saw the outline of a lumpen figure slumped in his armchair. The television was playing a re-run of an old Moonlighting episode. He approached the armchair, wielding the General Magic like a weapon, ready to bring it crashing down on the intruder’s head.
He looked up from the armchair, the Kraken rearing over him, it’s tentacles writhing. He threw up his arms to protect himself, and dislodged three of the four electrodes. The monster disappeared.
Alan continued watching the television, hoping for a resolution to the Anselmo case.