Alex closed the laptop, pulled the headphones from his head, and let out a long, heavy sigh. His face was stern, but his eyes, filling with tears, told another story. The doubt that he'd struggled so hard to weaken was back and stronger than ever. It mocked him. Grinning with cruel satisfaction, it said, "I told you so."

With great effort, Alex had managed to convince himself that he was just another storyteller. Like Edgar Allan Poe or Stephen King, he had a knack for writing the dark stuff. He'd grab a pen and paper, look into the shadowy places within his mind, and then report on what he found. He was in control—nothing to worry about. He wasn't a bad person. He wasn't born evil.

But there were two critical pieces of information that Alex had to avoid thinking about to make his narrative believable: his rage and his nightmares.

Alex's rage was a big hit among his friends. They loved it when he went off on somebody. For them, it was fun and exciting. There's something rewarding about watching your buddy drag an idiot to the ground and put him in his place. Especially when everyone, except the idiot, knows exactly what's about to happen. It seems just and proper. However, the experience for Alex was far from enjoyable.

While his friends saw it as Alex simply taking care of business, Alex saw it for what it actually was: a total loss of self-control. Sure, the first time it happened, he liked the pats on the back he got from those around him. But the second time, he realized it was definitely something he should try to prevent from happening again. As it continued to happen, and as he realized he didn't have any say in the matter, it slowly began to warp his sense of self. He felt like something very dangerous existed inside of him, and it wanted out. It wanted to express itself physically, and that's exactly what it did—whether Alex liked it or not.

If a person was acting in a threatening manner, or, sometimes, if they were simply acting like a disrespectful jerk, that could easily trigger the involuntary response. Once "it" stepped in, it took control.

To the casual observer, Alex's response was cool, exciting, or even noble. But Alex could feel its heart beating in his chest: pitch black, cold, merciless. It hid behind justifiable circumstances, but Alex knew better. He sensed that, if accepted and encouraged, it would use him for its own purposes. It would turn him into something he did not want to be and ultimately destroy him. If there were any doubts, the nightmares washed them all away.

The specific location and circumstances varied, but each dream always ended the same way. His last one was no different. Alex found himself standing outside an old, rundown house that he didn't recognize. He wasn't sure why he was here, but it looked like a foreclosed property—a fixer-upper that he could add to his real estate portfolio. He tried the door; it wasn't locked, and so he walked inside to check it out.

Immediately, Alex felt the overwhelming presence of absolute evil. The house seemed to breathe with an ominous rage. It exhaled its breath deep into Alex's lungs. The floor, walls, and ceiling, like flesh, pulsed with each beat of its malicious heart. Alex remembered now. His ageless enemy had returned, and he had no choice but to fight.

Alex walked to the foot of an old wooden staircase. Looking up, he saw a door that stood halfway open. "It" was watching, and waiting, on the other side. As he touched the dusty handrail, a hint of the power he was about to face ran through every nerve in his body. His instincts screamed for him to turn and run away, but he knew there was nowhere to run. It was everywhere. It would find him again. So, he began his ascent.

By the time Alex cleared the final stair and stood facing the door, his adrenaline raged. He knew he couldn't possibly defeat what waited for him on the other side, but he kicked it open and walked defiantly into the empty room just the same. Immediately, the door slammed shut behind him, the shutters folded closed, and the possession began. Alex screamed and cursed and damned to hell the invisible force that he was fighting. He struggled with all his might, with everything that was righteous and good inside of him, but it was useless. It was always useless.

As its power poured into him, Alex heard his cursing and screams turn deep, then distorted, then demonic. By the time he began to levitate, it was over. Hovering in the center of the room, his shoulders hunched forward, and his head bowed; a terrible smile crept across his face. He clenched his fists, threw his arms and head back, and roared. The sound wasn't of this world.

Alex's fear and defiance were both gone. Pure, vulgar, despotic power was all that remained. "It" had consumed him. He now saw the world from its perspective. He desired what it desired. Its inhuman strength was now his own, and nothing could stop him.

At that moment, Alex was always ejected from the dream. Thrown back into consciousness, sweating and gasping for air. He'd sit up in his bed and immediately scramble to turn on the lamp. The light helped, but he could still feel it, like it had been there watching him suffer.

First angry, then inevitably depressed for having failed, Alex would lie awake for hours. Unable to return to the fight, he simply had to accept his defeat and wait for the time when he would, presumably, be defeated again.

These bouts of rage and nightmares created an ever-deepening sense of doom and helplessness. Alex—the Alex who wanted to help people, contribute value to the world, inspire others with his writing, and punish those who lived at the expense of good, honest people—could not draw a consistent or acceptable self-image. Like a self-destructive drunk, right about the time he convinced himself that he had the problem beaten, that's when he'd find himself face down in the gutter. No matter how well he was doing, no matter how long it had been, the gutter was always just one obnoxious jackass or one nightmare away, and now Howard had taken it all to another level.

His statements about Alex's true self and his implication that Alex used the writing as a coping mechanism added a dimension of realism to the old fears that exceeded anything he'd ever dealt with before.

If ever Alex would be forced to question what he was and why he was here, it was now. He tried to dismiss Howard's statements as just a cunning deception, but that was highly unlikely. Alex had never written about his bouts with rage or his nightmares in his everyday journal. He kept his notes regarding both in a handwritten notebook that hadn't been typed into his computer or photocopied. Now, he wished that wasn't the case.

If Howard had seen those notes, Alex could convince himself that he was being manipulated, that Howard was simply exploiting specific fears Alex had written about. But that wasn't possible. Howard couldn't possibly know about the dreams, and it was unlikely he knew about any of the physical outbursts. At best, he might have gathered some insight from some of the poems Alex wrote when he was depressed, but that was a stretch. It was hard to imagine how Howard could see, from such a limited window, something as specific and profound as "The Alex that you have created to meet the requirements of the illusion is not who you really are."

Backed into a corner, Alex's standard intellectual maneuvering simply wasn't going to cut it this time. He had to honestly face the possibility that Howard's theory was correct. It was a theory that, if Alex would have been more honest with himself, he would have considered a long time ago. But, perhaps fearing what he'd see, he blocked himself from ever looking at it. Howard corrected that problem by throwing it in his face.

Alex grabbed his "Rage and Nightmares" journal from the fire safe and started, once again, reading over the thoughts he'd recorded in the past. He was looking for any evidence he could find that would prove Howard wrong.

A rage entry titled "Accurate Rage Description" caught his attention. It attempted to describe what happened to Alex when "it" stepped in to physically confront somebody. The writing was very sloppy, which usually meant he was trying to get the thought down before he lost sight of it

I've never been able to explain what the loss of control feels like, but today, a pretty good description came to me:

Its strength is so superior to my own that trying to stop it is laughable, like trying to stop a rolling tank with a spitball. The ability to resist DOES NOT exist. It has zero fear. It is NOT angry. It is emotionless and mechanical with a fixed purpose. Its goal is to neutralize the individual it has targeted. When the individual experiences "it" and responds appropriately (changes their behavior), it goes back to wherever the hell it came from. I have no doubt it would kill, if necessary, to gain compliance. The worst part of all this is: Even I find it hard to believe that this is real—until it happens again and reminds me.

Alex gathered himself emotionally, opened the notebook to a blank page, wrote the date at the top, and noted:

Somebody named Howard (I'm sure I'll have plenty to say about him in the coming months) basically told me today that I am an evil bastard who, unrestrained, would happily go around slaughtering and dominating people. How wonderful of him to drag me back into something that I thought I'd pretty much resolved. Now I get to think about all of this all over again.

OK, so obviously my rage and nightmares caused me the greatest trouble over the years. They forced me to ask, "What the hell is wrong with me?" But, after thinking about it over and over again, I never once concluded that I was evil. (How could I "be evil" and despise evil at the same time? It makes no sense.)

Then, of course, there has been the issue of my writing. Why would a normal person have such a dark place inside them? I've never been able to answer that question either, and I still can't. All I know is the same thing I've known for decades: I don't want to do what I write, and often, I don't like what I see. What else is there to say? If I wanted to hurt innocent people, it would be different, but I don't. In fact, it's the exact opposite!

Along comes Howard. According to him, I'm just deceiving myself. He claims my writing is a type of psychotic break, something the "real" me is using to survive in a world where I can't express myself honestly. I don't think I ever actually thought of it that way, and I'm not too happy about the new perspective. I know I've used the writing to safely blow off steam or creatively explore the dark side of human nature. Yes, those angles have crossed my mind. But the idea that I'm a psycho with basically a split personality? Nope, never went there. And, wouldn't you know, it sure ties in beautifully with the rage and nightmares. It explains them both quite nicely.

God, I'm so sick of dealing with this. Please HELP ME! Am I still going to be here struggling at sixty or eighty years old with this shit?

Howard claims he's part of a dominant class. He claims I'm one of them, and he's sent me seven books to help me find out more about the real world and my place in it. Right this minute, I'm not sure I even want to know. Then again, I don't really feel like I have a choice.

Alex calmly reminded himself that he valued the truth above all things. Normally, this thought would soothe him. Not today.

What happens when the truth can destroy everything you believe in? What if the truth points toward a reality that you can't imagine accepting? What then? Where do you find the courage to continue seeking the truth under those circumstances?

Undoubtedly, Alex was tired of struggling with his self-image. But discovering that Howard was right about him would be quite a bit harder to deal with.

He claims he knows me better than I know myself. I sure as hell hope he's wrong. I'm pretty sure I'd rather die than live as a sociopath.

The faint ringing of the kitchen phone interrupted the unpleasant thought. For some reason, he assumed it was Howard calling. He bolted up the stairs, two at a time, and caught it by the third ring.

"Hello?"

"My man! Guess who's coming back to The Fox this Saturday for an encore. I'll give you a two-word hint: chick magnet!"

"Oh, hey, Ken. What's up?"

"Uh oh; Alex is depressed. What's wrong, gringo?"

"Dude, I can't even begin to answer that question. I think it's about time for some more self-imposed exile."

"Oh man, are you serious? Why? I thought you ironed out your issues years ago."

"Yeah, me too. But, looks like I've got more work to do."

Alex had locked himself in the basement from 1996 to 1997. His mother and his friends, Ken included, feared that he might have finally lost his mind. But they all reconsidered after they saw the results. That year of isolation was a very productive time for Alex mentally. He emerged with renewed optimism, and, by 1998, was succeeding in real estate. The isolation had obviously been good for him. Nobody could argue otherwise.

"And I've got to make more progress on the book. I haven't written hardly anything since I've been here. It's pathetic."

"Whatever you've got to do, man. Are you doing the 'no more phone calls' thing again?" Ken asked.

"Yeah, probably. You know how it is. But hey, this time around, we've got Facebook and email. I won't check as often, but I'm sure I can manage at least once per month."

"OK. But, for the record, I'd like to express my displeasure and add that this is most certainly bullshit. I now have to find somebody else to go party with. Not cool. How about one more night? Monkey Nugget this Saturday; come on!"

"I can't, man. I've got a real mess to deal with here."

"Chicks, Alex, everywhere chicks!"

"I know, I know. Show 'em a good time for me."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"All right," Ken conceded with frustration. "I'll let everyone know you're 'going on vacation' again."

"Thanks, man."

"I sent you a video earlier today. Check it out. It'll make you laugh."

"OK, will do. Talk to you later."

"How much later?" Ken asked.

"I don't know. Not counting Facebook, give me six months. I hope I can get everything ironed out by then and hopefully have a book for you to read."

"Alright, I'm going to hold you to that."

"OK," Alex replied.

"Talk to you later," Ken said.

"OK, later."

Alex hung up the phone and, despite the work before him, felt a sense of relief. He could now focus, without any distractions, on writing the book, getting out of the basement, and, hopefully, putting an end to the conflicting self-image issues that had haunted him for decades. Regardless of whether Howard was right, Alex knew he was about to learn a lot regarding the world around him, and he hoped that would help him determine his proper place within it. He had to be honest. That was all he really knew. Above all, he had to be honest.

Alex walked back down into the basement and picked up his "Rage and Nightmares" journal. He looked at its cover for a moment and then, without opening it, tossed it on his nightstand. He'd read over the information in that notebook too many times to count—not to mention all the time he'd spent going over the same information in his head. He was ready to look for clues elsewhere.

Alex eyed the cardboard box Howard sent earlier. "Why not?" he asked himself. "Might as well get this started."

He opened the box and took out three of the seven books. The first one, Propaganda, was a tiny little paperback. Including a twenty-page introduction, it was only 130 pages long. He was certain he could finish it sometime the next day, if not sooner.

The Scientific Outlook was a short paperback too, only 202 pages. If it kept his interest, he could easily get through it in a couple days.

The third book, Eugenics: A Reassessment, was hardbound and looked like a school textbook. It weighed in at 320 pages. Alex was most interested in this book. He'd never heard of eugenics and was very tempted to begin with it, but Howard told him specifically to read the other two books first. There was no need to screw up this early into his assignment. If he read fast, he'd have plenty of time to at least start the third book before he and Howard spoke again.

As instructed, Alex also took a new notebook from the cardboard box for recording his notes. He grabbed a pen from his desk, flipped off his shoes, stacked a couple pillows against his bed's headboard and, with Propaganda in hand, assumed the reading position.

It was such a tiny little book that he wondered how it could possibly teach him anything significant about the so-called real world, but Alex's skepticism was short-lived. He hadn't finished two pages before he was shaking his head in amazement. The author was not only admitting that an invisible government worked behind the scenes to manipulate and control the "public mind," but he was unapologetically advocating the manipulation. Alex wrote out and underlined some of the more disturbing assertions:

"The conscious manipulation of the masses is an important element in democratic society. Those who manipulate this unseen mechanism of society constitute an invisible government, which is the true ruling power of our country.

We are governed, our minds molded, our tastes formed, and our ideas suggested largely by men we have never heard of.

Whatever attitude one chooses toward this condition, it remains a fact that in almost every act of our daily lives, whether in the sphere of politics or business, in our social conduct or our ethical thinking, we are dominated by the small number of persons who understand the mental processes of the masses. It is they who pull the wires which control the public mind and contrive new ways to guide the world."

Alex wrote the first of many challenges immediately beneath the quoted material:

So, in school we're taught that democracy is the greatest form of government because it's based on the will of the people. Here, you're basically admitting that it's a total scam. You're saying, "Yes, we have a democratic system, and it is based on the will of the people, but we control the will of the people. We provide their opinions for them." If that's the case, then your "democratic system" is just a more efficient way for your tiny group to impose their will on everyone else.

As Alex continued reading Propaganda, Howard's words assumed greater and greater weight. He imagined that a short summary of the philosophy would read: "We engineer human minds to think, feel, and act according to our wishes; they serve our interests, while falsely believing they are serving their own."

It dawned on Alex that he still hadn't done the work necessary to take Howard's words "literally and very seriously," as instructed. If he had, he wouldn't be so shocked and angered by what he was now reading. It also finally dawned on him what the problem was: Alex had heard the words, but he hadn't made any effort to see the words in action.

For instance, he hadn't taken the time to actually visualize a small group of people—armed with a deep understanding of mass psychology—using public education to manipulate an entire nation. He hadn't pictured them devising and perfecting tactics to neutralize independent thought while leaving the illusion of democratic consent intact. In short, he hadn't taken the time to think about real people implementing real plans, using their control of real institutions to secure real results in the real world. He resolved to correct that error. From here forward, he would try to actually visualize the reality that Howard and the books described.

Alex wrote himself a quick note:

You've got to do more than just read and hear the words. You've got to really think about what they mean. Picture somebody actually doing what the words describe, and picture the people they're doing it to. If you don't, you'll never fully grasp the concepts or their consequences. The words will just be words. They won't represent anything real.

Alex read Propaganda from cover to cover in a single sitting. He found the arrogance of its author, Edward Bernays, nearly unimaginable. Here was a man who was so certain of the ignorance of the masses that he wrote out his argument for controlling them without fear of them ever reading or rebelling against it. Alex summarized the author's position and a few of his own thoughts in the notebook:

In a nutshell, he's saying "the herd" is comprised of unthinking animals, and their minds need to be regimented by the "intelligent minority." It is not only the right of the intelligent minority to manipulate and deceive, it is their duty. Sounds exactly like Howard's "dominant few" controlling the "inferior many" to me, only this author is actually selling it all as benevolent. (A small army of liars who lie to the people "for their own good." What could possibly go wrong with that?)

I looked this guy up online. It looks like he was directly related to Sigmund Freud. (Freud's sister was his mother.) I never heard of him or his little book, yet he was named one of the most influential men of the twentieth century. It's like a slap in the face, proof of his theory that the people are clueless. I wonder if somebody like Howard paid him to write this.

Before going to sleep, Alex reread some of the most damning entries he'd written down:

"If we understand the mechanism and motives of the group mind, is it not possible to control and regiment the masses according to our will without their knowing about it?

The group mind does not think in the strict sense of the word. In place of thoughts, it has impulses, habits, and emotions. In making up its mind, its first impulse is usually to follow the example of a trusted leader.

If you can influence the leaders, either with or without their conscious cooperation, you influence the group which they sway.

No serious sociologist believes that the voice of the people expresses any divine or especially wise and lofty idea. The voice of the people expresses the mind of the people, and that mind is made up for it by the group leaders in whom it believes and by those who understand the manipulation of public opinion.

Political campaigns today are all sideshows. A presidential candidate may be "drafted" in response to overwhelming popular demand, but it is well known that his name may be decided upon by half a dozen men sitting around a table in a hotel room."

Howard was right: Alex's view of the world was changing. As disturbing as the new view was, he looked forward to beginning the second book bright and early the next day. If this really did represent the real world, he liked the way it affected him. He liked that he was instinctively repulsed by it. It soothed his self-doubt about what kind of person he was, and that made him want to dig even deeper.