Fred is just an everyday guy who sits at his cubicle quietly crunching numbers all day. Tonight, Fred will take a journey through a nightmare with an unexpected visitor. To a destination where he will finally confront his fear. A nightmare with no escape. He will forever dream in the Shadows of REM.

Fred’s alarm went off at 6:12 a.m., the same polite digital chirp it had offered every weekday for the past nine years. It sounded less like a wake-up call and more like a tiny referee whistle announcing: Round one.

Fred lay still, staring at the ceiling fan slicing the air into quiet, nervous pieces. Numbers began marching through his mind before his feet touched the floor.

Quarterly reports.

Client reconciliations.

Elizabeth. Especially Elizabeth.

His stomach folded in on itself like an overcooked omelet. He rolled out of bed and dressed in the mechanical precision of someone assembling a spreadsheet. Gray shirt. Navy tie. Coffee black. He checked his phone. No emails yet. A small but welcomed mercy.

Fred began his commute to work. He drove his white Toyota Prius while listening to 1980s adult easy-listening radio. Fred parked in his usual space at the back of the parking lot. The office building was a square of beige stone with the personality of a stapler. Fred liked that because predictable things were safe.

Fred gathered his worn leather briefcase and began his three-minute walk to the building. Three minutes and 26 seconds to be exact. He thought to himself that today would be rinse and repeat.

Once inside, the fluorescent lights hummed overhead like a swarm of tired bees. Cubicles bloomed in neat rows. Everything had right angles. He appreciated right angles. They didn’t lie. People did.

He slid into his chair, logged in, and opened the Carter & Mills account he’d been working on for weeks. He found tiny leaks in their expense structure like a plumber for money. He loved this part. Patterns revealing themselves, columns lining up like obedient soldiers, it was beautiful. Then a voice floated over the partition.

“Morning, Fred.”

Elizabeth. The bane of his existence. She said his name like it was something she’d stepped in. He turned. She was leaning against the cubicle wall, smiling with her teeth but not her eyes. Her hair was perfect. Her blazer was perfect. Even her coffee cup looked smug.

“I sent you those notes,” she said. “Did you ever get around to fixing the errors in your projections?”

Fred blinked. “What errors?”

“Yes,” she said lightly. “The ones we talked about yesterday. You seemed a little confused.”

His brain flipped through yesterday like a frantic Rolodex. There were no errors. Elizabeth enjoyed causing Fred discomfort and confusion. It was her favorite pastime.

She had asked him how he’d optimized the expense ratios. Then it happened, her signature move. It always happened. Elizabeth held up her finger in a very condescending way, as if to say, “Pause, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” She often did that because she knew it bothered Fred, much like a teacher scolding a first-grade student. Elizabeth said, “We may need to take a closer look at your work.”

Fred explained. As if to exonerate himself. “I… don’t think there were any mistakes,” he said carefully as Elizabeth nodded and tilted her head, sympathetic, the way one might look at a goldfish attempting algebra.

“Well,” she said, “we all remember things differently, I guess. Just try to be more thorough.” She walked away before he could respond.

Fred stared at his monitor, defeated once again. His confidence, moments ago a tidy stack of papers, scattered like someone had kicked the desk. Maybe he had miscalculated. Maybe he’d forgotten.

Maybe—

No. He checked the file again, and everything was correct. It was always right. Still, the doubt stuck to him like static. This happened daily. Ideas he’d share casually at meetings would later appear in Elizabeth’s presentations, dressed up in new fonts and spoken in her voice. “Elizabeth’s strategy,” management would say. “Brilliant thinking, Elizabeth.” “Others could benefit from your expertise.” She’d nod modestly.

Fred would sit there with his pen frozen mid-scribble, feeling like a ghost watching someone wear his clothes. Once, he tried to speak up. “I actually suggested something similar last week—” She laughed softly. “Fred, you were asking questions. I developed the solution.” The room turned to him, puzzled, thinking, hadn’t he just been asking questions? Had he? His memory felt like wet paper. He stopped talking in meetings after that because it was safer.

Months passed like this:

Coffee. Work. Elizabeth.

Coffee. Work. Elizabeth.

Coffee. Work. Elizabeth.

Each morning, his chest tightened a little sooner, like a clock wound too tight. He started arriving early to avoid her. Staying late to avoid her. He double checked everything three times. Then four. His spreadsheets became cathedrals of precision. Still, every time she walked by, he felt like a kid called to the principal’s office.

The last straw arrived on a Tuesday afternoon. Everyone was summoned to the conference room. The long table gleamed. The blinds were half drawn. The air smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and dread. Their manager, Carl, clasped his hands. “We’ve decided to promote someone to Senior Account Lead.” Fred’s heart fluttered.

He hadn’t told anyone, but he’d submitted a proposal last month. A full restructuring of their client’s onboarding system. He stayed up nights building it. Flowcharts. Models. Forecasts. It would save the company thousands. Carl smiled.

“We were incredibly impressed with the new client optimization framework.” Fred’s pulse roared in his ears. “Yes,” Carl continued, “Elizabeth’s framework shows real initiative and leadership.” Time slowed. Fred turned. Elizabeth was already standing, surprised—but not surprised. “Oh wow,” she said, hand to chest. “I just… saw an opportunity and ran with it.” Her slides appeared on the screen. Fred recognized every single line. Every single chart. Even the typo he’d accidentally left in slide six, though he had fixed it in his final version. She didn’t because it was his work. It was time for a change.

His lungs felt too small to get enough oxygen to breathe. He opened his mouth as he prepared to speak. Nothing came out. The room clapped, and Carl patted Elizabeth on the back. Elizabeth met Fred’s eyes for just a second and smiled. Like a cat who’d just knocked over a glass and blamed gravity.

That night, Fred lay in bed staring at the ceiling again. The fan carved the dark into slow circles. His brain replayed everything. Every conversation. Every time she said he was mistaken. Every time he believed her. Maybe he really wasn’t that smart. Maybe he’d imagined all of it.

Maybe—

Sleep dragged him under like a riptide. The dream began quietly. He was at his desk. Normal day. Normal light. Normal hum.

The spreadsheets on his screen were wrong. Numbers slid around like insects. Totals changed when he blinked. He typed 1,200. It became 12. He added formulas. They melted. “Fred,” Elizabeth’s voice echoed.