The Halloween Project 2026 – Story 1: Repeat After Me / Repeat After Me

Redmond sat in the Quest office waiting to have his blood drawn and lamenting every minute of the wait. It was early on a Tuesday morning, and the waiting area, usually crowded and grumpy, was almost empty. Redmond sat across from a single elderly lady perusing her phone. He thought polite conversation might be the order of the day, but he just didn’t feel like it. That’s, of course, when she spoke up.

“Nice day outside,” she offered.

“Yes, quite nice,” Redmond responded.

“I don’t really enjoy coming here,” she said, her face taking a bit of a sour turn.

“Me neither,” he replied, then added, “I guess Tuesday is the absolute perfect day to come here, don’t you think?” and he gestured around the otherwise empty room.

And then it began.

For about 10 seconds, her eyes seemed to waver, maybe actually vibrated a bit. Redmond stared, and then she offered, “Me neither. I guess Tuesday is the absolute perfect day to come here, don’t you think?”

Redmond stared at her as her eyes returned to normal. A door opened.

“Mr. Redmond?” a white-coated female staff member called, a bit too loudly.

Redmond rose, taking one last look at the lady. She raised her hand from her phone and tossed him a wave. He turned and went inside. Following the phlebotomist, he walked down the hall to room number 5, placed himself in the waiting chair, rolled up his sleeve, and answered the perfunctory questions:

“Is your address…? Is your age…? Will you be paying with this insurance…? Did you fast…?”

Simple yesses completed the interview. She wrapped the rubber tourniquet around his arm just above the elbow and said, “OK, this is going to be fine. You have good veins, right here,” and she touched the crook of his inner elbow. She wiped his skin with an alcohol swab and picked up the straight gauge needle.

“I have to tell you…miss…”

“Rosanne,” she said.

“Rosanne,” Redmond repeated, “I’m going to look away, OK? I really, really, REALLY don’t like having my blood drawn.” A few seconds flew, her eyes fluttered just a bit and she said: “Rosanne…I’m going to look away, OK? I really, really, REALLY don’t like having my blood drawn.” Redmond’s mouth dropped.

Rosanne’s eyes returned to normal. She inserted the needle, and Redmond looked away.

And that’s how it went. Everywhere. For a year. A few words, a sentence, or a statement in regular conversation, and then… At the grocery store.

“Could I please have three-quarters of a pound of rare roast beef, sliced thin?” The eyes would shiver and “Could I please have three-quarters of a pound of rare roast beef, sliced thin?”

At work as an investment counselor.

“Mr. and Mrs. Peterson, this is the wisest decision you will ever make, and it will stand you in good stead for years to come.” The eyes quivered, and both the husband and wife sitting across the desk from him, in tandem chorus, said, “Mr. and Mrs. Peterson, this is the wisest decision you will ever make, and it will stand you in good stead for years to come.”

At poker with his pals, not every hand, but two or three times throughout the night.

“Goddamn it! I’m not getting any cards tonight. Will someone at least deal me a pair!” One or another of the guys’ eyes would glaze over, and he would say, “Goddamn it! I’m not getting any cards tonight. Will someone at least deal me a pair!” No one else at the table even noticed.

The worst was at home with his wife.

Over dinner, in the car, calling from the bathroom, while watching TV, while settling down to bed. Twice a day, ten times a day, sometimes 50 times a day. Sometimes, every conversation. Redmond got quieter and quieter around everyone. The conversation stalled or died on the limb. He barely spoke to his wife.

Even at his own doctor’s yearly check-up.

“So how did my blood work turn out? Everything A-OK, I hope?” His doctor’s eyes twitched, and then he announced, “So, how did my blood work turn out? Everything A-OK, I hope?”

And then it stopped just as abruptly as it had begun. One day, there were no repeats. Nothing. No glazed eyes, no trembling eyeballs. No repetition. Redmond was elated. He couldn’t believe it. It was over. That night, after brushing his teeth, he gazed into the mirror, a big smile growing across his face. He said aloud, “Thank God that terrible nightmare is finally over.”

For just a few seconds, he couldn’t really see very well. And then, for some reason, without even thinking, he said, “Thank God that terrible nightmare is finally over.”