The Midnight Sleeper
I work at a mid-sized accounting firm that, for most of the year, is a pretty quiet place. But once tax season hits, the whole atmosphere changes. The air in the office starts to feel heavy, like a storm is brewing, and the fluorescent lights seem to hum a little louder. Last year, the deadline pressure was worse than usual. We were all pulling insane hours, surviving on cold pizza, stale coffee, and the shared hope that we might actually get a full night of sleep once April rolled around. My coworker, Kevin, was hitting the wall harder than anyone else. He was a machine, constantly buried under piles of forms and flickering monitor screens. He barely spoke, just hammered away at his keyboard like he was in a trance. One night, around 9:00 PM, the office was almost empty. The silence was only broken by the occasional click of a mouse or the low drone of the HVAC system. I was packing up my bag, trying to decide if I had the energy to drive home, when I walked past Kevin’s desk. He was slumped over, his forehead resting against the cool surface of his mahogany desk. He was dead to the world, breathing in long, slow cycles. I felt a twinge of guilt, but I figured he needed the rest, so I just dimmed the lights near his cubicle and headed toward the breakroom to grab one last bottle of water before leaving. About an hour later, I was still hanging around because I had forgotten my phone charger in the kitchen. As I walked down the narrow, dimly lit hallway, I heard a rhythmic tapping sound. It sounded like someone was playing a frantic beat on a hollow surface. I paused, tilting my head to listen. It was coming from the kitchen. I pushed the door open, expecting to find the cleaning crew, but instead, I saw Kevin. He was standing perfectly still in front of the commercial-grade coffee maker, staring at the plastic nozzle as if it were a complex financial chart. His eyes were wide open, reflecting the soft glow of the kitchen lights, but they were glazed over, vacant. He wasn't really there. My heart started to race a little. I walked closer, feeling awkward. 'Kevin?' I said, keeping my voice soft so I wouldn't startle him. He didn't even blink. He didn't acknowledge me at all. Then, his fingers began to twitch. He started tapping them against the granite countertop in a perfect, rapid-fire rhythm, just like he was typing on his computer. Then, he started to speak. It wasn't a normal conversation, though. He was reciting tax codes, citing specific section numbers and deduction limits with a weird, robotic precision. It was like he was reading from an invisible rulebook. The sound of his voice in the empty kitchen was chilling. I realized then that he was deep in the middle of a sleepwalking episode. His brain was so fried from work that he was literally dreaming in spreadsheets. I stood there, frozen, watching him. He reached out and grabbed a handful of sugar packets, rearranging them into neat, parallel lines on the counter. He kept muttering about audits and non-deductible expenses. I walked over and gently tried to touch his arm to guide him back to his desk, but he pulled away with a surprising amount of agility. He turned, his movements jerky and fast, and marched out of the kitchen with purpose. I followed him, keeping my distance. He walked straight to the supply closet. He pushed the door open and started grabbing reams of paper. He didn't seem to care that it was messy; he was on a mission. He began organizing the paper by color, perfectly aligning the edges of every single sheet. Then, he grabbed a stack of client brochures. His fingers moved with a weird, practiced speed, folding the glossy paper into perfect, sharp-edged triangles. It was honestly spooky to watch. It was like he was possessed by the spirit of a professional origami artist. I stood in the doorway, my mouth slightly agape, wondering if I should try to wake him up or if that would do more harm than good. I’ve heard you shouldn't wake sleepwalkers, but the whole thing felt so surreal that I felt like I was in a movie. He spent nearly thirty minutes in there, folding and stacking, his face completely expressionless. Finally, he stood up straight, tucked a stray piece of paper into his pocket, and walked out. He moved with a heavy, steady gait back to his desk. He sat down, let out one long sigh, and immediately slumped back into his chair, his head hitting the desk just like it had before. He was asleep again instantly. I left him there, feeling like I had just witnessed something top-secret. I ended up driving home in a daze, wondering if I should call someone, but decided to wait until the morning. The next day, I arrived early, and Kevin was already at his desk, staring at the supply closet door. He looked refreshed, but his brow was furrowed in genuine confusion. He walked over to me, looking at his clean desk—which he didn't remember cleaning—and then he looked toward the closet. 'Hey, did you see the supply closet?' he asked, scratching his head. 'Someone organized all the brochures into triangles. It’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen.' I just shrugged and told him the cleaners must have had some extra time on their hands. He looked skeptical, clearly trying to rack his brain to see if he had done it, but his mind was a blank slate. He had no memory of the kitchen, the tax codes, or the triangles. I didn't have the heart to tell him it was him. We kept the secret between us, but I think he had his doubts. Looking back, it’s a funny story to tell friends, but it really opened my eyes to the level of stress we were all under. It wasn't just a quirky incident; it was a symptom of a burnout problem that we were all too busy to notice. After that night, I started locking my desk drawers every single evening, just in case my own brain decided to go for a walk while I was dreaming. Kevin is doing much better these days, and we’ve made a pact to watch out for each other. If someone starts looking like they’re hitting that point of total exhaustion, we force them to go home. We realized that no tax return is worth losing your mind over, even if you do end up being a surprisingly efficient sleepwalker.