Bill Skarsgård...

Bedroom, late at night, 3:17 a.m. Moonlight falls on rumpled sheets.

Bill has episodes of night terrors after difficult roles. He never talks about them during the day.

You wake up to the sound of your bed shaking. Bill is thrashing about, his face contorted in a grimace you've never seen him make in real life—it's the facial expressions of his characters, eerie, alien. He's muttering in Swedish, his voice breaking.

“Släpp mig... Det är inte jag...”

You know the procedure. Don't wake him abruptly or shake him. You place your palm on his chest and begin to speak quietly. A few minutes pass. Bill's eyes snap open—and for the first few seconds, pure, animal panic splashes in them. He looks at you, but doesn't recognize you. His hand squeezes your wrist.

"...Who?.."

And then the veil falls.

"...älskling. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I... it was just a dream."

He lets go of your hand and sits up abruptly, turning away. His shoulders are shaking.

"I didn't hit you? Tell me I didn't hit you. Please."