As the credits rolled at a recent screening of Bombshell, out today, several of us former Fox News Channel staffers were left reeling. Watching ___John Lithgow’__s spot-on performance as Roger Ailes, the Fox chairman and CEO who was ousted amid a sexual harassment investigation, had a PTSD-inducing effect, transporting us back to the years we spent under the control of the all-powerful leader. Even the audience members who had never set foot inside Fox seemed shaken by the scenes of what some women endured in Roger’s office. I know that office. I was summoned there many times. And I can attest to the bizarre, parallel-universe experience of being alone with Roger Ailes. (Full disclosure: I spoke briefly to Bombshell’s director and writer about my time at Fox during their scripting process.)

But what the movie mostly brought back for me was that Roger’s sexual harassment was only the beginning of his manipulation and mind games. Roger Ailes always reminded me of a different omnipotent, fear-inducing wizard, one who maintained control over a kingdom of nervous minions through smoke, mirrors, endless corridors, and devastating demands. I was so struck by Roger’s warped behavior that I began taking contemporaneous notes, as close to verbatim as I could recall, immediately after some of my visits to his inner sanctum. I had planned to turn these notes into a novel, but the following passages never made it into the manuscript. They’ve sat in a notebook, collecting dust in my closet, until now.

I started working at Fox in 1998 as a national correspondent based in Boston. For a couple of years, my job was similar to other reporting jobs I’d had, covering a mix of breaking news, weather events, and human interest stories. In 2000, I wanted a shot at the next step: I wanted to be a news anchor. So I made a pilgrimage to see the one man with the power to answer my plea.

Getting an audience with Roger wasn’t easy. First, I had to run a gauntlet of gatekeepers, starting with a burly guard, who sat watch at a desk across from the elevator bank, behind a set of locked glass doors. I approached and offered a meek wave, hoping I was in the right place. The guard nodded, pressed a button, sounded a buzzer, and voilà, the doors unlocked.

Behind him, another locked glass door, through which sat a long row of offices with nameplates engraved in gold—Roger’s army of lieutenants. To the right, another door, bigger than the rest, no nameplate, and solid wood. It stretched from floor to ceiling. Inside, a young woman leaped up from a computer, blocking me from advancing. “Please wait here.”

I rehearsed my lines: I’d like more opportunity, perhaps a chance to fill in on the anchor desk. I’ve broken stories, gotten exclusives, received awards. I deserve a shot.

“He’s ready for you,” she said. I rose and walked down the corridor, pushing through the final facade to Roger’s big corner office. On one wall, a half dozen TV monitors played cable news stations. Above them, a small monitor projected grainy black and white images—closed-circuit surveillance of the route I’d just traveled.

“Don’t be shy. Step right in,” he instructed. Then he stood up and I blinked. This was not the mighty man depicted on magazine covers. Roger was short, roughly my height in heels. His gait was heavy, unsteady. His power, it became clear, was that of the mental variety. He projected omniscience. He sat down, put his feet on the coffee table, and got straight to reading my mind.