November 9, 2024
The lost souls’ testimonies are becoming more vivid with each visit, bringing clearer images and sharper details. I’ve been documenting every word, every glimpse of their final moments, hoping to piece together the facts behind their deaths. But even with the increased clarity, some crucial details remain stubbornly out of reach. It’s like trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces, always feeling so close yet never quite there.
I’ve tried everything—late nights, revisiting old notes, even seeking new techniques—but despite my efforts, I’ve hit a wall. For a year now, I’ve reached out to the paranormal community—investigators, psychics, mediums—anyone who might lend their expertise to uncover the identities of these lost souls and the stories behind their deaths. Every time, it’s the same response: they’re too busy, too wrapped up in their own pursuits. The disappointment is overwhelming. What happened to the sense of unity within the paranormal field? What happened to the willingness to help others?
Finding readers has been just as difficult. I’m competing against millions of other authors. Everyone’s chasing the next viral story, the sensational headline that will get clicks, likes, and sales. Meanwhile, I’m here, trying to solve real cases—trying to bring peace to these souls who haunt me every night—and it feels like no one’s listening. It’s relentless, this frustration. I’m practically begging for readers to get involved and share their insights, but it often feels like I’m screaming while no one is listening.
Every now and then, I question if all of this is worth it. The exhaustion of trying to engage a disinterested audience is wearing me down. But then, late at night, when the lost souls return, desperate and pleading, I know I can’t turn away. I can’t simply abandon them. I keep hoping that they might offer fresh perspectives if I can just get a few dedicated readers to notice. It’s not just wishful thinking—more eyes, more minds can sometimes see what I miss, especially when the memories are broken.
But here I am, yet again, finding that I’m mostly on my own. It’s a lonely journey, but it’s the one I chose. I’ve said it before—I know I have to do the heavy lifting. Yet, despite that realization, there’s always a part of me that hopes someone, somewhere, will step forward to help.
Tonight, though, something changed. I decided to stop waiting for help. I decided to push my abilities to their absolute limits. Instead of waiting for another lost soul to appear with a half-ass testimony, I took matters into my own hands. The idea came to me in a moment of frustration: what if I could see through the eyes of the killers? What if I could use remote reviewing and the crystal ball not just to listen but to become the one who took their lives?
I dimmed the lights in my dining room until the darkness surrounded me. I could feel the tension in the air, as if the very shadows were watching, waiting to see what I would do. I placed my hands on the crystal ball, the cold surface familiar yet different this time, almost as if it were resisting me. My fingers trembled slightly.
The mist inside the ball began to swirl, faster and faster, as if something within it was waking up. I could feel it pulling at me, a strange, almost magnetic force. For a moment, I hesitated. Was this really the path I wanted to take? Was I prepared for what I might see? But it was too late to turn back. I closed my eyes, letting go of everything—my identity, my thoughts, my fears. I let the crystal ball consume me, pulling me in.
And then, suddenly, everything shifted. I was no longer myself. I was him—the killer.
The Vision
I’m pacing the room. My breath comes in hot, ragged bursts, each exhale mixed with the acrid scent of alcohol. There’s a heat building in my chest, a heavy pressure like a storm ready to break. The walls feel like they’re closing in, the air thick with tension. I can feel my fingers twitching, aching to lash out, to make her shut up. But she just won’t stop talking, her voice slamming into my skull like a relentless hammer. It’s always something with her, always a complaint, always a problem.
“Why can’t you just be quiet for once?” I yelled, gritting my teeth so hard they feel like they’re going to crack. But she doesn’t listen. She never listens. She keeps going on about the bills, the drinking, the way I’m around people. It’s always my fault, isn’t it? The anger is boiling now, rising up in my throat like bile. My hands are shaking, my knuckles still raw from the last time I slammed them into the wall just to make her stop.
I can feel the remnants of whiskey coating my tongue, the bitter taste mixing with the metallic tang of blood where I bit the inside of my cheek. My fists clench tighter, nails digging into my palms until it hurts. But that pain is nothing compared to the fire burning in my chest. She’s still standing there, looking at me with that damned expression—like she’s better than me. Like I’m the one who’s failing.
Then it happens. She spits at me, and the world turns red. Hot, wet spit mixed with blood hits my cheek, and everything inside me snaps. I don’t even remember moving, but suddenly my fist is slamming into her face. The sound—a wet, crunching impact like hitting a wet sponge. There’s a sick satisfaction in it, like finally scratching an itch that’s been burning for too long.
I lean in close, the sharp, metallic tang of her blood mingling with the salt of her sweat, filling my nostrils. Her eyes are wide, unblinking. “I’m sorry,” I said softly, though the words feel empty, slipping past my lips out of habit, not remorse.
She spits at me again, her saliva hot against my cheek, mingling with the blood already drying on my skin. It’s her final act of defiance, a taunt even as she lies broken beneath me. Something inside me snaps again, the last thread of control done.
“You don’t get to look at me like that!” My voice is a hoarse tone, almost drowned by the roar in my ears. I stand, my vision narrowing, tunnel-like, until all I can see is her face, that look of defiance burned into my mind.
Without thinking, I lift my boot and bring it down hard on her skull. The impact vibrates through my leg, a dull, sickening crunch that fills the room. But it’s not enough. It’s never enough. I stomp again, and again, each blow sending splatters of blood across the floor and walls. Her face—what’s left of it—turns into a mess of bone and flesh, unrecognizable, and yet I can’t stop.
Finally, I stop, panting, staring down at what’s left of her. The rage is gone, but in its place is an emptiness, a hollow echo in my chest. “Carmen, you should’ve just listened,” I whisper in what’s left of her right ear.
But as I look at what I’ve done, a disturbing thought came to me. She wasn’t supposed to die tonight. She was meant for something else. “She’s going to be furious,” I said to the empty room. “You weren’t supposed to die yet. I was supposed to wait, to sacrifice you later.”
What have I done?
Personal Note to My Readers
After that vision, I couldn’t shake the name I heard him say—Carmen. The experience was so vivid, so visceral, that even after coming back to myself, I could still feel the lingering echoes of his rage, the weight of his hands around her throat, the twisted satisfaction that came with each brutal strike by his boot. I went back through my old journal entries, combing through them for anything that might connect. And then it hit me. On June 5, 2024, a spirit had come to me, identifying herself as Cayman. She spoke of a violent death at the hands of her husband, but at the time, I wasn’t certain if that was her real name or simply a distorted echo from her final moments.
But now, after living through this vision tonight, I’m starting to believe that I wasn’t just witnessing a killer’s memories—I was the killer. The realization is almost too much to bear: I believe I became the husband, the one who killed Candle Face Victim # 32, whom I had previously documented as Clean Shaven. Everything aligns—the rage, the twisted justifications, the spitting, the panic when he realized he had killed her too soon, and the name Carmen spoken in that final, haunting moment.
Writing about this experience was more difficult than anything I’ve done before. For the first time, I wasn’t just listening passively to a lost soul’s testimony or observing from a distance—I was living it. I became the killer, feeling his anger, his intoxicated thrill, his overwhelming need to silence her. It was no longer about bearing witness; it was about being fully immersed in his reality, carrying out his violent actions as if they were my own. Remote viewing and the crystal ball didn’t just show me his memories; it pulled me into his mind. I could see, feel, and think everything he did. In a strange twist, I’ve become interactive with the lost souls’ killers instead of my readers being interactive with me.
This new ability is something I never anticipated. It’s both powerful and terrifying. For a year now, I’ve documented the lost souls’ accounts from afar, maintaining some emotional distance. But now, I’ve crossed a line I never imagined I would. I’m no longer just listening to their stories—I’m becoming a part of them, embodying the very people who ended their lives.
It’s hard to describe the fear that comes with this realization. If I can so easily slip into the mind of a killer, what does that mean for me? Am I losing myself in the process? Will I be able to control it, or is this just the beginning of something more evil to come? Remote viewing and the crystal ball have unlocked something within me, something I’m not sure I can control—or even want to. The question that haunts me now is: How far will this ability take me? Will it truly help solve these cases, or will it consume me entirely?
For now, I must continue piecing together the pieces of these lost souls’ lives, hoping to find answers and closure. I’m left wondering—who am I becoming? And will there come a time when I can no longer distinguish between myself and the memories I’m inhabiting?
I can’t stop now. I owe it to these lost souls to keep going, no matter the cost. But every time I reach for that crystal ball, I wonder if this might be the moment I lose myself for good.
Key To Understanding
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