November 8, 2023
Every night, as the world slips into a slumber, my reality continues to spiral down a nightmarish rabbit hole. It’s been a little over a week since my first encounter with those inexplicable, psychedelic episodes, and I’m still trapped in a relentless cycle of terror. The psychedelic episodes or dreams have evolved, growing more coherent and menacing with each passing night. The once-disjointed screams and shouts have now taken on distinct voices, echoing like souls yearning for my attention. They span all ages, genders, and backgrounds, and they all seem to have one thing in common: a greedy desire to communicate with me.
I’ve become somewhat of an unwilling expert in hypnagogic hallucinations, the phenomenon that had initially seemed to explain my ordeal. However, as the voices grew clearer and more insistent, I couldn’t help but question the conventional wisdom that this was just a product of my overactive imagination or stress.
The transition from the abstract, swirling patterns of colors to these voices was gradual but unnerving. Each night, as I lay down to sleep, I’d close my eyes, dreading the inevitable descent into the unknown. The visuals would manifest as before. Yet, this time, they seemed to be a precursor to the voices, as if the kaleidoscope of colors was a gateway into their world.
The voices were a disturbing mix of conversations, screams, and cries, like a bustling marketplace of souls. They spoke in languages I couldn’t understand, sometimes incoherent, and other times vividly clear. But one thing was undeniable—they were addressing me, trying to get my attention, as though they had a message only I could decipher.
Night after night, the relentless barrage continued, leaving me sleep-deprived, anxious, and on the brink of madness. I’d wake up in a cold sweat, heart pounding, desperate for reprieve. These voices, these nocturnal tormentors, had become my constant companions, and I had no idea how to escape.
I couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that this was somehow connected to my investigation into Candle Face. This investigation had unlocked a portal to another world, one where the vengeful spirit and these voices merge. Had I unwittingly invited these voices into my life by investigating Candle Face’s past too deeply?
Desperation led me to contact Mr. Doe again, hoping for answers or guidance to break free from this torment. However, his response only deepened the dread in my chest.
“You must listen,” he implored cryptically, his voice heavy with an unspoken warning. “They have chosen you for a reason.” He hung up the phone, but not before he demanded that I leave him alone.
The ambiguity of his words worries me deeply. What did he mean by “they”? And why had they chosen me? I couldn’t fathom the answers to these questions, but one thing was clear—I wasn’t alone in this ordeal, and whatever spirit or spirits were behind it weren’t interested in letting me go.
As the nights stretched into a relentless blur of sleeplessness, I began to discern individual voices from the chaotic symphony. Some sounded like frightened children, their innocence tainted by a profound sense of loss. Others were filled with anger and resentment as if they harbored grudges from lifetimes past. The older voices carried a weight of wisdom and regret, and their messages often hinted at forgotten truths and unfinished business.
They called out to me by my childhood name, Ray, begging for my attention, and their words grew more coherent with each passing night. They shared glimpses of their own tragic stories, stories of lives cut short, unresolved conflicts, and the unfulfilled desires that tethered them to this ghostly world. It was as though they saw in me a glimmer of hope, a chance to finally convey their messages and find some semblance of closure.
Yet, I remained steadfast in my resistance. I didn’t want to be their messenger, their conduit to the living world. The thought of becoming entangled in their unresolved affairs filled me with dread. I had to find a way to silence these voices, regain control over my mind, and reclaim the peaceful slumber that had eluded me for so long.
The voices grew louder and more persistent each night as if they were growing impatient with my reluctance. I continued to leave a light on, hoping it would serve as a barrier between their world and mine. Still, it was becoming increasingly evident that the metaphorical darkness that had seeped into my sleep was becoming more challenging to dispel.
Now, as I stand at this crossroads of my existence, I’m gripped by a sense of urgency. The voices are growing more coherent and their stories more compelling, and I fear that I can no longer ignore their pleas. But I remain cautious, for I don’t know what lies on the other side of this dark and twisted path.
I’ll continue documenting my journey, for better or worse, as I navigate the space between waking and dreaming. Perhaps, in time, I’ll uncover the truth behind these voices and the mysterious connection between Candle Face and my descent into madness. Until then, I remain trapped in this never-ending nightmare, searching for the light amidst the relentless voices that seek to grab my attention.
Personal Note to My Readers
These spirits, each desperately trying to convey their lost histories and unspoken stories, become a deafening musical in my mind. Their simultaneous cries and pleas create a feeling of being cornered by them.
I didn’t ask for these nightly visits. I guess it was my primal defense mechanism that I chose to forget the specifics of these encounters upon waking, leaving only the remnants of terror and confusion. This selective amnesia indicates the instinctive human response to shut out what we fear, even if it might hold significant meaning. I want no part of this. But it looks like I don’t have a choice.
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