I’d like to think I’m logical, sane, even. I don’t believe in magic or the occult or any of the things that take more imagination than fact to create. I’m LaVeyan—I’ve dabbled—-but it was mostly joke and partially for comfort. When I do anything it is because it brings me solace, the outcome be damned. I don’t even believe in it. I don’t have to believe in it. All I have to believe in is myself and my principles.
Things have happened, more than once. It can’t be denied that sometimes you can’t explain things. Oh sure, you want to. You want to explain it away. That’s a lot more easy to deal with than having to admit that there is something occuring that you don’t fully comprehend and reason can’t touch. Say what you will. I know what I’ve felt, I know what I’ve heard, and I know what I’ve seen. I wasn’t asleep. I wasn’t dreaming. It’s happened too many times for me to just brush it off and call it a day. Yes, okay, whatever is there, you’ve convinced me. You’ve taken a child of science and reason and shaken her up a bit. Go ahead and grin at your work.
One thing I do know is that things that can’t be explained are usually considered ‘magic’. Before there was science, there was magic—science was magic. Why? Because it was something that couldn’t be explained yet. With that in mind it becomes a little more easy for me to accept what has happened. Maybe I don’t understand it now, but there is always a later.
A guy from Mexico told me how death always used to howl the night before it would come to take someone. In the morning, someone he knew would be dead. He told me it wasn’t anything like a dog’s howl, but something cold and eerie. He said it was a mournful howl, like someone who had lost a friend. This can be expained away, surely. But the funny thing is, I strangely find myself compelled to believe it.
There was one night a very long time ago that has instilled in me something of a fear of the otherworldly. In a sense, I think my fear stems from the fact that I do not think something like that can be killed. I don’t mind a bear or beast or even a person; I can’t bring myself to fear those things for longer than a temperary time. Those things are flesh and blood, and as a result, can bleed. If it bleeds, you can kill it, in other words. What about something you can’t see? What about something, some kind of entity, that creeps over to you even in the light, and gently runs its fingertips down your spine? It happened repeatedly that night. There was no one there. I was all alone, with a light on, paralyzed by fear, as this thing, whatever it was, toyed with me. It was like a feather brushing over my skin, and no matter which direction I would turn to face, it would be the opposite, slowly driving me mad with the lightest of touches. Demon? Ghost? Spirit? What do you call such a thing? It drove me to such terror that I finally gathered enough courage to fling myself from the top bunk of my bed and run sobbing to my parents. A nightmare, they called it. But how is it a nightmare when you are awake? How can that be? I was young. You can write it off as that. You can tell me that I had watched too many scary movies as a child and this was just the natural result. I wouldn’t blame anyone for rationalizing this; I would too were our situations reversed. But I remember vividly. I remember and I believe.
There are nights when I wake and I know it is there again. One incident was not long ago, maybe a year, if that. It’s always the same: I wake suddenly. I blink into awareness, usually late in the afternoon, late enough that light filters in through my windows, illuminating everything enough for me to move about easily. And then I hear it, while I’m laying there staring at the ceiling. It’s always ragged, like an animal. I hold my breath, but something still breaths. It doesn’t stop even though I’ve stopped. It keeps going, like it thinks it’s funny that I’m laying there stock-still holding my breath for all I’m worth, trying to reason with myself that I was just hearing my own breathing. My cats sleep in the bathroom, my parents on the other end of the house. I’m laying there trying to explain it away, but with each passing second I grow more terrifed. It’s happened more than once, and even though whatever it is hasn’t hurt me, it still frightens me, mostly because I don’t know what it is, or what to call it. Is it the same thing as before? Something sent to terrorize me like when I was a child?
I’ve often mused over the fact that nearly every kid has some kind of fear of monsters in the dark or under the bed or in the closet at some point. I’d like to think there’s a reason for it, and it’s something a lot more complex than just primal human nature.
I’d like it to know that the extra photo on my camera that I did not take was not amusing. A photo of a photo. And I know nobody had touched my camera. I used to stay home alone constantly as a teenager. The doors would shut sometimes. I walked into the living room once and the tables had been rearranged when then had been in their places only seconds before. I’m not superstitious. I’m not a Christian zealot who believes in angels and gods and all those things. I’m not even an occultist. I’d like to think I’m logical and sane and this is not the result of random bouts of schizophrenia or some other explainable illness. I’m not seeing things or hearing voices that aren’t there. I’m seeing rearranged furniture, hearing breathing, finding photos I didn’t take, and getting touched by nothing. It all makes so much sense doesn’t it? You can explain all these things away somehow. But why? Why explain it away when I know it is something else?