There are things one doesn’t say out loud — not if you want to avoid being called mad. But I stopped performing comfortable normalcy a long time ago. I live on the border between worlds, and sometimes what dwells beyond that threshold walks into my home.
Lately, I’ve been receiving a visitor. Not a ghost, not a spirit. An incorporeal, formless, yet staggeringly aggressive entity. Creatures like this used to come for me only in dreams, but this one has begun breaking through into the physical world. This is already our fifth or sixth encounter. And while its presence used to fill me with a bone-deep dread, I’ve started studying its anatomy. I’m learning how to fight it.
Last night was among the heaviest I’ve had — but it gave me answers.
The Concrete Block and the Sleep Trap
The intrusion always begins the same way — through dreams. But not the kind where you know yourself as the author. This is a masterfully constructed illusion, a cage where everything feels absolutely real, and where something always unfolds with one purpose: to knock you off balance, to push you into shock.
Last night, the illusion took the shape of a café. I was seated at a table with people I believed to be friends. Then a stranger was placed across from me — a young woman whose energy struck me like a fist the moment she sat down. She behaved unnaturally. She began provoking me, tried to humiliate me for the fact that I categorically don’t drink. I didn’t let it stand. I told her: “If you don’t like it — move.” With my own will, I simply displaced her from my space, and remained at the table alone.
The illusion pressed on. Everyone around me suddenly got drunk and fell asleep — completely alien to anything in my actual life. Evening came, and a leaden, unnatural heaviness began rolling over me. I was being pulled toward sleep inside the dream itself.
That was the moment my mind fired. I understood that the reality around me was artificial. I’d been locked in, and something very dark was preparing to strike while I was still in the position of a passive observer.
I made the decision to stand up and leave — but my body refused to obey. I began resisting through sheer force of thought. It felt like attempting to lift a concrete block with nothing but will. The harder I pushed to break free and seize control, the more violently the illusion pushed back. I was burning enormous reserves just to crack that dome. Finally, I landed a mental blow, punched through the membrane of the illusion, and surfaced into reality.
I opened my eyes in my own bed. But there was no relief.
I had not woken up alone.
The Physics of Presence and the Thorns of Light
The creature had come through after me. It was in the next room.
I couldn’t see its eyes, but I felt its mass. It registered like a person — but one woven entirely from pure, low-frequency rage. Its approach is unmistakable: the air in the room drops sharply; the chest tightens as though a gravestone has been laid across it; the oxygen thins. The skin prickles — but not evenly — the cold strikes only the side of the body facing the source. My organism was working like a radar.
It began moving closer. But I no longer fall into panic. I lay there, practicing absolute, crystalline stillness. I closed my eyes and began to visualize a powerful light source rising inside me — not soft light, but aggressive light, covered in sharp thorns. I directed that radiation toward it, and it made the entity slow.
It can come even in daylight, which frightens me more than anything — but that night, I was the one setting the terms. I got up and opened the window. I’ve noticed it before: fresh outside air, wind, a draft — these break apart the density of their energy and slow them down. I sat in the cold for ten minutes. My body was depleted, I desperately needed sleep. Eventually I was cold enough that I closed the window and lay back down.
I have one iron rule of protection: never lie on your back, never turn your palms upward. That position makes you an open vessel for everything that moves in the dark. I lay on my side. And then the worst of it began.
Animal Footsteps and the Attack Through Fear
The moment my mind began descending toward sleep — the moment I allowed myself to relax — I heard sounds from the next room. Something began running toward me. The footsteps were heavy, but not human. They sounded like a large animal running on soft paws.
I snapped my eyes open and pulled my consciousness back into full alertness. The footsteps stopped instantly.
I understood the mechanism. My awareness and my defensive barriers make me untouchable. But the smallest relaxation, the slightest drift toward sleep — that’s a gap in the armor, and the creature lunges through it.
For two hours I lay inside this grinding torture. Every time I tried to fall asleep, the entity charged. It was trying to frighten me, because fear is an open door. When the footsteps no longer worked, the entire house began to shudder. Sharp cracks rang out — timber snapping, as though the joists were giving way, plasterboard splitting inside the walls. The entity was generating massive energetic pulses to make the house groan. I lay there thinking: how much does it have left? Can it exhaust itself in this fight the same way I’m being exhausted?
In those minutes, the thought of lighting a candle crossed my mind. But intuition slapped my hand away: no. Fire has two ends. A lit candle would give the demon a physical anchor, feed it with the force of flame, and bind it permanently to my home. I defended myself with nothing but my own will.
The Cause: A Face on Paper and an Open Portal
Lying in the dark, I asked myself: why tonight? Why was the attack this savage?
And I understood. The answer was sitting on my desk.
The day before, I had printed a photograph of a woman. We have a shared history; we were very close once, though we no longer speak and know almost nothing about each other’s lives. But I had been seeing her in dreams far too often. Yesterday I felt an irresistible, intuitive impulse — I needed to paint her.
The moment I began drawing the first lines and looked into the eyes in the photograph, I saw it. The parasite itself. I understood that these demons latch onto people, seep into their energy field, and slowly, invisibly drain their life force until nothing is left but an empty shell.
I only ever paint people when they are standing at the edge of a massive, shattering transformation in their lives. And yesterday, by beginning her portrait, I built a bridge. My brush touched her energetic field, and the creature living inside it felt the threat. It felt my strength. So it crossed that bridge and came to me — to stop me before I could destroy it.
That night I wanted to get up, walk to the desk, and tear the unfinished sketch apart. But now I know what I have to do.
I will paint her face. But I won’t do it on a waxing moon. I’ll wait for the waning moon moving into the new moon. I will use the laws of nature itself — let the light diminish and carry that low-frequency filth out of her field along with it.
She may never see this painting. I don’t need her to. She’s still young, and she won’t be able to handle a creature like this on her own — these parasites know how to wait, and then they collapse a person’s life in an instant. I still have the need to protect her, even at this invisible level.
This is not painting. This is exorcism. In nineteen years I have been through more of these battles than I can count. Wherever I appear, whatever my hands touch — transformation follows. Cleansing. The destruction of parasites. Apparently this is my mission. My karma. Perhaps I’m reaching into places I have no right to reach — but I trust my impulse. I will finish this portrait, and I will close the door behind it.