I am being haunted.
Perhaps that isn’t right. Maybe I’m the one that’s doing the haunting. I don’t know. I just don’t know. You see, sometimes I’m not here.
I’m not telling this well, I know. I’m sorry.
It’s happened several times in the very recent past. I was going about my relatively bland day. I’d tell you all about myself, who I am and what I do, but to tell the truth, I don’t think it has anything to do with… Well, whatever is happening to me. So why bore you with it? Still and all, in each case, I was about my business when, suddenly, I wasn’t there anymore.
I know. Sounds crazy. Tell me about it.
Suddenly everything was a blur, a soft focus of refracted lights, pale colors, muted sounds. And all that had once been solid about me… simply changed. The floors, if they were still there (for I couldn’t see them), were no longer solid beneath my feet – but were spongey and sticky at the same time. And the air, warm and clear the instant prior (for I live – lived? – in a lovely climate), was at once a foggy blur, cloying, damp, and oppressive. And my breathing grew rapid with fear, rifled with involuntary gasps, for it’s terrifying – the feeling that your next breath will not come. And the people around me at the time of these fearful transitions, like my surroundings, lost their distinct shapes, their selves – taking on the texture of phantoms, the voices of apparitions (the nerve-shattering moans and wails that I’d always imagined belonged to the spirits of the dead). My God, where was I!
Each time it’s happened, I’ve returned. I’ve found myself again in the land of light and texture, of substance. I’ve come home, I’ve come back from the edge of madness, or maybe I’ve come back to life. But will I always return? When it happens again? If it happens again? I don’t know. All seems well. All seems normal.
But nothing can ever be normal again. For here I sit, trembling, unable to eat, to sleep, to think of anything – but the next time. I can’t tell anyone. Surely insanity would be their only guess – and I don’t feel insane. But the answers to my thousand and one questions seem completely out of reach. And I feel so very alone. To me, that is the essence of terror – to feel absolutely alone. So here I sit, in mortal fear, wondering what is happening to me? Wondering if I am being haunted? Wondering whether I am the target of evil spirits… or an evil spirit myself, haunting others? What is real? Where does this foggy, damp hell exist?
And, dear reader, if you’re there to hear my story; dear God, if you’re there to hear my prayer, and if I’m worthy of an answer, tell me, please, how and why am I…