Demons Seem to Follow Me

I remember instances of this as far back as I have memory. On my sister’s first birthday, I was three. It’s the furthest back I can remember the strangeness, even if my family claims I did similar all throughout the years I don’t remember. Talking about Christ in the Garden before I was old enough to know, things like that. They always said they saw an ancient spirit in my eyes, but I’m getting ahead of myself. I was three and I had a wind-up T-rex- I was always in love with dinosaurs- and I had it walk down the stairs. I marveled at how unimpressive the first fall was, I guess, and decided to toss it down instead. It bounced off of the wall and into the unfinished basement and I decided to go find it, but as I approached I got a sudden feeling of fear. I remember as I peeked into the basement, I saw an unfamiliar man, strangely tall and half swallowed by the shadows. He said nothing as he watched me. I don’t remember exactly how I reacted, but I do know I insisted to my mom that a man was down there and I didn’t want to look for my toy.

This was the beginning of a lifetime full of oddities.

I won’t say my real name, but for this I’ll be known as my lifelong nickname, Deja’Vu, or ‘Vu’ for short. Yeah, it’s an odd nickname, but it closely resembles my real name and it’s easier to remember. Anyway, I’m the better part of eighteen-years old, I have two cats – Wayne and Lilo – and I am an aspiring author and occult enthusiast. Well, to a point.

You see, I don’t have much of a choice in this matter. I was born into two families with a long history of traits such as astral projection, wound healing through energy, various hauntings on both sides, and so much more. On my mother’s side, my grandmother was made a shaman a while ago, for example. She is the one that can heal with energy, a trait I have inherited and a trait that would require feeling to believe. Other than genetics, however, there’s the fact that no matter how much I ignore them, demons follow me wherever I go.

It should be noted that I did think I had schizophrenia for a long time, but acting on trying to get a treatment plan when I was fourteen via coming out to my parents and asking for it, a string of events convinced my parents and myself that none of this is in my head. The cuts and bruises I used to wake up with were not self-inflicted. The shadows I saw following me were not hallucinations. My ribs were injured severely by one of these beings, a wound that I had to go to the hospital for. My parents have been attacked. One of my friends were possessed and tried to kill me. I always knew things I shouldn’t have been able to know, like the history of houses and where objects were that people had lost. I should have just accepted the truth of my childhood, the fact that every time I said “Mommy, the ghost here doesn’t like it when you leave the doors open” or “My cousin’s imaginary friend isn’t an imaginary friend…” it happened to be true. Completely. We’d move away shortly after and secretly it had always been because I was right and my parents experienced it firsthand. You just hear ‘ghosts don’t exist’ and ‘if you see people standing over your bed, you might need to see a therapist’ so many times you start to wonder.

I don’t wonder anymore.

I can’t remember how old I was, but it began in a dream. I would ‘wake’ in a void black nothingness, no ground, sky, or ceiling in sight despite feeling something hard underfoot. I would realize that I was in a labyrinth, walls just as black as the void they were made in and interrupted only by an occasional mirror that showed my reflection oddly mirrored. I was so young at the time, but in the dream I was older. In my twenties, maybe. As I would accept the familiarity of that face, I would turn at the sound of claws against something smooth and hard. Terror would grip me and I would see a monster before me. At first it was like a large, white wolf with hands and elongated fingers rather than paws. It’s fur was matted and missing in patches and its eyes had a milky-white blindness about it. Each time I had a dream it would look even more sick, even more covered in festering wounds and mange. Each time I had the dream, it looked more humanoid. After each dream I’d wake feeling as though I was being choked, horrified, and a man would be in my room.

“You can’t run from me. You are mine,” He would say. I’d always get so sick afterward, I wouldn’t be able to stand, wracked with chills and fevers and stomach aches that only got increasingly worse each time he visited me. I had to get a blessing for my illness, but after the blessing the dreams and the man never appeared again… or so I think/thought.

We moved a lot and somehow my parents always seemed to find the most haunted of homes for us. A house where we would scrub mold away from our walls with bleach, go to bed, and find it exactly as it was before we scrubbed. A house where our cousin got an ‘imaginary friend’ and my parents were attacked after they saw said ‘imaginary friend’, a house where a demon liked to turn the bathroom lights off while you were in the shower and attack you in all manners of ways. Better seen in some documentary or amateur ghost hunter’s show than lived in, you know? Well, it was in the latter house where I think I next saw him.

I had been trying to figure out more about my psychic capabilities and decided to check off around 3:00am, a normal thing for me since I tend to have a little bit of nocturnal tendencies and mild insomnia. That night in particular I remember looking outside my basement window at the moon and thinking about how I would much rather be outside running around because I was that hyper. From the corner of my eye, however, I saw something move. Looking toward the source, where the stairs had a wall that came out about a foot into the room. At first I thought it was the shadow of the dip the stair wall caused moving as my pupils focused and unfocused, but I soon learned the contrary. Not only did it move as though it was hesitating after being caught, but it cut off at an odd angle, more like a head that didn’t meet the ceiling than a wall that did. Once I noticed this, the shadowy cloud, which was roughly seven feet tall, sprang back and I felt my energy plummet. I almost passed out, but I wasn’t scared. I was used to this sort of thing by that time, but I have never felt my energy zapped that quickly. I was clinging to consciousness, collapsed on my bed and straining to keep my eyes on it. It moved forward until it stood in front of me, the cloudy form coalescing into a man. I remember that all I could focus on before passing out was a thin, colorless smile that filled me with darkness. The smile alone held the most evil that anything I had encountered before seemed to pale in comparison. Yet I was not afraid.

I woke in a strange place, much like a rich manor that oscillated between being decrepit and extravagant. I was in a dining hall, but the long table beside me had been cleared away to make room for sacred geometry. He was there, and again his appearance refused to solidify itself in my memory. His clothes, again, oscillated between a nice suit and armor decorated with what looked like animal bones. It was the bones I had seen before I passed out. He was flanked by two hooded males wearing plain white masks. One was the average height of a man, lithe in stature, and the other was short and stout. The man in question was taller than the average-sized man, again at seven feet, but looked proportionate despite the fact that most humans that grow tall tend to have disproportionate limbs or otherwise. He just looked larger overall, although lean.

He spoke with me at length about something I can’t quite remember. Something involving my soul and asking me to join something or sign myself onto something. He was very polite and spoke kindly, amazing etiquette that set the mind at ease despite the intense evil coming from him. I remember being impartial, so rather than sign myself into something detrimental, I asked him a question. I know as soon as I asked it, his smile fell away for the first time and he almost seemed sad, but he obliged. He walked forward and put his hands on my head, showing me what I wanted to know. I told him no after.

“You can’t run from this, Vu,” He told me, “You were destined (for it).”

I woke with my laptop under my bed – even though it was on my bed when I passed out – and I was tucked in… even though I passed out without being near the pillows or the blanket.

I would have thought this a dream, but my friend, we will call him Blade for his knife obsession, suddenly told me one day about a man who kept standing over his bed. Seven feet tall, face refusing to be recognized, the feeling that he was smiling, and flanked by three hooded figures. Two males, one average and thin, but fit, and the other short and fatter. Both wore white masks. A girl was with them as well, wearing a plague doctor’s mask, only with a much shorter ‘beak’. I was surprised, having never told him my story, and assured him not to trust the demon. I couldn’t stop thinking about it and told my boyfriend… we’ll call him Hawk. In turn, my boyfriend freaked out and told me that his friend, we’ll call him Walker, was telling him a similar story not too long before. Walker’s friend, a girl, decided to accept the man’s deal and often visited Walker to talk about joining it.

Three people all describing the same group and demeanor.

I have been seeing the man around, too. Mostly on my walks at night, but he’s there. I never see him in my home, a place that I have protected against all except my “poltergeist“, who has become like a friend that antagonizes people that cause me problems… but it’s late and that’s a story for another time.

Asked by Vu

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