The Demon

Misty Page

1:30am

Halfway through the dream, my father, Damon, died. The first half of the dream was intense and forgotten, but there was something very evil and very persistent that my family had fought against. It sought us out of vengeance and it had great power. I seemed to have known it, to recognize it. It seemed so intense that now, awake and heart racing with lights on, surrounded by two Doberman Pinschers who just want to kiss my face, I wonder critically what it could have been. Could I remember him from my past? Have I seen or rather felt it before? It seemed we might have slighted this someone in the past.

 This dark evil operated similarly to a human, but it wasn’t until it got close to me that it appeared that way, as well as masculine. Awake I can find no name for it except “Demon”, although I’m not sure what the word might actually mean. I call it that only by feeling and presence. The character of the entity seems to be recognizable as a demon, even though I cannot say I ever knew a demon before.

          Through the forgotten first half of my dream, which seems to sing out to me from dark recesses of my mind, my family was at war. Particularly my father and his brother were in this war. They were up against some essence that had taken sick vindictive aim against them. In the haze of my memory, I know at least this: that both my uncle and father were killed but not in a normal way. They were commanded and tortured. Something more was wanted of them than just suffering, or just obedience. Perhaps a certain state of mind or spiritual admittance was sought of them. Perhaps before they were defeated they would have to admit death.

          This much was clear, something was very much after us. Even from afar the thing seemed so strong and deep, like a layer of consciousness we could never hope to reach, yet dark and focused on nothing but destruction. It was familiar, yet could in no way be someone we knew. For it was nothing corporeal. It succeeded in killing my uncle. It had its way. Both my father and his brother were dead when I came to in my dream.

          In the middle of the rushing wonders of the flying soul at night, I knew exactly what was happening. Far away from me, across a dark road or ridge, I knew they had died. I knew I was no match for it. Yet like a victim of a violent beating from a twisted human, I felt I could live, even kill it. I was petrified.

          Somehow, I had contact with it. I heard its voice. It spoke with words, and words they were, audible yet with something more. I heard as if experiencing the essence of the meaning of each word itself deep within. There was so much more dimension in this method of communication and there was a slight telepathic touch to it. It was empathically giving me orders, threatening me as if there was still some part of my father that could be harmed.

My response was strange. It was to take off my pink cat headphones (which was somehow helping me hear it talk) and to turn away. I simply refused to look. I didn’t acknowledge the evil power anymore. I suppose, like a cartoon character, I knew the secret of walking on air. Never look down. If I didn’t look at the beast, never even entertained its existence for a single instant, than it would have to cease to exist.

That’s how I operated in my dream after that. I responded to the beast immediately and yielded nothing. I faced it without hesitation.

          Still it arrived to face me. When I saw it before me in real time, it seemed human in body yet only in part. There seemed to be more dimensions of it. Perhaps it was red beneath the skin of it. It seemed to have wings. Yet it wasn’t a bird-man as we might envision. The elements that were flight were invisible and interwoven with a higher form of mind. I only wish I had the words to paint the picture. It attacked me. It intended to mutilate me and so it did. It tore at my skin and broke open my veins. We fought without weapons, hand to hand with claw and nail.

          I fought with all the strength within me. I struggled but I never relented. I withheld nothing for fear that an ounce less than my best would seal my doom. I tore at it, breaking its volcanic limbs and snapping joints. It too used its full force to destroy me. Yet gashed open, spilling out and beyond the point that would have been physical death, I was still alive. I thought nothing of my family and I ignored my fear. I only knew that I must kill it. To live I must kill it. I must live.

In the state of death, I was still alive. I thought nothing of my family. I ignored my fear, I only knew I must kill it. That was all I thought. I must kill it to live. I must live.

          In the state of death I was still alive.

          Awake from the dream, seeing Dad moving about the house, I have very much proof my father is alive. Yet as I pass the mirror I can only force myself to look into it. I see only myself as I dread evil will appear behind me or even within my flesh.

          I remember fighting with this dark thing, over jungle gyms in the dead of night. I never hoped to win yet I knew I had to kill it to survive. I only wanted to live. I didn’t care what its qualms were.

          I had an unbelievable victory. I believe I had bit it at the end. I heard winding and eerie string music through the final struggle, almost like that of a horror film. I felt its strength leave it, and I felt within my bones the soul of it die.

          I realized myself to be sleeping in an infinite instant in that moment. The sheets came to life around me as I heard its soul speaking to me from behind the point of death. It was clear as it asked me.

          “Did you kill me?”

2:03am