A creeping dread clings to me, a shadow not my own, a phantom limb of a forgotten past. It’s not simply following; it’s burrowing into me. I feel its phantom nails raking across my skin, a constant, agonizing itch that no amount of scratching can relieve. It shoves, not with force, but with insidious pressure, a relentless push against my sanity. It’s as if it’s trying to bore through me, to create hollow spaces inside where only its presence can reside.
The pain is a constant, gnawing companion. When I try to speak, to beg for understanding, a searing lance of agony pierces my eye, blinding me momentarily. Then comes the whispering campaign, the insidious lies it weaves about me, twisting my past into a monstrous caricature. It whispers that I once pushed someone, a single act twisted into a lifetime of malice. Now, this… thing has returned to repay the debt, to push back, to pinch and torment until I’m a broken husk.
It doesn’t just follow; it invades. It drowns me in my own bathtub, the water turning thick and viscous, pressing down on my chest until my lungs burn. It’s always there, a distorted reflection in the periphery, but in the darkness, it truly reveals itself. It’s then that I see it’s not merely a shadow; it’s a grotesque parody of myself, a twisted, elongated figure with eyes that burn with malevolent glee.
People whisper “possession,” their eyes wide with fear and pity. They see the change in me, the vacant stare, the jerky movements, the words that aren’t my own spilling from my lips. I’m a puppet, my strings pulled by an unseen hand.
I lie in bed, trapped in a waking nightmare, watching the others sleep peacefully. It slithers in, a cold, suffocating presence, and I’m paralyzed. My screams are trapped in my throat, useless, silent pleas. Then, the sensation of falling, a sickening plunge from an impossible height. I feel the phantom shatter of my bones, the agonizing splintering of my phantom skeleton. A silent, internal scream tears through me, a raw, primal whine of pain that echoes only within the confines of my skull. To the outside world, I remain motionless, a silent, suffering statue.
The doctors’ visits are a cruel charade. They probe and question, their faces etched with concern, but they can’t see it. They can’t see the shadow that’s coiled deep within me, lurking in the darkest recesses of my being, feeding on my fear and draining my strength. They diagnose me with mental illness, prescribe medications that do nothing to quell the terror. They can’t understand that this isn’t a sickness of the mind; it’s an invasion of the soul.
I’ve lost control. I’m a passenger in my own body, watching helplessly as this entity steers me toward some unknown, terrifying destination. I yearn for the past, for the person I once was, but I fear that she’s gone, lost forever in the shadow’s suffocating embrace. I don't know if it will ever leave, or if I am doomed to remain its unwilling host, a broken vessel filled with its darkness.
*A true experience shared by a JustUtter reader
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