November 8, 2023
Every night, as the rest of the world sinks into slumber, my reality shifts into something like a living nightmare. It’s been just over a week since the first strange, vivid dream, and I’m still caught in what feels like an endless cycle of fear. What began as a jumble of indistinct screams and shouts has intensified into distinct voices, each one clearer and more insistent. These voices come from all walks of life, all ages, yet they share one trait: they seem determined to speak directly to me.
I’ve learned more than I ever wanted to about “hypnagogic hallucinations,” the term that initially seemed to explain my situation. But as these voices sharpen and grow more demanding, I can’t believe this is simply stress or an overactive mind.
At first, the experience was just swirling patterns when I closed my eyes, but then the voices began to seep through, as though those shapes were a gateway. Now, the sounds are constant—a chaotic mix of chatter, cries, and sobs. Some voices speak in languages I don’t understand; others are heartbreakingly clear. Regardless of how they sound, it’s obvious they’re addressing me, as though I’m the only one who can understand their pleas.
Night after night, I wrestle with them, only to wake drenched in sweat, heart racing, desperate for relief that never comes. I can’t help but wonder if this connects to my research on Candle Face. By digging into her story, did I open some kind of portal? Is that what unleashed this flood of voices?
I tried calling Mr. Doe again to see if he had any advice. His response was frightening: “You must listen. They have chosen you for a reason.” Then he hung up and demanded I leave him alone.
That line—”They have chosen you”—haunts me. Why me? I don’t know, but it’s clear I’m not in this alone. Some presence is entwined in this and isn’t letting go.
As the nights drag on, I’ve started to distinguish individual voices in the chaotic chorus. Some are the frightened cries of children, heartbreaking in their innocence. Others burn with bitterness and regret, their words heavy with anger that’s lingered for ages. The older voices carry sorrow and wisdom, hinting at something I can’t quite understand. But they all want one thing: to reach me. They call me by my childhood name, Ray, sharing fragments of their stories—lives cut short, unresolved conflicts, dreams that ended too soon. They seem to believe I’m their chance to be heard.
The idea of being their messenger terrifies me. I just want these voices gone so I can sleep. But each night, they grow louder, more determined, forcing me toward a choice I’m not ready to make. Leaving a light on doesn’t help anymore—the glow does nothing to ward off these intrusions. Whatever this is, it’s growing stronger.
I’m caught between the urge to understand what’s happening and the fear of what I might discover if I fully open myself to their pleas. For now, I’m taking it one night at a time, documenting everything in hopes of making sense of it someday. I can’t shake the feeling that all of this connects to Candle Face in ways I don’t yet understand. Until I figure it out, I’m balancing on a razor’s edge, hoping to hold on to my sanity.
Personal Note to My Readers
I never asked for these visits. My natural response has been to block out the specifics of these encounters upon waking, leaving only flashes of dread and confusion. Maybe it’s instinct—a defense mechanism against what terrifies us. But forgetting isn’t an option this time. I didn’t choose this, but it’s happening anyway. It seems I don’t have much of a choice in the matter.
Key To Understanding
Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One]
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