Demons Are Real

Demons Are Real

Jason Cowling

When I was 5 I saw a Demon. My eyes opened, looking out the window. A storm was blowing the oak tree outside my bedroom window, the shadows of the branches clawed at my window and across my walls. I was paralyzed with terror, unable to move, to make a sound, or to breathe. Among the shadows in the storm was a terrifying blackness, an entity seeming to draw me closer, or he to me. His facial features are amorphous, indistinguishable behind vapor. My mind writhes in terror, I want to wrench my head from side-to-side to escape the claws of what is undoubtedly evil. At some point, I regain movement, starting a scream, barely as a gurgle. As I come to, the entity is gone and only the silent fingers of the tree still bristle the back of my neck, the lightning occasionally illuminating my otherwise dark room.

Following this incident, the dream shifted to what became its permanent form, recurring every several months, or sometimes weeks — to this day.

I find myself in a house. It seems white, clean, and mostly featureless. I’d characterize it as statuesque. I begin to ascend a staircase, arriving at the second floor. The floor seems a bit smaller, but is, again, otherwise indistinguishable and white, just like the first. After sometime I begin again to ascend another staircase. Arriving now on the third floor of the house it resembles more of a loft space. A peaked ceiling, and instead of white, the wood is unfinished. This floor appears messier, pieces of detritus may be strewn about, and there is perhaps a child’s crib off to the side.My vision though is tunneled, looking ahead. This floor, or really a narrow room, is even smaller, just wider than a hallway. Walking down this near hallway, I begin to realize I’m not moving of my own accord. Stopping isn’t an option. Arriving at the final stairwell I’m struck with abject terror as I unwilling glance up. The narrow enclosed stairwell is dim, with an open door at the top. The blackness there concealing no doubt evil. I am paralyzed by fear now, feeling my stomach and chest arc upward pulling me. I struggle now, eyes awake, the scene unchanged. I never come face-to-face, always managing to awaken before reaching the top of the stairwell.

After regaining movement, the terror continues, there is no diminished memory of the dream, for I was awake as it happened. The condition is called RISP — Recurrent Involutary Sleep Paralysis. One possible cause is extended high concentration, and lack of sleep. I’d also hypothesize if you’re a highly gifted creative, manic or hypnogic — you’re more susceptible. In the meantime, you can rest uncomfortably knowing the Demons of your mind are real and out to get you.

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