They call to me to the dark

I'd hear them when I lay in bed at night, trying to sleep. They whispered, cajoled, and sometimes they screamed. They told me things no one else could hear, things that sent shivers down my spine.

At first, I thought I was going insane. I went to see a psychiatrist, Dr. Ellis, who listened to my story with a skeptical expression. He prescribed medication and assured me it was all in my mind. But the voices persisted, unfazed by the pills that were supposed to silence them.

I lost my job. My colleagues complained that I'd talk to myself, muttering incoherent phrases. They grew frightened of me, whispering behind my back. My friends stopped calling, and my family, too, was at a loss. They couldn't understand the torment I was enduring.

As the days turned into weeks, my relationship with the voices deepened. I began to recognize them as distinct entities, each with its own personality. There was the sweet, childlike voice, always urging me to be kind and gentle. Then there was the seductive, sultry voice, encouraging me to indulge in forbidden desires. The malevolent voice, filled with anger and hatred, was the worst of all. It told me to hurt myself, or worse, to hurt others.

One night, as I lay in bed, the sultry voice spoke softly, "Come with me, darling. Let's explore the depths of your desires."

I felt compelled to follow her guidance. I tiptoed through the darkness of my apartment, trying not to wake the neighbors. She led me to the kitchen, where the knife drawer beckoned. I hesitated, my hand hovering over the blades, sweat pouring down my forehead. The sweet voice chimed in, "Do it. You'll feel so alive."

With a trembling hand, I grabbed a knife and made a small cut on my wrist, the pain shocking me into momentary clarity. I screamed, dropping the knife, and clutched my bleeding arm. The malevolent voice laughed, mocking my weakness.

I knew I needed help, but Dr. Ellis had been of no use. I began to research my condition, convinced that it was something beyond mere madness. In my late-night internet searches, I stumbled upon a mention of a remote monastery nestled deep in the mountains. It was said to be a place of spiritual healing, a sanctuary for those afflicted by otherworldly forces.

Desperation drove me to make the long journey. The voices whispered in my ear as I packed my bags, their tones alternating between dread and encouragement. It was a harrowing trip through dense forests and treacherous terrain, but I finally reached the monastery.

The monks who lived there greeted me with solemnity, their eyes filled with understanding. I was led to a chamber where I met Elder Jareth, a wise, old man with a calm presence. He explained that the monastery was dedicated to helping individuals like me who were plagued by supernatural afflictions.

For weeks, I underwent rituals, meditation, and purification. The monks chanted incantations, their voices harmonizing with a power that seemed to quiet the cacophony in my mind. I felt hope for the first time in a long while.

One evening, as I meditated in a dimly lit chamber, I sensed a presence beside me. It was Elder Jareth, who had come to offer guidance. He whispered, "The voices in your head are not your own. They are remnants of souls that have become trapped in the darkness between realms, and they have latched onto you."

I shuddered, trying to comprehend the gravity of his words. "Can they be banished?"

Elder Jareth nodded. "But it will not be easy. You must confront each voice, understand its pain, and release it from its torment."

And so, I began the arduous journey within. I closed my eyes and found myself in a shadowy labyrinth, with the voices echoing all around me. I faced each one, listening to their stories of despair, rage, and desire. The childlike voice, the sultry voice, and the malevolent voice all bore their deepest wounds.

As I listened, I felt a connection with their suffering. I reached out, offering comfort and understanding. One by one, they dissolved into the darkness, their agonized cries fading into silence.

The moment the last voice vanished, I awoke in the monastery, drenched in sweat. The weight in my head had lifted, leaving me with a profound sense of peace. The monks gathered around, offering their blessings and congratulations.

I left the monastery a changed person. The voices in the dark were finally gone, leaving me with a newfound appreciation for the fragility of the human mind. I returned to society, mending the relationships I had lost, and rebuilding my life.

But I knew that I would never forget the voices in the dark, the haunting souls trapped between realms, and the journey that had led me to confront my own inner demons. The experience had left an indelible mark on my soul, a reminder that the boundary between sanity and madness is often thinner than we dare to imagine.