In 2003, something happened—something that, unfortunately, I don’t fully remember. It was just an ordinary day, or so I thought. I had a simple migraine headache. It was one of those throbbing, persistent pains that wouldn’t let up, so I did what anyone would do: I lay down, closed my eyes, and tried to calm myself. I figured a little rest would make it go away.
As I drifted off, hoping for relief, I never expected that moment to turn into something bigger, something that would stay with me—not in memory, exactly, but in a way that’s hard to explain. There’s a blank space where that day should be, a lingering feeling that something significant happened, yet the details won’t return to me.
I don’t know what shifted, but I know that after that day, things felt different somehow.
As I drifted off, hoping for relief, I never expected that moment to turn into something bigger, something that would stay with me—not in memory, exactly, but in a way that’s hard to explain. There’s a blank space where that day should be, a lingering feeling that something significant happened, yet the details won’t return to me.
I don’t know what shifted, but I know that after that day, things felt different somehow.
As I lay there, in that quiet room, I felt an odd presence—something I couldn’t see, but could sense. Then, as if out of nowhere, they came. Beings, or entities I can barely describe, moved around me.
One figure seemed to hover over me, its form just beyond recognition, like a shadow from a dream. Another one took hold of my hands, guiding them to rest against my chest, gentle yet firm. Before I could even begin to process what was happening, I felt a sharp, almost surgical pressure in the center of my forehead. It wasn’t pain exactly, but something far stranger—a sensation of drilling, as though an instrument was embedding itself into the very fabric of my mind.
The entire experience spanned only a few minutes, but time seemed to distort, stretching out endlessly as I lay there, somehow conscious but utterly disconnected from my body. It felt as if I were watching from afar, aware of each detail yet unable to resist or react. And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. I opened my eyes, and just like that, the headache that had driven me to bed was gone.
Yet, something was different. I couldn’t quite name it, but I felt changed, as though something foreign and intangible had taken root inside me. It lingered in the quiet spaces of my mind, elusive yet undeniably present, like a distant echo or a shadow at the edge of my vision.
Since that day, I’ve carried the memory of the experience and a question that refuses to let me go: What happened to me? The lingering sense of mystery gnaws at me, whispering that whatever occurred that day has altered me in ways I have yet to fully understand.
After that night, they returned—not once, but numerous times, each visit more surreal than the last. It always began the same way: a subtle shift in the air, a chill that felt both familiar and unnatural. I would be alone, sometimes asleep, sometimes just drifting off, when a presence would fill the room. There was no noise, no grand entrance, only the quiet certainty that they were here.
Each visit was marked by a similar ritual, one figure hovering close to me while another gently took hold of my hands, guiding them to rest against my chest. The pressure in my forehead would return, precise and intense, as if an invisible force were connecting with my mind, reaching deeper with each encounter. There was no pain, only that unsettling drilling sensation, a pulsing awareness embedding itself into my thoughts.
Every time, I felt myself slipping into that same detached state, a conscious observer within my own body, watching the events unfold yet unable to resist. These moments, though they seemed to stretch on for eternity, lasted only minutes. And as quickly as they came, they would vanish, leaving me wide awake in the stillness of the night, the feeling of something unexplainable lingering in my mind.
After each visit, I could sense changes within myself. My thoughts seemed sharper yet strangely distant, as though pieces of me had been rearranged in ways I couldn’t fully grasp. The visits became a haunting regularity, a part of my existence. And with each one, I was left with the unshakable certainty that they were leaving something behind—a fragment of themselves, a shadow of their presence—inside me, layer upon layer, each return embedding deeper mysteries into my consciousness.
Each time they returned, there was something new—an intense flash of light, sharp and blinding, searing into my mind as if downloading thoughts or visions directly into my consciousness. It wasn't just light; it felt like pure energy, a stream of information bypassing all logic and embedding itself directly into my thoughts.
The light was vivid, pulsating, carrying with it images, symbols, and sensations that defied explanation. These flashes weren’t gentle; they struck with force, each burst filling my head, overwhelming my senses, and leaving me dazed, as if my mind had been stretched to its limit and then released.
After each encounter, I was left with fragmented impressions—impossible shapes, languages I’d never seen, and sensations that felt otherworldly. It was as if they were implanting knowledge or ideas, concepts too complex to grasp, yet still somehow present, like pieces of a puzzle I hadn’t learned to solve.
These downloads left a lasting impact. My thoughts felt different, infused with a new awareness, an instinctual understanding of things I couldn't explain. With each flash, each “download,” I felt them weaving something deeper into my being, a knowledge that lurked at the edges of my mind, waiting for the right moment to reveal itself.
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