You Humans Are Terrifying

I know that people are going to call this out as bullshit so I’ll just say it right now.

I’m a demon.

At least that’s what most people would call me. The truth of what I am and where I’m from is a bit out of the understanding of corporeal beings. Suffice to say the body I’m currently residing is not mine. This fragile meat suit belongs to a vapid nineteen year old named Cindy. She spends most of her days doing the things you expect vapid nineteen year old girls to do.

At least she used to spend most of her days posing in twenty different positions before deciding finally posting that Instagram selfie. She used to go out with her friends and jump out of her seat at the very slightest of jump scares. She also used to have her friends over to her dorm room and play around with a Ouija board.

To be fair to Cindy, she only did that last one once.

Under normal circumstances, a Ouija board is a piece of shit. You don’t get in contact with ghosts, or demons, or any of that sort of nonsense. This time though Sarah, Cindy’s bestie, decided to bring a friend of hers to their little ‘summon a demon’ night. And this friend, who according to Cindy’s memories was either named Cheryl or Cynthia, decided to bring a very special book with them. Along with many other things this book has a list of names that shouldn’t exist anymore.

One of those names is mine. And before you think it, no, I’m not going to tell you my name. One of the few things that your human understanding of us is right about is the fact that our names are truly us. If you know our name, if you invoke it, then you have power over us. And I’m not dumb enough to give a bunch of random people on the internet my name.

So somehow, someway, this Cheryl has a book with our actual names in it. And Cindy had the bright idea to read my name out loud and ask to speak to me on the Ouija board. To be honest the Ouija wasn’t even necessary. The first time she called my name I was listening.

I was curious. How, after five hundred years, did humans know any of our names again? The last of the books were supposed to have been burned and our names wiped from the annals of human knowledge so that none of my brothers and sisters would have to go through being called ever again.

So I watched the girls and their little board game, screaming at every answer the planchette gave. Then Cindy had to go and do the dumbest thing I could imagine someone doing.

She called my name and asked me to possess her.

From my perspective now I understand her idiocy. She doesn’t actually believe anything paranormal.

She just thinks it’s fun to be scared.

That is something I will never understand about humanity. You spent the entirety of your existence fighting the things that make you scared. Before you even had a written language you slaughtered the last of the mammoths because their visages frightened you. You took one of the creatures most like you, a pack animal capable of hunting anything to exhaustion, and you turned them into toy poodles and pugs. Even now you conquer the greatest ravagers of man, the killers too small to see, and turn them into footnotes in your history books.

There is a reason my siblings tried to wipe our names from the world.

You frighten us.

Humanity is terrifying. The words you speak from an organ of flesh and sinew bind us and control us. Yes, to you we were terrifying, ethereal beings of unlimited power. Immortal keepers of knowledge that you beings of flesh can never grasp.

As you can imagine the first thing I did when Cindy ordered me to possess her was to try and grab that book from Cheryl. It somehow had my name in it and I wanted to keep any of you meatbags from calling for me again. Cindy’s limited perspective, unfortunately, gave Cheryl enough time to grab the book before I could.

She knew I was coming. She knew the first thing I would do is try to grab that book from her.

Cheryl knew who I was. What I was. And she knew what I wanted.

This girl was more than a vapid teenager seeking a stupid thrill. This girl knew exactly what she was doing.

This only motivated me to grab the book more. Because the only thing scarier than a stupid human who doesn’t know what they’re doing is a human who knows exactly what they’re doing. So I grabbed her by her dumbass black-dyed hair and tried to grab the book from her again.

That bitch though, that bitch Sarah grabbed my arms and pulled me back from the only thing I wanted. Her and two of the other ones held me down until the campus security arrived to haul me off to some cell made of iron and steel, where I was transferred to another cell of white paint and shoes with no shoelaces. Supposedly so the patients can’t hurt themselves.

Sunny Acres Mental Hospital.

Don’t be fooled by the name. This place is a prison. They dull my senses with medications and make me question my purpose with inane questions about how I’m feeling and asking me why I’m so angry all of the time. They don’t listen, of course, because if they did they would know exactly what I want and understand my anger.

But they don’t listen. They write down what I say and force feed me pills to dull my thinking.

But time has passed and as more time passes the more Cindy’s memories become my memories. And with these memories come knowledge of how your world works. So I used this body that no longer belongs to Cindy and I paid one of the nurses to use their phone. I did this for two reasons.

One reason is to let all of humanity know just how terrifying and disgusting you all are. You conquer this world one step at a time and invent horrors to scare yourself with because you already destroyed everything that terrified you. You put everything that used the dark as a weapon and put it under a spotlight so you could laugh at how ridiculous it looks under the light.

The second reason is because I want Cheryl to know this.

Every day I remember more and more of the person Cindy is. Every day I imitate her better. Every day the doctors believe my imitation more and more.

I am forever, Cheryl. All I have is time.

At some point I will get out of this white-washed prison. And when I do…

I’m coming for you.

---

Credit: A.S. Lowe (Facebook • Reddit)

Click here to check out the G.M. Danielson narration of this story.