Demon Shift

“Okay Demon, you win, now that I sense your presence, tell me of yourself.” I didn’t expect a response, but, to my surprise, the Demon was blatantly honest. It said, through a disembodied voice that mimicked the voices of the people I had loved, both living and deceased, that it was pure energy. Pure energy that could take the form of any shape in existence and more. It said it would morph into many horrible monstrosities and haunt me in my very own home. It said it would torture me in my sleep, and give me visions of people being tortured in Hell. I would be able to feel it hurt my flesh, and the only help from society would come in the form of a schizophrenic label. It was above the law. Demons had no law. It said it would kill me many times over, but keep bringing me back to inflict some more suffering over and over again. It said it created humans to feed off their pain. Pain released an energy which gave them their power. They had no choice, they had to punish innocents to maintain their grasp over humanity. They liked to shape-shift into human form in their spare time and reap the rewards of wealth. They could be invisible too, if so desired. They were amorphous. They had the ability to walk through walls. They could walk into a bank vault and take all the money. They could also think creatures into existence. Terrible mutants with multiple heads, rats with horns, tarantulas the size of houses. They think it, and it appears. They could make people disappear from their jobs and appear in Hell. Hell was their permanent source of power, reaped from the anguish and agony of people in perpetual distress. Demons have many forms and guises. They like to appear as beautiful humans who will, via cunning and deception, gain the trust of unknowing folk. They will pose as family and friends for many years at a time before revealing their true identity. In their true nature, they like to appear as terrifying as possible. But they can become talking shadows, or parasitical centipedes, or just about anything their perversely warped imaginations can conjure. They can become steam, or the wind, or rain. They control the seasons, and they shifted the whole Earth into existence. Their manipulation of the holographic world we perceive is nothing short of magic and God-like. But they are nothing like God: They are the exact opposite of a loving compassionate God. Demons treat humans with utter contempt and hatred and tell us we deserve Eternal Hell for having wicked natures. It’s unfair. They have too much of an advantage over us. There’s nothing we can do. We can’t fight back. They pray on our weaknesses. They give us debilitating nightmares. They gang up on us. And they have the perfect cover story to deny their existence – mind control. It’s a common conception that people who hear voices are either mentally ill or victims of a high-tech government conspiracy. But once the demons reveal themselves to you, they are absolutely unavoidable, parading in every direction your eyes look. In reflections, on roof tops, in the TV…there’s no escaping them. I say we can’t fight back, but we must try. It’s a shock when you realise you ain’t top of the food chain anymore, but at the end of the day, humans aren’t to be underestimated. I refuse to be treated like this. “I’m standing up to you, Demon. Get behind me. What better way to die, than when facing fearful odds, on the ashes of my fathers, in the temples of my Gods.”

Females

Psychosis

At first I was into thinking it was the slimy shadow government, or the duplicitous masons, or an international softer-than-silk-kill death squad, but now, oh now, I’m half-inclined to believe it’s simply demons. What else can shape-shift? I’ve seen a whole row of the same people, looking just-so-ever-slightly different in masquerading forms, drive-by me on the road. Clones? I’ve seen dead people walk past me on the street. Ghosts? I’ve seen videos of gory hell in wide-awake dreams. Hallucinations? I‘ve heard seagulls talking to me. I’ve seen rats bigger than donkeys, and tarantulas bigger than houses. I’ve had a lion stalk me for fifteen miles on foot. I can feel them, hear them, smell them, and see them briefly. They can walk through walls and tread on thin air. My home is the epicentre of a zoo. And to think I complained about round-the-clock screaming voices! I’m dreaming of a tapeworm now! What heaven I was in! I really do hate to dampen the mood, nothing saddens me more hastily, but I haven’t told anybody about this. There’s no way of explaining it. I am truly awake now. Expect more, as I grow. There’s no saying what will happen next anymore.

Everything follows me. People cross the street when they see my army of brutes. The abandonment and desolation is the worst of it. Not one nice word or sympathetic smile. Not one pat on the shoulder from any fellow kindred. Even the nuthouse won’t have me any longer. Insults and hatred from all angles. It gets weirder every time I turn around. A mutant just brought a grizzly bear into my living room. It can barely fit in, it’s so enormous. It followed me to the supermarket and back. The lion roared and crushed my skull in its jaws. So did a crocodile in my bed. I think I died and came back. I’ve had six komodo dragons slobber and crawl over me. I don’t know how I made it through it. I don’t know if it will ever end. I don’t know if my home will ever feel the same again. Snakes, lizards, bats, centipedes, the lot. I’ve also been seeing a demon everywhere I look. It doesn’t matter where I put my eyes, it’s there. All over the place. It stabs me in the heart when I’m trying to sleep. I think I need prayer. Prayer for this nightmare. Never mind though, life goes on.

Dreamworld 4

We were in a scrapyard, me and my mates, dossing about. Suddenly someone shouted, “There’s a rattyatty!” so I run and jumped on a wall. “You blagger, you’re just scaring me!” I shouted back – but, unbelievably, there was not one but three giant rats roaming around the scruffy floor. My stomach lurched. I felt sick and scared. As I looked down, I realised that my hand was on top of a rat. I screamed and fell off the wall, straight into a deep black well. My mates followed me down the well to help me. At the bottom of the well was a steep hill. We started running up the hill that led into a bright countryside. In the countryside was a high fence. We climbed up and looked over and saw loads of busy village people all working away like the Amish. We found a hole in the wall and sneaked thru towards a bunch of older kids playing football. One of them said let the little kids join in, so we joined in, but the first time I kicked the ball it froze in midair. “Game’s paused,” one of the older kids said, so we stopped playing. “Hey, let me show you my favourite teachers,” he added. He was a big boy. He led us into the local school and escorted us into the staffroom. It was full of sofas with teachers on them just lazing about. They looked so relaxed and peaceful. I stood there admiring them with total respect and reverence. “These are all my favourite teachers,” the big boy stated. “I’ll never forget them when I leave.” But just then the headmaster came in and cleared the room. She chased me and my mates away into a small dorm. I climbed onto the top bunk and started eating some biscuits that were up there. The headmaster phoned the armed police to get me down. Soon I was surrounded and being issued scary orders to come down and receive punishment. My mate climbed up with me and shouted down, “Stop telling him what to do. Let him come down in his own time.” Then my mate went back down because he said his girlfriend was pregnant. As soon as he went down some beautiful Amish girls come up and asked me to help them organise some photographs. They have many photographs which we start arranging into piles. I am on some of them. In one, I am in a family portrait, even though I don’t have a family yet. In another, I am posed in front of a wall of all my artwork. The photographs are glowing, as if they have their own natural light. “Come down and meet my newborn baby,” my mate calls up to me, so finally I do go down and start playing with his baby. The baby is walking around and copying whatever I do. He is also pooing everywhere. My mate follows him around, cleaning up the poo. “I’ll give you a lift back now,” one of the beautiful Amish girls says to me, and we get in her car. She plays the music very loud, and we drive very fast all the way home.

What They Can Do To The Human Mind

Firstly, they can put voices in your head. You hear these as clearly as if someone is speaking next to you. They can originate from inside the head, or they can come from any direction in the air. Above, behind, from the distance, from the sky, or from right over your shoulder. These voices can be anyone you know, living, fictional, or dead. They can mimic any voice, and you can hear multiple voices at once. They can even convert your own thoughts into a voice, so it sounds like there is an echo in your head. They can also put any other type of noise in your head. Dogs barking, alarm clocks, taps dripping, burps, farts, anything. They can play these sounds on a continuous loop to induce insanity. They can even implant sound into your immediate environment. In your office. In your bedroom. In your toilet. Footsteps on the carpet as you doze at night. You can hear these noises even as you sleep. 

They can induce physical hallucinations. A goblin or ghoul walking around your house. A snake on your pillow. When you’re wide awake, you might be wise to it, but when you’re half-asleep, you think they are real. Not only can they see the Mind’s Eye on a video screen, and read your verbal thoughts to the letter, but they can induce images and movies straight into the visual cortex of the brain. This means that you see their shit even when your eyes are tight shut. They can play horror simulations with sound effects. They can give you nightmares of their making.

They can make you feel things that aren’t there. This might be a pair of hands molesting you when you are half-asleep, or someone sat on top of you. The body physically feels this as a result of motor cortex manipulation. You could get stabbed by a hallucination you can see, hear and feel. They can literally create any torture scenario imaginable, and you go through it as though it were really happening. This is virtual reality.

This is a very brief overview of what they can do to the human mind, rendered from personal experience. There will obviously be a lot more I am not aware of.

A Psychiatric Report: Dossier on a Maniac

Timmy Dawson is a 40 year old single man who lives alone on a council estate. Bless him.

This report is based off me meeting with Mr Dawson for five minutes now and again, during brief interviews in an outpatient clinic in April 2018. He had a dishevelled appearance and stunk of alcohol. His beer belly was busting out of his shirt.

Mr Dawson heralds from Widnes and is an only child. He had no contact with his father growing up as the guy wanted absolutely nothing to do with a young waster like him. His father was a pot washer in Wetherspoons. Later it appears he met his father at the funfair and attacked him for deserting him. His father later got revenge by ignoring him even more.

He did crap at school and spent his time eating chalk at the back of class. He did have a talent for cooking and one of his teachers encouraged this. He was also very good at rugby league, because he enjoyed getting stuck into people. He obtained ten GCSEs and started studying for A Levels but did not complete them because he decided to use drugs in the daytime instead.

He has held down a number of dogsbody jobs over the years in various derelict deadbeat sweat pits, but has been out of recent employment for over a decade.

He is not currently in a relationship and has zero children (luckily for them).

He is not entirely dumb. He has been reading since his first visit to the library and continues to research conspiracy theories online. He has a keen interest in the delusion of mind control.

Mr Dawson has a criminal history. His earliest conviction was attempted murder in 1997. This led to an early admission into the local nuthouse. The records say that he trapped all his family in their childhood home and tried to torch the place with gasoline. He ran away from the scene saying that his family had been hijacked by demons and that it would be better if they all perished. He was treated with heavy medication on the ward following this episode and had been inhaling creamy buckets of hash at the time. There was a conviction for him assaulting his dad for which he served a custodial sentence. He has been guarded regarding this, but records indicate that he was tanked up at the time, and that his dad pissed him off royally. The records also indicate that he assaulted a number of police officers while getting arrested.

Mr Dawson has a long history of substance misuse. He started using drugs in his mother’s womb. His first offence of attempted murder was in the context of cannabis misuse. He has a history of misusing cocaine because he simply can’t get enough of it. He is under the influence of cocaine whenever he has the funds to afford it.

Mr Dawson’s psychiatric history began with his first conviction and admission into the nuthouse in 1997. The next recorded contact appears to have been in December 2013 at Daresbury Custody Suite. He was positively off his barnet at the time. Due to his extremely disturbed behaviour, he was delivered to the nuthouse in an ambulance with flashing lights. The records indicate that he could not be safely managed at the police station. He was eventually transferred to a less secure nuthouse and made informal. The diagnosis was that he was off his tits due to an overdose of cocaine. He had been snorting big fat stripes off a handheld bathroom mirror prior to his time of admission. It is also noted that he twatted fuck out of the arresting officers around the time of that admission. After discharge from the nuthouse he did not engage with the home treatment team. After New Year 2014 he was brought back to hospital under section 136 and agreed to an informal admission. At that time he reported crazy goings on under the influence of legal highs. He reported taking the drugs because he was bored out of his mind and needed something to do. He described that he was being followed by an invisible anus that was hovering above him like a cloud and putting farting noises into his mind 24/7. He sincerely believes the government has created this anus using secret classified mind control technology. He escaped from the ward shortly after by booting the door down and never returned. He was consequently caught on the run in the next town drinking special brew and brought back into the nuthouse yet again.

During the rest of 2014/2015 there were a shitload of more admissions. In the summer he was caught on Runcorn Bridge experiencing suicidal thoughts. This appears to be yet another psychotic experience regarding the invisible anus. Mr Dawson claims that he was drowning in electromagnetic shit. He wanted to jump onto the concrete below and splatter his brains apart so the government couldn’t preserve his body and hook him up to the invisible anus in hell. There was a diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenia recorded. His solicitor asked for a change of consultant because he believed his doctor was ‘in on it’ and he was transferred to a different nuthouse. He remained there for a year until discharge and has since been on a community treatment order, which basically means that we will never let go of him.

I have now met Mr Dawson a number of times, and his beer gut continues to protrude at an alarming rate. The diagnosis by his previous Responsible Clinician was that of Chronic Drug Induced Psychosis. On reviewing the records I have decided that he is indeed a truly raging schizo of the highest order since he very clearly is a rampant lunatic. In my opinion, there is no hope for Mr Dawson apart from very heavy medication delivered into his bottom via weekly injections.

Mr Dawson is now back at home and very unhappy about being there. He has been at his address for approximately eight years. He does not feel safe there when he is psychotic. During drug use, he hears a wide variety of farting noises both inside and outside his head, in 3D high-definition sound. He claims this is government torture and not very funny at all. He says that he is no longer using cocaine or legal highs, but I don’t believe him. There have been some issues with the neighbours. He kicked down their front door and gained unlawful entry while holding a kitchen knife. He appeared in court for a public order offence. These neighbours have now moved away but he says the new neighbours are just the same as the old ones.

Over the times I have seen Mr Dawson he has been scruffy, sloth-like, and stinking, although he does engage in a wide range of activities including going to the gym and going to a Hearing Voices group in Liverpool. He has hardly any friends as very few people can stand his bad hygiene. There has been one significant incident leading to a short informal admission in July 2017. In brief, he approached a local nursery and began banging on the doors saying that he had to protect the children from predatory Satanists. He was very agitated, shouting, and head-butted a window. The police were called and he was swiftly spirited away to the nuthouse. On admission he reported that he was hearing God’s voice telling him to protect all minors. An increase in heavy medication did him well. He blamed the incident on twenty double shots of Vodka and Red Bull. He did not have a clear recall of what had been going on, and was unhappy about the increase in weekly depot injection. He became quite hopeless about the situation, and an anti-depressant was offered but refused. Since that episode there have been no further incidents. He has avoided illicit drugs and has given up spirits for life. He claims that they are called spirits ‘for a reason’. He does not accept any psychiatric label and maintains that the government is mind-controlling him. He therefore has very limited insight into the true nature of his illness. He would not accept any medication at all if it wasn’t forced into his butt by law once every week. So I conclude that he should be kept on heavy medication for the rest of his natural life.

Mr Timmy Dawson is a 40 year old man with a long history of psychotic illness necessitating numerous admissions into the nuthouse. My opinion is Paranoid Schizophrenia, which he thinks is a big blag. In fact, he does not believe in any kind of mental disorder, apart from depression, which he says is a natural reaction to life. Without medication, the invisible anus in his imagination would be a lot worse. His illness would quickly deteriorate and he would pose a substantial risk to both himself and others. Plus, he would probably want to chuck himself off the bridge again.

Dr D Black

Consultant Psychiatrist