Demon relationship

The first time I saw them, I was too young to understand.

My name is Cat, and in my entire life demons have followed me. I don’t know why, I don’t know what they want, but they’ve always been there—watching, whispering, waiting. Lately, though, their presence has become suffocating.

The first time I encountered something demonic wasn’t in this life, but the one before. I don’t want to tell you how that life ended, only that I took my own way out. And when I did, I didn’t go where I thought I would.

I woke up in an endless white desert.

The air was still, the ground was soft beneath my feet, and all around me stretched nothingness—an infinite, pale void. I ran. I ran until my legs burned and my lungs screamed. But there was nowhere to run to, only more of the same. Eventually, I collapsed to my knees, my sobs echoing into the abyss. I was trapped, alone in this silent purgatory. A figure approached me. I don’t remember their face, their voice, or even their presence, just the overwhelming sense of something odd. The moment I saw them, I pleaded—begged—to return.

I don’t know how, or why, but I came back.

I later formed a theory with someone I trust. That place—the vast, empty expanse—was hell. Not the fire and brimstone kind, but the kind that knows your worst fear and makes you live in it forever. My greatest suffering was isolation. And that desert? It was nothing but me. Alone. Forever.

When I was born again, the demons were still there with me. Even as a child, I could see them. At first, I thought I was imagining things, but when I learned about them—read about them—I realized I wasn’t afraid.

I was fascinated.

No, more than that—I was drawn to them.

I thought it was normal. I thought all children created little rituals, whispered wishes into the air and watched them come true. I didn’t know that what I was doing had been done before—that it was real.

Then came 2018.

That was the year something stepped inside of me. I didn’t know how, I didn’t even feel it at first, but then the little things began. I would try to speak, but my mouth would move without my consent. I would reach for something, but my arm would extend of its own volition. I wasn’t out of control, but I wasn’t in control either.

Possession, they call it.

It faded over time, but even now, I feel it inside me. Not like before—it doesn’t control me anymore—but I can feel its influence, nudging, pulling, changing me into something else.

In 2024, I tested it.

I whispered: Come to me.

From that moment, every time I looked into a mirror, it wasn’t me looking back. It was something else. Something dark. Something grinning.

And then it stopped.

But it’s never really over, is it?

I sought guidance, desperate to understand what was happening. I went to a spiritual center, hoping they could help me.

I regret that.

The moment the conversation turned to God and angels, my blood turned to fire. My hands trembled with rage, my body recoiled from their words like I was being burned. And then, for the first time, I saw it.

My aura, black and writhing, rising from my skin like smoke.

And the horns—I felt them.

They were growing, curling from my skull like they had always been there, just waiting to be seen.

I don’t know what I am anymore.

I don’t know why this is happening.

All I know is that they’re still here.

And they’re not leaving.